June 2, 1925. The final scene of Lust, Caution.

  In front of Grant’s villa, the entire DreamWorks crew was gathered. Besides them, almost everyone from Harvey Street had shown up, along with members of the film board. Grant had ordered a case of champagne, waiting outside for me to lead the actors out. The villa was surrounded by a sea of people.

  Inside, two cameras were set up and ready. Every face was filled with excitement as they watched James and Julie, waiting for my cue to begin.

  "Everyone, attention! Final scene of Lust, Caution! Three, two, one—action!" I shouted. The pre-set explosive charges went off, sending glass, bottles, and debris flying in all directions.

  Due to Hankton’s betrayal, Planck led the Southern Army to storm George Bush’s city, surrounding his residence. Planck’s wife, Maria—Deirdre’s close friend—sent a warning that the Southern Army was closing in and urged her to flee. But Deirdre chose to stay with Bush. The army encircled the house, and Bush led a fierce resistance. He managed to kill Hankton but was gravely wounded in the process.

  Outside, Planck called out: if Deirdre executed Bush, she could be spared. But she simply gripped Bush’s hand tightly, smiling as they walked together toward the door—straight into a hail of gunfire.

  The film ended with them stepping out of the room. It didn’t show them being shot but instead froze on their silhouettes, leaning against each other.

  “Cut!” I yelled from behind the camera. The room erupted in cheers. Berg, Gans, James, Julie—everyone hugged tightly, then rushed outside to join the crowd. Champagne sprayed into the air, and the celebration began.

  Marskolov and Fox approached me with grins. The two film moguls flanked me on either side, while reporters snapped away with their cameras.

  "Mr. Corleone, congratulations on wrapping up the film! Fox and I are hosting a dinner tonight at the Imperial Hotel. What do you say? Will you honor us with your presence?" Marskolov beamed.

  How could I refuse such an invitation? Besides, in all my time in Hollywood, the fanciest place I had been to was City Hall. Free food, free drinks—and who knows, I might even spark something with these two old-timers. Why not go?

  "Since Mr. Marskolov holds me in such high regard, I would be honored to learn from both of you." I grabbed their hands, smiling at the cameras.

  At 8:30 PM, I arrived at the banquet with Gans, Berg, James, and Julie.

  The Imperial Hotel stood in the heart of Hollywood—a towering 20-story building, lavishly decorated, a favorite haunt of movie stars. It wasn’t just a place to eat and sleep; it had everything imaginable for entertainment. Deals were made, bodies were disposed of, and love affairs ignited within its walls.

  Among our group, only James and I had ever set foot in such a high-class venue. The other three were like fish out of water. The moment they entered, Gans and the chubby Berg had no idea where to look—especially with the waitresses, all stunningly beautiful and wearing very little. By the time we reached the lobby, their eyes were practically glazed over.

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  "What’s wrong? Got glaucoma?" I whispered, kicking them each in the shin.

  "Boss, I’m gonna be Hollywood’s best cinematographer," Berg wiped his drool, eyes narrowing into slits. "That way, I can look at these beauties every day!"

  "Have some dignity, will you?" I scolded, shaking my head as I stepped into the elevator. Julie chuckled behind me.

  Marskolov and Fox had booked a private room on the 15th floor—the most extravagant level of the hotel. As the elevator doors opened, even I had to pause in amazement at the sheer decadence.

  The carpets were imported from all over the world. Door handles, chair arms, and even candle holders were wrapped in gold leaf. A vast hall, the size of a basketball court, lay ahead. In the center stood a half-naked statue of the Muse, adorned in gold and silver. The air was thick with perfume and cologne, mingling with the chatter of elegantly dressed men and women.

  A grand banquet was in full swing.

  "Boss, are we in the wrong place?" Gans muttered. "Weren’t those two old guys just inviting us to dinner? This is a whole d*mn gala!"

  I glanced around and felt uneasy myself. Everyone here wore designer suits, luxury watches, and diamond rings. Meanwhile, our clothes were rented, and Julie wasn’t even wearing a single piece of jewelry. We looked utterly out of place.

  "Let’s go. We must have the wrong venue." I shook my head and turned to leave.

  "Mr. Corleone!"

  I had barely taken a few steps when a voice called out from behind.

  Turning around, I saw Marskolov standing at the edge of the hall, smiling like a fox.

  His voice instantly drew the attention of the entire room. All eyes turned to us—contemptuous, puzzled, amused. Even thick-skinned Gans lowered his head.

  Can’t afford to lose face now! I told myself, straightening my back. Plastering on a gentlemanly smile, I strode toward Marskolov and said loudly, "Mr. Marskolov! I almost thought I had walked into the wrong place!"

  We embraced like old friends. The crowd’s attitude shifted. Anyone who could be this familiar with "Old Mar" had to be someone important. Whispers spread through the room.

  "André, we’ve been waiting for you," Marskolov said warmly.

  Fox stepped forward. "Mr. Fox, you’re here early," I greeted him, extending my hand.

  "Haha, when Marskolov is the host, who dares to be late?" Fox joked, shrugging.

  The murmurs in the crowd intensified.

  Marskolov and Fox—two of Hollywood’s biggest film moguls. Most directors and actors would do anything to get their attention. But here was a young man, shabbily dressed, receiving their personal invitation. Who was he?

  "Mr. Marskolov, I take it this isn’t just a simple dinner," I gestured toward the gathering.

  Marskolov and Fox exchanged glances, then burst into laughter.

  "André, stop calling me ‘Mr. Marskolov’—it’s too formal! You should treat me and Fox like old friends. From now on, just call me Old Mar. And Fox? Just call him Wash!"

  "That wouldn’t be proper. You are my elders, after all."

  "Elders? Kid, there are no ‘elders’ in Hollywood—only brothers! Brothers!" Fox exhaled a puff of cigar smoke right into my face.

  "Fine, fine! I’ll go along with it," I choked, eyes watering from the smoke.

  Marskolov led me to the center of the hall. The crowd hushed, eyes fixed on me, eager to uncover my identity.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, today is my daughter’s 20th birthday! You may not know much about this young man beside me. To be honest, neither Fox nor I knew him a month ago. He’s also 20 years old, but while my daughter was idling away at home, this young man was already out there, starting his own film company, carving out his future. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s welcome the future great Hollywood director—André Corleone!" Marskolov declared grandly, pushing me forward.

  Applause erupted.

  Fox smirked. "I’d like to add something!"

  The crowd quieted. Marskolov looked puzzled.

  "I disagree with Old Mar’s title of ‘future great Hollywood director’!"

  The room fell into a stir. Even Marskolov seemed taken aback. Was Fox deliberately embarrassing me in front of everyone?!