Starlet: A Dark Retelling - Cora Kenborn Page 0,128
leading me out of that woman’s house and buckling my seat belt. I remember the pink teddy bear he stuffed in my hand before slamming the door. I remember the awkward hug he gave me when I begged him not to leave me at that group home.
“I knew you’d come. Still following me, huh, Luciano?”
“What the hell are you doing?” he yells, pacing while running a hand through that helmet of hair. “Climb back over that rail! Are you crazy?”
“That question is a little inappropriate considering the circumstances, don’t you think?” I roll my eyes and glance over at Angel to find her covering a giggle with her hand.
Luciano doesn’t find that as funny as we do, because he comes to a dead stop and glares at me. “Come on, kid. I’ve watched you grow up. I know you can’t swim.” Anger turns to panic as he comes closer, his hand outstretched. “You don’t want to do this. I helped you once, I can do it again.”
“I can’t stay here anymore. You know this is the way it has to be.” I motion between us. “This has to end with me. We both know if you keep knocking on the devil’s door, eventually, he’ll answer.”
I wish those words didn’t make his shoulders deflate like that. It makes me sad. I look down, then suddenly remember the envelope I’m holding against my chest. Pulling it away, I trace the name written on the front. This is how this was supposed to end. Our chapter closes here, and now we’re finally even.
Glancing over my shoulder, I toss it to him, watching as it lands by his feet. “You know what’s in there. You’ve always known it.”
“Alexandra…”
Everything is finished now, and the Romanov family is finally at peace. Tilting my chin, I catch Angel’s eye and smile. She understands. Twins always do. I hold out my hand, and she takes it, entwining our fingers together.
Our story is over.
It began with death, and that’s how it ends.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Jade
One Year Later
“Coming up on your right, you’ll see the infamous Romanov mansion, the tragic site of six homicides that rocked Bel Air sixteen years ago.”
I press my falling sunglasses back onto my face and lean forward as the tour guide makes a sweeping gesture, and an entire row of sheep to my left eagerly turn their heads. People get off on the sick and macabre—case in point this bus tour.
Of course, my paid seat on the “Infamous Hollywood Murders Tour” doesn’t make me much of a saint.
I follow suit, my gaze locked on the sculptured grounds of the immaculately kept mansion. This is the darker side of Hollywood. The one nobody likes to talk about because it makes their icons too human. Too fallible. Flesh and blood and weakness just like the rest of us.
Then again, I’ve always found beauty where others found shame. I believe pain has a residue. No matter how hard we scrub, it can never be cleaned—only transformed.
I grit my teeth as warm breath fans over my bare shoulder. Inhaling slowly, I try to even out my temper before elbowing her in the throat. I’m not one for close contact, and this woman has invaded it the whole damn tour. Slowly, I tilt my chin over my shoulder and glare at her.
Instead of tossing back a glare of her own, the redhead tucks a wad of bubblegum in her cheek. “Don’t you mean seven homicides?”
Eighteen pairs of eyes swing toward the statuesque tour guide, who stiffens, her brittle smile betraying the barest hint of a twitch. “The seventh has never officially been confirmed.”
“She confessed to killing him,” the redhead snorts, realizing she has a captive audience. “What the hell are they waiting on?”
“A body,” her friend pipes up on the other side of her.
The redhead rolls her eyes and blows another bubble. “Yeah, good luck with that.”
I sit back and watch with fascination. Maybe not so much the incessant chatter as much as the panic playing on the poor tour guide’s face. She’s lost control and has no idea how to corral the herd back inside the pen.
Her hand shakes as she fiddles with the wireless microphone at her mouth. “Ladies and gentlemen…”
I could help her out. It wouldn’t be difficult to toss out a random question and redirect everyone’s attention back to her regurgitated spiel. But I’d be lying if I said my curiosity hasn’t been piqued.
I cock my head toward the redhead. “Wait, what do you mean?”