It’s 2025, and we’re camped out in a back booth
at Musso and Frank Grill––Hollywood’s last cathedral,
where the martinis are colder than a starlet’s
shoulder and the waiter’s been around longer
than most studio heads. The lights are low. The red
leather is cracked. And the ghosts? They’re always
on the house. Our names –– Rick Marcelli and Robin
Bragg-Marcelli.
The drinks hit the table, an old promise––dry, sharp, and
stirred with just enough danger to keep the night interesting.
We’re not here to reminisce. We’re here with a story. One
we’ve carried around––a loaded gun. It’s about Marilyn Monroe.
The blonde. The bombshell. The girl with the smile that
made men lie and the secrets that made them disappear.
Word had spread among our friends in Los Angeles––at
the Smoke House, a restaurant next to Warner Bros. Studios
in Burbank, California, and at Musso and Frank Grill, that
we were digging into Marilyn Monroe’s death and her Red
Diary.
