Starlet: A Dark Retelling

by Cora Kenborn

  I’m not stopping this time. I need to be inside her.

  Gripping her hips, I lift her up and set her on top of the piano. She moans, pulling me closer as I fight that damn dress. Finally, I get it over her hips, and she breaks the kiss.

  “Wait, stop.”

  I groan, squeezing her thigh so hard I know it’ll leave bruises. “You want me, rook. I know you do. And I’ve never wanted a woman more than you.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not denying it, but there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  “Fine,” I growl into her neck. “You can talk while I fuck you.” I don’t wait for approval before grabbing the thin string on either side of her hips. “Lift up, or I’ll rip these off too.”

  Angel shudders but doesn’t move. “It’s your hand, Dominic. Your tattoo.”

  Fuck it. I warned her. A sharp jerk of my wrist, and her panties magically fall off. With no further obstruction, I lick my way up the inside of her thigh. “What about it?”

  “There was a man… Oh God…” She throws her head back as my tongue hits its target. “At the party who had the same one.”

  I stand, her words extinguishing every bit of fire in me. “Did he touch you?”

  “No. I mean yeah, but only because I tripped on my skirt. He saved me from falling.”

  “What did he say?” I’m barely holding it together. “I need the exact words.”

  “Not much. He kept calling everything fascinating, especially my existence. I asked him why, and he started rambling about the murders and how six people were killed here but I was thriving. Then he asked me why a team of killers would spare a young girl only to risk having her rat them out to the cops.”

  I want to hit something. “Is that all?”

  “No. Before he left, he said something about questioning how a little girl could escape a crime scene without being seen then go from Bel Air to Chula Vista with nothing but the clothes on her back.”

  Jealousy turns into something far, far darker.

  “But what I don’t understand is why you have the same tattoo.” Her jaw clenches as she looks me in the eye. “Because the whole time I kept thinking, this guy is familiar. I know him from somewhere.” Her eyes lower to my hand. “And it wasn’t until I saw that tattoo and asked Michaela about it that I figured out where that was. I’ve seen him on the news. He’s part of the Vitoli crime family. He’s Luciano Ricci, isn’t he?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Dominic,” she pleads, her voice growing frantic as she fists my shirt. “What aren’t you telling me? What are you involved in?”

  “I have to go.” Prying her hands off me, I stalk toward the elevator, blocking out her protests until the doors close.

  I should have known. Although, even I didn’t think he had the balls to dangle a live wire in a pool of water just to test the sizzle. Most people know the shock can kill you. But not Luciano. He thinks he’s a conduit with the power to direct the spark.

  Which if true, damns us all.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Dominic

  I don’t bother with knocking or the doorknob. I kick the motherfucker open, sending it flying off the hinges. Just like before, two guns immediately aim at my head, but unlike before, I join the party, pulling my Glock and taking my own aim.

  Straight between Luciano’s eyes.

  “Tell your bitches to get the fuck out.”

  “Ay!” Carlo yells, jabbing his gun at me. “Watch your mouth!”

  “Dominic.” Luciano nods, leaning back in his chair like I’m not about to blow his head off. “Your manners have gotten worse.”

  “My apologies. Tell your bitches to get the fuck out, please.”

  He chuckles to himself and waves a hand, his eyes never leaving me. “Go.”

  “But boss—”

  Only then does Luciano turn around, fixing Carlo with a cold stare. “What part of ‘go’ did you not understand, stronzo?”

  Carlo grits his teeth. “Whatever you say.” This time on his way out, he doesn’t brush my shoulder. He slinks out without another word.

  “Now,” Luciano says, and I direct my attention back to where he still hasn’t bothered to pull one of the four guns I know he has stashed in his desk. “What can I do for you?”

  Somehow, that pisses me off more. It’s like he thinks I’m not a threat. Like he thinks I wouldn’t have the balls to pull the trigger and watch him bleed out in his own office.

  “You can answer two questions.”

  “Gluttonous, but I’m listening.”

