Domenic Rauth
I handed her the card and didn't wait for her reaction. Rule one: don't linger. Rule two: let them think.
She'd think. Oh, she'd overthink.
The club's back door opened into a puddle-streaked alley. The city smelled like cheap liquor, cigarettes, and late-night arguments. My car was waiting at the curb—black, gleaming, windows tinted darker than conscience.
Luca leaned on the hood, scrolling on his phone, his suit jacket wrinkled like he'd been wrestling ghosts. He straightened when he saw me.
"Well? Did she cry? Faint? Beg you not to kill her?"
I slid into the backseat, tugging at my tie. "None of the above."
He frowned, starting the engine. "What happened, then?"
"I gave her my number."
The car lurched forward as he whipped his head around. "That's not intimidation, Dom. That's—hell, I don't know what that is. Your version of Tinder?"
"Drive, Luca."
He muttered something creative in Italian about me losing my mind, but the city swallowed it as we pulled away.
Luca Rauth, my cousin, was younger than me by ten years, raised like a brother, tolerated like a hemorrhoid. He'd grown up in my shadow and hadn't forgiven me for it. Loyal enough. Loud enough. Thought he was funny, which was the worst thing of all.
But I didn't mind his commentary tonight. My thoughts weren't with him. They were back in that cramped club, where Lysandra Vale had stood onstage and pointed a loaded joke straight at men like me, like it was nothing.
She hadn't known who was listening. She hadn't cared. That was either bravery or stupidity. I'd decide which later.
The penthouse was silent when I walked in. Twenty-two floors above the street, glass walls wrapping around the living room like a watchtower. The city glittered beneath me—my city, piece by piece, bought with blood, fear, and leverage.
I poured myself a Scotch and leaned against the window.
Usually, this view steadied me. Tonight it didn't. All I kept seeing was her. Not the jokes—though they'd been sharper than most knives I'd faced—but the way she looked at the crowd. Head high. Wild hair. Mouth curved into a smile that dared the world to strike first.
Most people look at me with fear. She hadn't. Not really. Not yet.
I told myself it was curiosity, nothing more. That I wanted to see how she'd react to the card. Fear, denial, bravado. People were predictable.
But her? Would she be predictable too? I wasn't sure.
And uncertainty was dangerous.
Morning came with the usual storm.
My table was crowded with espresso cups, ledgers, burner phones, and two men talking at once. One was Franco, my other lawyer—a man who looked like a priest but swore like a sailor. He was droning about zoning permits and inspectors who needed greasing.
The other was Homer, my accountant, round as a wine barrel, wringing his hands about a cash discrepancy. "Dom, the numbers don't balance. We're missing forty grand, and if we don't—"
"Homer," I interrupted, deadpan, "I once lost a million in a poker game to a Russian who cheated with mirrors. Forty grand isn't going to make me cry."
He shut up.
That was the gift of dry humor. You never knew if I was joking until I wasn't.
I was about to dismiss them both when the door burst open. Giacomo, of course. He's never knocked a day in his life.
"You're gonna want to see this," he announced, out of breath like he'd just outrun his brain.
"Last time you said that, it was a TikTok of raccoons stealing pizza," I said, not looking up.
"This is better. Worse. Both." He slapped his phone on the table.
A headline glowed across the screen:
'Lysandra Vale Lands National Comedy Tour.'
Below it, a photo. Her, smiling like she knew she'd just conned the entire world into watching.
I stared at it longer than I should have.
"Clubs are booking her everywhere," Giacomo said, pacing like the carpet had wronged him. "Chicago, Miami, Vegas. She's about to be famous. And you're just sitting there?"
"She's a comic."
"She's a comic who jokes about us to millions of people!"
"They're laughing with her, not at us."
"That's supposed to make me feel better?"
I finally looked at him. "You're still alive, aren't you?"
He shut up, but his sulk filled the room.
Franco cleared his throat, clearly regretting every career choice that had led him to this moment. "If this woman is… problematic, we could arrange—"
"No," I said, sharper than I intended. "She's not problematic."
Matteo blinked nervously. "Then what is she?"
I swirled the last of my espresso, watching the dark liquid circle like a whirlpool.
"She's interesting."
That word hung in the air like smoke.
Franco exchanged a glance with Matteo. Neither of them pushed further. Smart men know when not to poke the bear.
After they left, I sat alone at the table with her name glowing on the screen.
In less than a week, she'd gone from a dive bar to national stages. That kind of rise was rare. Unstable. Dangerous. Attention was fire: small at first, then uncontrollable. Most people burned out. A few burned everything else down with them.
Which one was she?
I almost laughed, the sound foreign in my throat. Imagine me, shadowing a comedian across the country like some deranged fanboy. My enemies would choke on the irony.
But it wasn't amusement that made me think of it. It was strategy.
Because variables like her should not be left unattended. And I didn't like not knowing.
I tapped the phone screen, enlarging her photo. Messy hair, bright eyes, mouth tilted like she was seconds away from saying something outrageous.
I hated to admit it.
But she made me curious.
And curiosity, in my world, was more lethal than bullets.
So I made my decision.
If Lysandra Vale was taking her act on the road, then I'd be there when the curtain rose.
Not as a fan. Not as a critic.
As the man who decides how long the spotlight stays on her.