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the arrogance of an actor who knows there is no way he can get fired.
    â€œUnprofessional,” Alex growled.
    â€œNot my fault, man,” Billy said, casually removing his helmet.
    â€œOf course not,” Alex drawled sarcastically. “Why would it be your fault? Nothing’s your fucking fault, is it?”
    Maggie quickly attempted to defuse the situation. “Billy,” she said. “Come with me. They’re waiting for you in the makeup trailer.”
    â€œHey, Mags,” Billy said, turning on the charm. “You’re lookin’ hot. How’s about you an’ me—”
    â€œMove your punk ass,” Alex interrupted.
    â€œSure, old man,” Billy said, grinning.
    Infuriated, Alex stomped off toward his crew busy setting up across the street. Old man indeed. There was nothing worse than some two-bit actor with a handful of box-office hits who considered himself the second coming of Steve McQueen.
    Fuck all actors. And definitely fuck Billy Melina.
    Alex had seen them come, and he’d seen them go. At fifty-something he was a veteran producer/writer/director who’d been through the Hollywood wars countless times. He knew all the games, all the shenanigans. He’d seen studio heads ousted at a moment’s notice, and a staggering lack of honesty and loyalty. The only studio head Alex had enjoyed working with was Lucky Santangelo when she’d owned and run Panther Studios. They’d had a connection that was more than business, and although Alex had always gone for Asian women, there was something about Lucky that had immediately drawn him in.
    Unfortunately, she was married and in love with her husband, although there’d been a moment in time when they had gotten together. One crazy, insane night of love and lust when Lennie was gone, and Lucky had thought he was dead. Christ! The memory of that one night in a cheap motel in the middle of nowheresville was always there. It was a night he would never forget.
    Lucky had never mentioned their one night together again. He knew that in her mind it was something she preferred to think had not taken place. But it had, and he would always have strong feelings for her. There was nothing he could do about it.
    Since that time they’d remained friends, had even produced a very successful movie together, and now he was a major investor in her Vegas hotel project.
    Maggie returned from depositing Billy in the makeup trailer.
    â€œFive minutes,” Alex growled. “I want that punk kid on the set in five minutes. You got that, Maggie?”
    â€œYes, Alex, five minutes.”
    â€œAnd no more turning up on his fucking Harley. I want his skinny ass in a car with a driver. It’s in his contract. Make sure he honors it or get on the phone to his agent.”
    â€œYes, Alex.”
    â€œOkay. Now let’s go make a fuckin’ movie.”

 
    CHAPTER THREE
    Anthony Bonar—formerly Anthony Bonnatti—had it all. A well-appointed luxurious villa twenty-five minutes outside of Mexico City, a duplex penthouse in New York, a vacation home in Acapulco on the bay, and a rambling waterfront estate in Miami. He also had an American wife, Irma, to whom he’d been married for fifteen years; two children—a boy and a girl; two mistresses, his own plane, a helicopter, and a lucrative business. When asked—and not many dared—he would inform them that he was in the import/export business, which wasn’t exactly a lie, because running a vast drug empire was exactly that—import from here, export to there.
    For the first twelve years of his life Anthony had been raised in Italy by his mother, Mia, a hardworking maid who’d toiled in a beachfront hotel in Naples. The same hotel the Bonnatti family had stayed at on vacation when young Santino Bonnatti was a constantly horny teenager. The same hotel where Santino had knocked twenty-two-year-old Mia up one balmy night while making