Starlet: A Dark Retelling - Cora Kenborn Page 0,65
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 with 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.