Hollywood was a grand marketplace of fame and fortune. Behind the glittering façade lay a grotesque showcase of human desire magnified to the extreme.
Chris Zanuck, the younger brother of Darryl Zanuck—the president of 20th Century Fox—was one of the most notorious producers in Hollywood at the moment.
Born of the same mother but entirely different in temperament, Chris was nothing like the steady and cautious Darryl. Instead, Chris was impulsive, irritable, and explosive—a nightmare of a producer for anyone working in the industry.
His greatest passions, besides making money, were women. He became a producer precisely because the position allowed him to indulge both obsessions at once.
Though his reputation in Hollywood was far from good, Chris had a sharp eye for scripts. The films he produced were often met with great success. As a result, despite widespread dislike for him, every time Chris hosted a party at his Beverly Hills mansion, the place was packed with guests.
"Haha! Look who's here! Our superstar singer and actor—Johnny Fontane! Girls, give him a cheer!"
By the poolside of his mansion, under a beach umbrella, an unknown actress was feeding Chris wine mouth-to-mouth. Spotting Johnny Fontane walk in, Chris shoved the actress into the pool, then strode over to embrace Johnny.
At his signal, the actresses in and around the pool all erupted into cheers for Johnny Fontane.
Johnny, a seasoned Hollywood insider, was no stranger to such scenes. After the embrace, he casually wrapped his arms around two voluptuous actresses and joked with Chris:
"You must've found a good script to call me over. So tell me—what role do you need me for?"
"Ha, brother, you know me well. Take a look at this."
Chris gestured for an assistant to hand Johnny a script.
Glancing down, Johnny read the title: Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.
He frowned, displeasure flickering across his face. The title screamed low-budget picture, unworthy of his current status. From the name alone, it was clearly a script centered on female roles.
Johnny was a star of the highest order. Even playing the lead was sometimes beneath him—asking him to take a supporting role was absurd. If not for his past pleasant collaborations with Chris, Johnny would've walked out the moment he saw the script.
"Chris, I just wrapped two films and already bought tickets for a vacation in Europe. I appreciate that you thought of me for your new movie, but I'm exhausted and need rest. I'm sorry—I can't take this one."
Chris showed no anger at Johnny's refusal—he had expected it. For a small-budget project like this, he never truly intended to cast Johnny. Paying Johnny's fee could bankroll another film entirely.
His true aim was to exploit the guilt Johnny would feel for refusing, and leverage it for another purpose. Chris knew well how much pride Italians placed on loyalty—a lesson learned from years in Hollywood.
Feigning disappointment, Chris slung an arm around Johnny and sighed:
"Oh, what a shame, brother. It really is a wonderful script. But since you feel that way, I can't force you. Still… as a friend, shouldn't you help me with a little something?"
Caught in his sense of obligation, Johnny nodded with a trace of guilt:
"Of course, Chris. Just say the word—if it's something I can do, I'll do it."
"Haha, I knew you'd help. Don't worry, it's nothing difficult. There's an actress I want for this film, but she refused. I'd like you to use… the old method."
The "old method" referred to their last collaboration, when a film's gaffer had suddenly died in an accident caused by the props department. They desperately needed a top-tier lighting designer, but the one they wanted despised Chris's arrogance and refused the job no matter the pay.
The film stalled, investors faced losses, and Johnny—who stood to receive a share of the box office—took it upon himself to solve the problem.
And who did Johnny turn to? None other than his godfather, Michael Corleone.
For the godson of the old Don, Michael gave face. He sent consigliere Tom Hagen to Hollywood, who made the lighting designer an offer he couldn't refuse.
The crisis was resolved swiftly, leaving Chris deeply impressed.
So when faced with a similar problem again, Johnny was his first thought.
But Johnny was no fool. While Chris's reputation was vile, most actors dreamed of starring in one of his films—the beauties lounging by the pool were proof enough. So if a young actress refused, it likely wasn't about the role, but because she didn't want to become Chris's mistress.
"Newcomer, huh? You're not afraid her poor acting will ruin your film?" Johnny asked, knowing most of these defiant types were green starlets unwilling to lower themselves.
Chris shook his head, face darkening with frustration.
"No, not a kid. She's a young divorcée—very sexy, looks like a slut, yet insists on playing the virtuous lady in front of me. The more she pretends, the more I want to break her, make her submit."
Johnny chuckled. "You're getting more twisted by the day. Fine—I'll help. But I want twenty percent of the film's profits."
Chris arched a brow. "Not afraid I'll lose money?"
"Your filthy instincts for picking scripts are still solid. So—who is she?"
Chris took a photo from his assistant and handed it over.
"Her name's Marilyn Monroe. Sexy, isn't she?"
Johnny nodded. "Yeah. Leave it to me."
Leaving Chris's mansion, Johnny didn't bother calling Michael Corleone. This was just a small actress—no need to trouble the Don. Instead, he phoned Francesco, the Corleone family's capo in Hollywood, and ordered him to handle it.
