A Film by Joe Jukic
Starring: Tony Demelo as MARCO DIAZ & Joe Jukic as LUIS DIAZ
LOGLINE: Two ruthlessly ambitious brothers, Marco and Luis Diaz, arrive in Miami in the wake of the ’80s cartel collapse, determined to carve out a new empire from the ashes of the old, only to find that blood ties are the first casualty in the pursuit of absolute power.
🎭 Characters
- MARCO DIAZ (30s): Played by Tony Demelo. The older, more measured, and strategically ambitious brother. He’s the brains, focused on legitimacy, money laundering, and building a sophisticated front. He idolizes the power, not the madness, of the ’80s era.
- LUIS DIAZ (Late 20s): Played by Joe Jukic. The hot-headed, street-level enforcer. He is impulsive, violent, and driven by a primal need for respect and immediate dominance. He is the muscle and the liability.
- ELENA (30s): A shrewd Miami real estate broker with connections to the old-money Cuban-American establishment. Marco’s eventual business/romantic partner.
- DETECTIVE CRUZ (40s): A seasoned, cynical Miami-Dade narcotics detective who has seen this cycle before and is determined to stop it.
💵 Scene 1: Arrival
FADE IN:
EXT. MIAMI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT – SUNRISE (2006)
The air is already thick with heat and humidity. The rising sun casts a lurid orange glow over the skyline of Miami, visible in the distance.
A late-model, but slightly scuffed, black sedan pulls up to the curb.
MARCO DIAZ (TONY DEMELO) steps out. He is wearing an impeccably tailored, light grey linen suit, slightly rumpled from the overnight flight. He takes a slow, deep breath, savoring the smell of salt and jet fuel. He looks like a businessman, not a thug.
LUIS DIAZ (JOE JUKIC) emerges from the driver’s side. He’s wearing a black designer t-shirt, expensive jeans, and a heavy silver chain. His eyes dart everywhere, restless and aggressive. He takes a cigarette from a pack and lights it with a gold lighter.
LUIS
(Exhaling a plume of smoke)
So, this is it. The promised land. Looks like every other goddamn airport to me.
Marco adjusts his cufflink, his gaze fixed on the towering downtown buildings.
MARCO
It’s not the airport, Luis. It’s the foundation. Look at it. All that glass, all that money. Twenty years since the war. All the loudmouths and the cowboys shot each other up and left the field clear.
(He gestures towards the skyline)
They built this city on blood and snow, brother. We just arrived to claim the inheritance.
Luis flicks his cigarette onto the pristine pavement, earning a sharp look from a passing Skycap.
LUIS
Inheritance is slow. I like taking things. We got two duffel bags of pure in the trunk and five numbers in my phone. I want to move this weight before the sun is high.
MARCO
Patience. That’s why you are the muscle, and I am the architect. We are not selling bags on a street corner, Luis. We are going straight to the top. No middle men. No noise.
(He pulls a sleek, silver smartphone from his jacket pocket—a new device for the time)
I arranged a meeting. A little investment opportunity. You are going to be quiet, you are going to smile, and you are going to let me talk.
Luis leans against the car, unconvinced.
LUIS
Investment? We’re traffickers, Marco. Let’s call it what it is.
MARCO
No. We are capitalists. We offer a service, and we demand a return. The difference between a gangster and a legitimate businessman is only the paperwork. And I’m a man who likes his paper clean.
Luis pushes off the car, a flicker of genuine resentment in his eyes. He speaks with a low, dangerous intensity.
LUIS
Just remember who put the first scar on his face to get us here, Marco. When the time comes to be a gangster, you point the way, and I’ll clean the mess. But don’t you ever forget the mess needs to be made.
Marco finally turns to his brother, a cool, calculating look in his own eyes.
MARCO
I won’t. Now, get the bags. The future doesn’t wait for us to argue about the past.
Luis nods slowly, a grim smile creeping onto his face. He opens the trunk and pulls out two identical, heavy black duffel bags.