  I don’t bother mincing words. “Are you pulling some backdoor shit with the cops?”

  He raises a curious eyebrow. “What kind of question is that?”

  “A point blank one. Just like the shot I’m about to fire if you don’t explain why Detective Javier Rubio is following me around asking questions about Freddy Wiseman.”

  “Possibly because the man was found looking like a pile of warm Jell-O at the bottom of suicide bridge.” The sound of glass clinking fills the room as he tips a bottle of Sinatra Select over a glass sitting on his desk. “After stalking you and your heiress, of course. Not to mention taking a very compromising picture.”

  Just the mention of that damn picture sets off another firestorm of hatred, and I rush toward him. “If you think I’m going to take the fall for this—”

  Luciano smirks as he hovers the glass at his lips. “Oh, relax, Dominic. Your friend, Rubio is pulling shit out of his ass and throwing it against the wall just to see what sticks.” Taking an indulgent drink, he sets it down and hooks me with a critical stare. “If he has anything, it’s because you’ve forgotten how this game is played and fucked up.”

  “I haven’t forgotten shit, and I don’t fuck up.”

  “Then there’s nothing to worry about, is there?” he says, the words laced with challenge. “Now, I believe you had two burning questions.”

  If I wasn’t so pissed, I might enjoy watching Luciano twist the truth into balloon animals. But we’re not on the same side anymore, and I don’t trust him. “I want to know what the hell you thought you were doing showing up at the Romanov mansion.”

  He presses his lips in a thin line, watching me carefully as if every twitch and blink is a piece of an invisible puzzle. Finally, that thin line spreads into a smirk. “To verify what I already suspected.”

  “And what is that?”

  His eyes narrow as he reaches for his precious cigar box. “You’re panicked, Dominic and not for the reason you should be.” Opening the top, he pulls out a Cuban and points it at me. “You’re falling in love with this girl.”

  I almost wince. Not because it’s true, but because the idea is too deplorable to even consider. I can’t love anyone. You have to have a heart to love someone.

  No, I don’t love Angel. I like her. I want to fuck her. I prefer her alive rather than dead.

  But love?

  Hell no.

  “Don’t be stupid,” I growl. “You know I don’t believe in that shit. Love is weakness. You taught me that.”

  He dips his chin before clipping the end off the cigar. “So, I did.”

  “Besides, she’d be the last person I’d risk going down that twisted road for.”

  “And why is that, precisely?”

  “You know damn well why.” I’m not playing games with him tonight.

  He has the audacity to laugh. “Ah yes, because you’re in it for the money. Poor, clueless Angel Smith assumes all the risk while mastermind Dominic walks away with his pockets full and his secrets intact.”

  My grip tightens on my gun. He doesn’t get to sit on his throne and pass out judgment like some kind of god when it’s his commandment that created this storm.

  “Don’t act like I nailed her to a cross,” I grit through my teeth. “I took her from a starving cocktail waitress to a billion-dollar heiress overnight. She’s hardly suffering.”

  Ignoring the gun still pointed at him, he pins me wi
th that unflappable underboss glare. “Mark my words, that woman will get inside your head and fuck around until she brings you to your knees.”

  “You don’t know what you’re—”

  “Not just to your knees, boy. Our knees. If you want to put a gun to your own head, be my guest, but I’ll be damned if you’ll take the rest of us down with you.”

  I bark out a laugh. “And by the rest of us, you mean you.”

  Holding his lighter at the end of his cigar, he puffs in silence. “Us is me, boy.”

  Maybe. But the reverse is far from true. Me hasn’t been us since I was a seventeen-year-old boy worshipping the ground Luciano Ricci walked on. Hanging on his every word. Accepting it as gospel. Blindly following without question.

  What a fool.

  “Don’t worry, Luciano. I know how this family works. Leave Angel alone, and I’ll make sure your saintly name stays out of it.”

  His mood switches, the American Gangster persona fading away as the cold-blooded killer settles in his place. “It’s not me you have to worry about, boy.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Once the real Alexandra Romanov comes forward, we’re both fucked.”