For Francesco, Johnny's word was law. He rarely saw Michael, but Johnny was always around. To offend Johnny was to risk losing his cushy post in Hollywood.
Soon Marilyn's address was found. Newly divorced, she lived far from Hollywood.
When Francesco seized her chin and threatened her to accept Chris's terms, Marilyn stayed calm and said:
"Mister, maybe you should let me make a call. That way, you might keep your life—and your hands."
The chilling confidence in her tone made Francesco pause. Suspicious, he let her go but stayed close, sensing a trick. His underling scoffed:
"Boss, she's bluffing. Look at this dump—no way a big shot protects her."
He moved to restrain Marilyn again, clearly eager to take liberties.
But Francesco was steadier. Despite his own lust, he knew instinctively this woman was not his to touch.
"Stop. Let her call."
Marilyn dialed the number she'd memorized by heart. With each spin of the dial, her heart trembled. At this moment, the only person she could turn to was the billionaire Leo Valentino.
But would he even answer? Their brief liaisons barely qualified her as a mistress.
"Hello?"
A woman's elegant voice answered. Marilyn's heart sank—it must be Leo's wife. Surely she'd delight in letting a mistress die.
"Who are you?" the voice asked. Then, as if struck by intuition: "Are you looking for Leo? Are you in trouble? Don't worry—you can tell me. I'll help you."
Francesco, hearing the silence, leaned in suspiciously. Marilyn, trapped, had no choice but to trust the woman's voice.
"Yes, madam. I was trying to reach Mr. Leo Valentino. I'm being threatened by the Mafia."
The voice grew colder, commanding:
"Can you tell what ethnicity they are?"
Before Marilyn could answer, Francesco boldly snatched the phone.
"I'm Italian. And you are?"
"I am Evelyn Valentino," came the reply, her voice sharper than steel.
The name struck Francesco like a blow. Evelyn Valentino—the most influential woman among Italians, wife of Leo Valentino. His hands shook as he straightened, as though she stood before him.
"Mrs. Valentino," he stammered respectfully, "please rest assured. We will not harm Miss Marilyn Monroe."
"Good. Leave her life, stay far away from her. I will inform Michael of your actions. Also, extend my invitation to Miss Monroe—at a suitable time, she will be welcome at the Valentino estate in Menlo Park."
The line went dead.
Knowing Michael would hear of this, Francesco dared not linger. He hastily relayed Evelyn's invitation to Marilyn, then fled to Las Vegas.
The Mafia's sudden appearance and departure left Marilyn in a daze, as if waking from a dream. Sitting on her bed, she stared out the window—not thinking of the threats, but of Evelyn's regal, commanding voice.
"To be a woman… one must be like Evelyn Valentino. That surname—Valentino—it's like magic."
In Marilyn's eyes, ambition burned.
Meanwhile, at Johnny Fontane's Beverly Hills mansion, his pregnant wife caught him in a storeroom with a young maid. Disgusted, she delivered a message:
"Phone call from Nevada. Michael Corleone. He didn't sound pleased. You'd better hurry."
Johnny deflated instantly, left the maid, and went to answer.
"Michael, it's me."
"Johnny. I want to see you."
Michael's voice was low, cold—chilling Johnny in the heat of July.
"What have I done wrong?" he stammered.
"I want to see you, Johnny. Now."
That night, Johnny drove to the Corleone estate on Lake Tahoe. In Michael's dimly lit study, the Don sat in shadow, his presence suffocating. Sweat dripped from Johnny's brow as he waited.
At last, Michael spoke:
"Johnny, do you want to join the family business?"
Johnny paled. Everyone knew what that meant—the Mafia. He shook his head quickly.
"No, Michael. I never intended that."
"Then Francesco acted on his own?"
Michael signaled. Al Neri dragged in a battered Francesco, beaten half to death. Johnny's unease gave way to dread.
"Godfather, I was wrong. I should never have used family muscle without your consent. Please forgive me. And… whose mistress is Marilyn Monroe? I'll apologize to him directly."
Michael's voice was grave.
"I'm glad you see your mistake. Hollywood is a good place—for stars and businessmen alike. But don't meddle in things that aren't yours. As for Marilyn Monroe—you'll know tomorrow. Rest now, Johnny. Tomorrow, come with me to Menlo Park."
Johnny nodded, relieved, and left.
Michael turned to Francesco, who gasped in pain.
"Do you know your real mistake?"
"I shouldn't have acted without your consent," Francesco panted.
"That was a mistake, yes—but not the true one. Your true mistake was your stupidity! Mrs. Valentino wanted to meet Marilyn Monroe. You should have brought her at once."
Michael waved a hand. Al Neri dragged Francesco out.
"No, Godfather! Please! I was wrong!"
Moments later, a splash echoed across Lake Tahoe. Another body sank beneath its waters.