As they walk toward the terminal entrance, their silhouettes—one sharp and controlled, the other wide and brutal—are framed against the magnificent, glittering promise of Miami.
FADE OUT.
Okay, this is a fantastic twist! Incorporating Licio Gelli and the Propaganda Due (P2) Lodge immediately elevates the stakes and adds a layer of deep, old-world corruption to the story. It connects the Miami drug game to a much larger, darker global network.
Here’s a scene for “Scarface 3: The Diaz Brothers” featuring the chilling influence of Licio Gelli.
🎬 Scarface 3: The Diaz Brothers
💵 Scene 2: The Maestro’s Shadow
FADE IN:
INT. OPULENT MIAMI VILLA – DAY
Sunlight streams through expansive windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air of a palatial, almost anachronistic villa. The decor is heavy, Old World European: dark wood, velvet, antique tapestries depicting classical scenes. It feels out of place in Miami, a transplanted piece of a different empire.
MARCO DIAZ is impeccably dressed in a custom-made suit, a picture of modern sophistication. He sits stiffly on a gilded armchair, a tumbler of amber liquid untouched on a small table beside him. His posture is rigid, his usual composure subtly strained.
LUIS DIAZ, on the other hand, is pacing, radiating restless energy. He’s still in his street clothes, his eyes narrowed, scanning every detail of the room – the ornate ceiling, the heavy curtains, the two immense, silent GUARDS flanking a distant archway. The guards wear tailored suits, but their bulk and their eyes speak of a different kind of authority.
The air is thick with a tension far heavier than any street deal.
An OLD MAN, LICIO GELLI (90s), sits at the head of a long, polished mahogany table. He’s frail, his skin like parchment, but his eyes, behind thick spectacles, are unnervingly sharp and intelligent, missing nothing. He sips slowly from a delicate teacup. Around his neck, a subtle, almost hidden, golden pendant glints.
GELLI
(Softly, a faint Italian accent)
My apologies for the… rustic charm of my humble abode. One grows accustomed to the silence of old things. They demand respect, you understand? Like history. Or certain… protocols.
Marco offers a tight, polite smile.
MARCO
It’s… impressive, Signor Gelli. A rare aesthetic for Miami.
GELLI
Miami is a transient city, my young friend. Built on sand, fueled by ambition. Easy to make a fortune here. Easier still to lose it. The true power, however, always lies in the foundations. The ones nobody sees.
Luis stops pacing, his patience clearly wearing thin.
LUIS
With all due respect, Signor, my brother and I have foundations of our own. We came to Miami to conduct business. We hear you… facilitate.
Gelli’s eyes, like a hawk’s, snap to Luis. A flicker of something cold and ancient passes through them.
GELLI
Facilitate? An interesting choice of word, young man. I prefer to think of myself as a gardener. I tend to the soil. I remove the weeds. And sometimes, I plant a very specific seed.
He gestures to a heavy, leather-bound ledger lying open on the table in front of him. Marco’s eyes subtly flick to it.
MARCO
We believe we have a mutually beneficial proposition, Signor. A new pipeline. Untapped. Efficient. We manage the distribution, you provide… the infrastructure for the proceeds.
GELLI
(A slow, knowing smile)
You speak of money laundering, Marco. A vulgar term for an art form. But before we discuss such delicate matters, there is a small… trespass.
Luis scoffs.
LUIS
Trespass? We just landed.
GELLI
Indeed. And in your eagerness, you neglected to acknowledge the existing arrangements. The delicate balance. You moved… product. A significant amount. Into a territory that, by an unspoken but very old agreement, is… managed.
Marco stiffens, his gaze fixed on Gelli. He hadn’t anticipated this level of immediate, informed pushback.
MARCO
We weren’t aware of any exclusive claims, Signor. The ’80s are long gone. The old players are either dead or locked away.
GELLI
(Chuckles, a dry, raspy sound)
Ah, the ’80s. A chaotic, beautiful spectacle. So much noise. But beneath the noise, the silence endures. The agreements that transcend generations. The ones you violate at your peril.