  I size him up, trying to determine his angle. “What the hell are you talking about? Alexandra Romanov is dead.”

  Taking one last puff, he pulls the cigar from his lips. “And where is her final resting place, Dominic? Los Angeles?” His lip curls, a razor thin edge to his voice. “Or Phoenix?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Angel

  “We’re done,” Rosten says, throwing his script at the director. “I suggest our two stars spend the next two days running lines, because if you two come on set with whatever the hell that was, I’ll replace you both.”

  I don’t dare say a word. Glancing up, I catch Noah’s strained eye across the table. Shaking his head, he clenches his fist around his script and scowls. People file out of the conference room one by one until the only ones left are Rosten, Noah, and me. With an exhausted sigh, Noah heads toward the door only to find Rosten blocking his path.

  “Braddock, I need a word with you.”

  I gather my belongings, catching a glimpse of them out of the corner of my eye as they stand in the doorway, Rosten speaking in a hushed voice as Noah stares blankly at him. Eventually, Noah just blinks, the corners of his mouth turning down as he walks away.

  No conversation, no words. Just flat resignation.

  I stall, waiting for Rosten to leave, but of course he doesn’t. He’s waiting for me, so, tucking my script, water bottle, and phone in my bag, I sling it over my shoulder and make my way toward the door.

  As expected, he steps in front of me. “I expect more from you, Alexandra. You’re a Romanov. Act like it.”

  I’m a Smith, you jackass.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, biting my tongue.

  “Now, as you know, talent only takes a movie so far. Publicity is fifty percent of the game.”

  “Okay?” I drag out the word, still unsure what he’s getting at.

  “As of tonight, you and Noah are an off-screen couple.”

  I’m sure he didn’t just say what I think he said. Because that would be peddling the exact kind of shit Reggie did back in Chula Vista. “Excuse me?”

  He steps forward, his eyes blazing. “Don’t pull that innocent crap with me. You know how this industry works. These books already have a rabid fanbase. The public will lose their minds when it’s leaked that the on-screen chemistry turned into an off-screen affair.” He says it as if it’s a business transaction. Another dotted line to sign and soul to sell.

  “But, we’re not… I mean, I don’t—”

  “Not important,” he snaps. “Sex sells, and perception is everything. Fuck him, or don’t fuck him. I don’t care. Just make sure the world thinks you are.” With a slam of the rolled-up script against his palm, he turns to start down the hall.

  “Wait!” I have to run to catch up with him, and the minute I grab his arm, he stops, his gaze locking onto my hand. “I’m sort of seeing someone.”

  He cocks an eyebrow. “Dominic McCallum?” I don’t answer, and he lets out a clipped laugh. “I suppose I should thank the asshole for bringing you back to Silverline, but that’s where my gratitude ends. I’m sure you’re aware of his unsuccessful attempt at ruining my reputation.” He pauses, waiting for a confirmation.

  “Yes, I’m aware.”

  “Not only am I president of this studio, I’m responsible for its brand. As the face of Silverline, you are part of that brand. Therefore, what you do and who you do reflects on me. Do we understand each other?”

  What I understand is that once I signed that contract, I signed away my life.

  “Yeah,” I mumble.

  A second later, my shoulders slam against the wall, and Rosten’s bitter, coffee-stained breath fans over my cheek. “Yes, what?”

  The determined look in his eyes now gleams with something far darker. “Yes, sir.”

  His hold loosens, and he steps back, straightening his suit jacket. “You have a reservation tonight at Amalia under the name Ross Gregory.”

  “Who?”

  “Do you think I put my real name under reservations, Alexandra?” There’s sharp irritation in his voice. “I like to enjoy a meal, not sit through endless pitches by mediocre screenwriters.”

  As he walks away, I’m hit with a thick wall of resignation. None of this is what I want, but it’s what I have to do. Especially now. Rosten has already proven he’s untouchable. Even a public scandal couldn’t shake his foundation.

  But me?

