With this sudden chaos, Dunn called a break for the whole crew. Right now, everyone's on edge—forcing them to shoot would just get shaky performances that wouldn't cut it for Dunn anyway.
He'd already made peace with it: *If it's a blessing, it's not a curse; if it's a curse, you can't dodge it!* This team was barely two months old, still finding its groove. It's mostly held together by Dunn's paycheck and his rep. If he could nail a solid fix for this mess, it'd boost his cred big time—locking in this crew as his go-to squad, not just some hired guns chasing cash.
His plan? Simple—two paths at once!
First call: Brian Lord, the big shot at AA. Since *My Big Fat Greek Wedding* is half under AA's umbrella, Brian's gotta step up for the crew's safety. The guy's got insane connections—not just Hollywood, but all the way to the White House. With him pulling strings and applying pressure, results should come fast.
Second call: Francis Coppola, Sophia's dad and head of the Coppola clan—Italian royalty, basically. The *Godfather* trilogy made him a legend among Italian-Americans. When Dunn faced off with the cops earlier, he didn't get much, but the chubby detective let slip that the punks who tossed the gas can were Italian. That clicked for Dunn—Chicago, duh! Even in the shiny '90s, some old-school vibes linger. With Francis's sway over the Italian crowd, this was a one-sentence fix.
Seeing the crew's worried stares, Dunn steeled himself, waiting for the payoff.
Forty minutes later, panic hit. Some girls even started screaming and crying. Nicole Kidman went pale; Sophia Coppola was shaking, barely breathing. The arson punks were back! Motorcycles roaring, graffiti all over them—just like before, they roared in, making a huge scene.
"Quiet! Don't freak out!" Dunn shouted, standing up with a calming gesture, then strode forward.
"Dunn!" people yelled, freaked out.
He turned back with a grin. "Chill, trust me—it's handled!"
"Handled?" Everyone exchanged skeptical looks. These were thugs even the cops avoided—how'd he fix this?
Dunn oozed confidence, strolling right up. Sure enough, the dozen or so punks were a mess—bruised faces, one guy with a stitched-up eye like he'd taken a beating. When they saw Dunn's stone-cold expression, they hopped off their bikes, lined up neat as you please, and bowed. "Sorry!" they barked, loud but grudging.
Dunn eyed their young, pissed-off faces and sighed. Tattoos, nose rings, earrings, dyed hair, leather jackets—classic bottom-rung bad boy look, huh? Same age as him, but on totally different paths. Society's fault? Maybe, but if you don't try, even God can't save you. He knew they were forced to apologize, still boiling with resentment. No pep talk would fix these delinquents. He waved them off. "You've owned up, so we're done. Don't let it happen again."
Their eyes lit up—expecting a guilt trip or worse, like usual. But this "dumb kid" let them off easy? They grinned wide. "Cool, we're good then—see ya!" Laughing, they revved up and peeled out.
Dunn shook his head, helpless, when the crew behind him erupted in cheers. Katherine Heigl, the co-star, ran over, clinging to his arm and cooing, "Dunn, you're amazing—*everything* about you is amazing!"
He caught her drift, lowering his voice. "In a couple days, I'll swing by your place and teach you a lesson, you little minx!"
Katherine giggled, batting her lashes, not caring about the crew's weird stares. She planted a loud "mwah" on his cheek. "You said it—don't forget! If you don't show, I'm done with you." As a rising starlet, she didn't care who saw—scandal meant fame these days!
The other young actresses glared, seething. *"That tramp! Total tramp!"* they fumed internally. Jealousy stung, but what could they do? She's hot, curvy, and cozying up to the director—hardly a shocker.
Then, a fleet of cop cars rolled in—four this time, not just one. Leading them? An old-school Ford sedan, not even marked "police." A middle-aged guy in a suit stepped out—forties, balding, oozing authority. The cop cars screeched to a halt, and a dozen officers scrambled out, rushing over. Among them? Dunn's pals, the fat and skinny detectives.
"Hi, you Walker?" the suit asked.
"I'm Dunn. You are?"
"Call me Fred. I'm with the FBI."
Dunn glanced at Fred's badge—nearly blinded by the shine—and froze. Brian Lord had escalated this to the FBI? No wonder the local cops were swarming; this was a mess now.
"Mr. Walker, we've had tons of tips about a high-risk gang around here, but never enough evidence," Fred said, eyeing the cops behind him. "Mind telling me exactly what happened? I'll make sure you get fair legal protection."
Dunn groaned inwardly. Caught between local PD and the feds? Way above his paygrade. Plus, he'd just called Francis Coppola, and now the Italian kids got nabbed—how's that gonna look? He glanced at the jittery cops, then shook his head. "Sorry, Fred, it's over for me."
"Over?" Fred nodded at the charred lawn. "That's a hefty loss for your crew."
Dunn forced a smile. "Yeah, but insurance'll cover it. Those kids came back, apologized—just teens screwing up. They fixed it, no need to blow it up. The crew saw it—they'll back me up."
Fred scanned the group, smirking. "Awfully big heart you've got there, Director Walker."
Dunn got serious. "As artists, we're here to spread the right values—to America, to the world. A big heart's not just nice—it's essential."
Fred's face twisted; Dunn's resolve was unshakable. Another bust. He gave him a hard look. "Well, good luck with your movie, then. See ya."
As Fred left, an old white-haired cop with a rosy face rushed over, grabbing Dunn's hand. "Mr. Walker, thank you—thank you so much!"
Dunn frowned, mood sour. "I just want my movie to finish without any more crap like this."
"Absolutely, I'll make sure of it!" the old cop—clearly the boss—jumped into action, barking orders for 24/7 patrols, day and night.
VIP treatment like that for a $10 million indie flick? Even $200 million blockbusters rarely get round-the-clock local security! Dunn's two calls had flipped *My Big Fat Greek Wedding*'s status in Chicago overnight. Next time he films here, he'll probably get the red carpet too.
Dunn couldn't help but reflect. This mess taught him a lot. Hollywood isn't just about money and talent—connections matter, big time. Francis Coppola and Brian Lord's pull didn't just shape Hollywood—it swayed local power plays too.
Suddenly, he felt lucky he hadn't burned bridges with AA. Things with Brian Lord were solid, and while he'd clashed with Jewish mogul Steven Spielberg, it wasn't a total fallout—room to patch up later, maybe. Unite every ally you can to face whatever's coming.
Taking a deep breath, Dunn realized: Hollywood's no easy road.
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