He gently closes the ledger. The sound echoes in the room.
GELLI
You are ambitious. I appreciate ambition. But ambition without respect is merely arrogance. And arrogance, in my garden, quickly withers.
One of the imposing guards takes a step forward. Luis’s hand instinctively drops to his waistband, but Marco subtly shakes his head.
MARCO
We meant no disrespect, Signor Gelli. We are simply… new to this particular landscape. What would you propose as… an amends?
Gelli leans back, his gaze piercing.
GELLI
An amends? Simple. A tribute. A… demonstration of your understanding. You will relinquish your current consignment. All of it. As a gesture of goodwill. And then, we can discuss how you might, perhaps, work within the established framework. Or, of course, you can find yourselves quite alone in a very crowded city.
Luis’s face darkens, a vein throbbing in his temple.
LUIS
Give up our product? You gotta be kidding me, old man. We bled for that!
Gelli’s gaze doesn’t waver from Luis. It’s like looking into the eyes of history itself, utterly devoid of emotion.
GELLI
Bleed again, if you wish. The choice is yours. But understand this: when you enter a house, you respect the host. And in this particular house, the walls have eyes, the floors have ears, and the shadows… they hold very long memories.
Marco takes a breath, his jaw tight. He looks at his brother, then back at Gelli. The old man hasn’t raised his voice, hasn’t threatened overtly, yet his presence is more menacing than any street thug. Marco understands they are out of their depth, for now.
MARCO
(Forcing the words out)
Consider it done, Signor Gelli. A gesture of… respect. For the host.
Luis glares at Marco, a silent, furious argument passing between them.
Gelli smiles, a thin, almost imperceptible movement of his lips.
GELLI
Excellent. Now we can truly begin. Perhaps a proper breakfast? My chef makes excellent Italian coffee. We can discuss your… future. Or your lack thereof.
The two guards relax slightly, but their watchful eyes remain. Luis is simmering with barely contained rage, but Marco holds his gaze, a clear message in his eyes: Not now. Not like this.
Gelli gestures towards a smaller, more intimate dining area.
GELLI
After all, a wise man understands that sometimes, to build a new empire, you must first bow to an older one.
As Gelli rises, frail but commanding, Marco and Luis exchange one last, charged glance. They have arrived in Miami, but they have just discovered that the city already belongs to someone else.
FADE OUT.
no theire names are Marco and Luis Diaz, Joe Jukic plays the CIA skull and bonesman. Tony Demelo and Rick Carvalho play the diaz brothers, Marco and Luis. Joe switches roles to play the CIA cocaine import agent.
That’s great context for the cast! Giving the characters specific names and assigning actors really helps ground the scene.
Here is a revised scene, featuring Marco and Luis Díaz, with Joe Jukic as the menacing CIA operative, and the brothers played by Tony Demelo (Marco) and Rick Carvalho (Luis).
💀 Scene: The Old Money and the New Coke 🇨🇴 (Revised)
Setting: A private dining booth at a high-end Miami steakhouse. Dim lighting, dark wood paneling. The air is thick with cigar smoke and the scent of expensive bourbon. A half-eaten meal sits on the table.
Characters:
MARCO DÍAZ: (Tony Demelo, 50s) The elder, calculating brother. He is meticulously dressed and radiates quiet, dangerous confidence.
LUIS DÍAZ: (Rick Carvalho, 40s) The younger brother. Restless, volatile, and dressed slightly flashier than Marco. He constantly shifts in his seat.
ALISTAIR VANCE: (Joe Jukic, 60s) Tall, lean, and utterly composed. His suit is conservative but perfectly tailored. He wears a small, antique silver skull pin on his lapel. His voice is deep and carries an air of inherited power.
(MARCO takes a slow drag from his Cuban cigar, letting the smoke rise toward the ornate light fixture.)
