Hi=unt for the Red Diary: The Secrets Powerful Men Wanted Buried

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.