Lysandra Vale
When a tall, terrifying man in a charcoal suit hands you a mysterious black business card in a dingy comedy club, normal people would do the sensible thing. Throw it away. Pretend it never happened. Move to Idaho.
But I've never been normal.
So I did the dumbest thing possible: I kept the card.
DomenicoRauth. No title. No address. Just a name and a number, embossed like it was carved into the universe itself.
I tucked it into my bra that night like it was treasure—or contraband. Honestly, both. My brain was buzzing too loud to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face again. Those espresso-dark eyes that looked like they could undress me and order my execution in the same glance.
I told myself I wasn't thinking about him.
I was.
By morning, paranoia hit me like a hangover.
What did it mean, him giving me that card? Was it a warning? A threat? A weird mafia version of Tinder? Swipe right or I break your knees.
I sat at my kitchen table in pajamas, glaring at the card while Mussolini the cat licked his paw like he knew I'd doomed us both.
"Don't judge me," I muttered at him. "You live rent-free."
The card didn't offer answers. Just sat there, black and smug.
So, naturally, I did what any rational millennial would do when confronted with a possibly deadly situation.
I Googled him.
Rule number one of Googling: if the man's name auto-fills before you finish typing, you're in trouble.
Sure enough: Domenico Rauth, New York.
I clicked.
The first hit was a grainy photo from a newspaper: Alleged Mobster Seen at Gala. Alleged my ass. He looked like sin in a suit, standing next to politicians who were smiling way too hard.
Second link: Authorities Suspect Rauth Family in Cargo Smuggling Operation.
Third: Unconfirmed Reports Tie Rauth to Nightclub Fire.
I slammed my laptop shut like the FBI was watching me personally.
"Oh my god. I'm dead."
I opened it again three seconds later, because curiosity is stronger than survival instinct.
There were whispers everywhere: racketeering, extortion, "family business." No convictions. No arrests that stuck. Domenico Rauth was either very good at hiding bodies or very good at hiding lawyers. Probably both.
And this was the man who came to my show. Who watched me joke about garlic knots and gave me his card like he was inviting me to play Russian roulette.
I dropped my forehead onto the table. "Great. My first viral set, and I've attracted the attention of Sauron the Lord of the Ring."
Mussolini meowed like he agreed. Traitor.
By the time Juniper arrived that afternoon, I was half-crazed from reading mafia conspiracy blogs. She walked into my apartment, saw the murder-board-level mess of notes and screenshots I'd taped to the fridge, and froze.
"Lys," she said slowly. "Why does your kitchen look like an episode of CSI: Dumbass Edition?"
I pointed dramatically at the card, still pinned under a fridge magnet shaped like a pizza slice. "He gave me that."
She squinted. "What is it?"
"A card. With his name. Domenico Rauth. As in, actual mafia don. As in, I roasted the mob, and now one is probably deciding whether to kill me or marry me."
Juniper blinked. Then she burst out laughing.
"You? Married to a mob boss? Please. You'd sass him to death in a week."
I flailed. "I'm serious! Look—look at this." I shoved my laptop at her, scrolling through article after article. "This man runs half the city in whispers. And he came to my show."
She skimmed, unimpressed. "Honestly? He's hot."
"Juni!"
"What? He is. You're acting like that's not relevant."
I threw my hands in the air. "Oh, right, let me just ignore the small fact that he probably owns three yachts filled with dead people's shoes."
She leaned back, grinning. "So, what are you gonna do?"
I froze.
Because that was the problem, wasn't it? I didn't know. Throw the card away? Call the number? Pretend it was a fever dream?
But the card burned in my mind. He didn't have to show up. Didn't have to give me that little square of doom. But he did. Which meant… something.
That night, lying in bed, I turned the card over in my fingers like it might whisper secrets if I held it long enough.
Domenico Rauth.
I whispered it out loud, testing how it felt in my mouth. Heavy. Dangerous. Like a dare.
What kind of man watches a woman mock the mafia in front of a room full of strangers and then decides to step closer instead of silencing her?
A crazy one. Or a confident one.
Or both.
I tried to picture him laughing. Couldn't. Tried to picture him eating pancakes in pajamas. Also couldn't. Tried to picture him killing me in a warehouse while asking for extra garlic knots. That one felt… disturbingly plausible.
And yet.
I couldn't stop smiling like an idiot in the dark.
The next morning, my agent called me. Yes, I have an agent now. Fame moves fast.
"You're hot right now, Lys," he said, buzzing with caffeine and capitalism. "Clubs are fighting to book you. I got offers from Chicago, Miami, even Vegas. We're talking tours, sweetheart."
Tours. Me.
It should've been the best news of my life.
But all I could think of was Domenico in that front row, eyes sharp and unblinking. His card burning a hole in my desk drawer.
Tours were exciting.
He was terrifying.
And somewhere deep in my gut, I knew: this wasn't a one-time thing. He didn't come to my show just to leave.
The man had plans.
And whether they ended with me in business, or in a body bag…
I was going to find out.