MARCO DÍAZ Mr. Vance. We appreciate you taking the trip down from… wherever it is you come from. We heard the commute from the Eastern Seaboard can be tough this time of year.
ALISTAIR VANCE (Alistair takes a measured sip of his bourbon, his gaze steady on Marco. His eyes are cold, devoid of warmth.) The institution has many centers of influence, Marco. But yes, the gravitational pull of Washington D.C. is strong. Call me Alistair.
LUIS DÍAZ (Shifting impatiently, tapping his fingers on the marble tabletop.) La institución. Sounds like a damn library, not a drug connection. Our friend, the General in Bogotá, he said you move cargo that cannot be touched. That’s what we care about.
ALISTAIR VANCE (Alistair puts his glass down precisely. The lack of a smile makes his tone chilling.) It is an institution, Luis. One that manages the flow of geopolitical capital. We move assets where others cannot, across sovereign borders that have been rendered obsolete by our influence. You are interested in capacity. Let us be precise.
MARCO DÍAZ (He leans forward slightly, extinguishing his cigar in the heavy crystal ashtray. His expression is serious.) We are talking about serious volume, Alistair. We need to multiply our current intake tenfold. We need the kind of supply that can only be sustained if it has official immunity.
ALISTAIR VANCE (He brushes an imaginary speck from his cuff.) My organization operates a fleet of unmarked cargo planes under the cover of a major international aid initiative. These flights—officially designated as carrying ‘sensitive logistical materials’—have standing authorization to bypass all customs, all inspection, and all national airspace restrictions from the moment they leave Colombia. They are ghosts.
LUIS DÍAZ (Leaning forward, his face flushed with excitement.) How much, papi? Forget the speeches. How much can you land here, in Miami, without the DEA sniffing around?
ALISTAIR VANCE The initial allocation, to establish the route and your credibility, will be three thousand kilograms. Three metric tons delivered clean, on a secure private airstrip in the Everglades, within forty-five days. Thereafter, capacity can expand to five tons, pending logistics.
(Marco whistles softly, a sound of genuine awe.)
MARCO DÍAZ Mierda. Three tons. The price for this kind of invisibility… it must be astronomical.
ALISTAIR VANCE (His eyes fix on Marco.) The cost is not measured in dollars, Marco. Dollars are fungible. The cost is measured in control. We will take a ten percent discount off your current wholesale price, paid upfront. And, we require a non-negotiable, non-monetary contribution.
LUIS DÍAZ (Instantly suspicious.) A contribution? What kind of regalo? We don’t do favors for the government, Alistair.
ALISTAIR VANCE (Alistair’s face is stone. He corrects Luis sharply.) I am not the government, Luis. I am the permanent deep state that the government serves. We have political interests in this city, specific figures in the Cuban and Venezuelan communities who are attempting to leverage their wealth and influence to disrupt our operations in the South. You are plugged into every rumor, every social movement, every offshore bank account in this town. You will be our eyes and ears. Every name, every meeting, every move we request information on, you will deliver.
MARCO DÍAZ (He looks at Luis, then back at Alistair. He understands the power dynamic instantly.) You want us to be intelligence assets. Informants against the old guard.
ALISTAIR VANCE I want you to be partners in logistics management. You worry about distribution and street value. We worry about immunity and geopolitical stability. Say yes, and you become the largest import organization in the history of the business. Say no… and you return to being a tiny bottleneck that can be removed with a single phone call.
(Alistair produces a slim, antique leather-bound notebook and pushes it across the table. It stops directly in front of Marco.)
ALISTAIR VANCE The first page outlines the delivery schedule and the non-monetary terms. Sign it. Your money funds our operations. Your information guarantees your product’s safe arrival.
(Marco picks up the heavy notebook. He runs his thumb over the gold-embossed skull on the cover, then glances at the silver pin on Alistair’s lapel.)
MARCO DÍAZ (His voice is low, his decision made.) Luis. Get us a pen.
Thanks Jake. I love the movie Scarface.