  Cracks run so deep in mine it’ll only take one rumble for it all to come crashing down. Refusing Rosten risks losing a somewhat tepid alliance with him. It risks him going after Dominic and ruining what little he has left. And it risks me losing everything I’ve ever wanted.

  Digging my phone out of my bag, I open my messenger and reread Dominic’s text from this morning.

  Don’t like the way we left things on Tuesday. Dinner? I’ll pick you up at eight.

  Sighing, I briefly close my eyes before glancing back down and doing what has to be done as static fills my head.

  I can’t do dinner tonight. Or any night. I have a date.

  The moment Noah and I step out of the limo, paparazzi attack like a swarm of killer bees. There’s no doubt in my mind someone at Silverline tipped them off, making sure they were lying in wait to immortalize the hot, new couple’s first outing.

  And no one knows about the movie yet.

  The whole thing turns my stomach.

  Noah plays his role with startling authenticity, and if I were any other female on the face of the Earth, I’d swoon. The man is classically gorgeous with a sculpted jawline, thick dirty blond hair, and a smile able to disintegrate panties.

  And here I am, the lucky girl on his arm, pining away for another man.

  “Ross Gregory,” he says, nodding at the maître d.

  “Rosten’s going to be mad we didn’t talk to the press,” I whisper as we’re ushered to a private table near the back. At least he picked an upscale restaurant where, other than the occasional whisper, the clientele is unimpressed by our presence.

  “Fuck Rosten,” Noah growls, pulling out my chair before taking his own seat.

  Amalia is swanky. Dark and mysterious with crystal as far as the eye can see. Access is by reservation only, and if you’re not an A-lister, good luck. You’re more likely to acquire a day trip to the moon. Everything is beautiful, from the ambiance to the view.

  And I’m miserable.

  Noah orders, waiting until the waiter disappears before letting a soft chuckle. “What’s his name?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The guy who’s got you so twisted up.”

  I blush and stare into my wine glass. “That obvious, huh?”

  Grinning, he tips his wine glass toward me. “Doll, if you pined over him any harder, his name would be etched acros
s your forehead.”

  So much for being subtle. Groaning, I slump forward. “I’m sorry. I’m being a horrible date. Can we start over? I promise—”

  His wine glass clinks onto the table. “Can we be completely honest with each other?” Noah’s voice takes on a serious note, and I immediately sit up. He’s no longer smiling. “I promise, you can trust me.”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re a really nice person, but I don’t think either of us are here because we want to be. Rosten yanked our strings, and we danced like marionettes.” He punctuates the image by moving his arms up and down like they’re bound by wire. “Am I right?”

  I nod, letting out a sigh of relief.

  “We both have someone else on our minds, so how about we call this what it is—two friends sharing a meal on a jackass’s dime.”

  God, I could kiss him right now. “I’m good with that.”

  With the tension gone, he lifts his wine glass again, his eyes crinkling as he takes a sip. “So, are you going to tell me his name?”

  “Dominic.”

  “Lucky guy.”

  “What about you?” I ask, raising my own glass to my lips. “What’s her name?”

  “Brent.”

  Chardonnay shoots out of my mouth like a fortified geyser. Noah calmly dabs his suit with his linen napkin as if he didn’t just drop a nuclear bomb on me. “You’re gay?” I whisper, mouthing the word.

  “Yes,” he mouths back. “There’s a secret club of us. I’d show you the handshake, but I’d have to kill you.”

  Okay, I deserved that.

  “But you’re Noah Braddock.”

  “And?”

  “America’s Heartthrob. Every woman’s fantasy. The oceans would rise with the salt of their tears if they knew.”

  He rolls his eyes. “That’s a little dramatic. Do you write greeting cards?”

  “I’m serious!” I hiss, smacking him with my napkin.

  He laughs, dodging my second swat. “I am too. And what you just said? That’s exactly why I keep it quiet.” His smile fades. “You think I’d get a quarter of the roles I do if they knew I wasn’t straight? I’d be saddled with the gay best friend gig for the rest of my life. Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I don’t have range.”