Lysandra Vale
The first time I saw my face on a billboard, I almost crashed my Uber.
It wasn't even a good picture. My hair looked like I'd lost a fight with humidity, and my smile screamed 'help, I just sneezed.' But there it was: Lysandra Vale Live! plastered above a highway in Queens, like the universe had decided to troll me in 4K.
I leaned over the seat, slapping my driver's arm. "That's me!"
He squinted. "Nah, that woman looks famous."
Rude.
Still, it was real. I had a tour. My agent called me every hour, high on adrenaline and probably cocaine, talking about ticket sales and sold-out dates. My phone buzzed nonstop with DMs—mostly congratulations, some creepy marriage proposals, and one very specific threat about me slandering garlic knots.
I should've been celebrating. Champagne, confetti, the works.
Instead, I was nauseous.
Because in my drawer at home, hidden under socks, was a black card with a name embossed in silver. A name that had been haunting me every time my phone rang.
Domenico Rauth.
I'd almost convinced myself he'd forget me. That maybe I was just a weird blip in his terrifying life.
And then opening night happened.
The venue was bigger than anything I'd played before. Velvet curtains, real lighting, not a sticky bar floor in sight. My stomach felt like it was auditioning for Riverdance.
Juniper was backstage, applying my eyeliner like she was defusing a bomb. "You're fine," she said.
"I'm not fine. Look at me. I'm sweating like I just ran a marathon in leather pants."
"That's just your aura. Chaotic humidity."
I groaned.
"Also," she added, leaning close, "if you bomb tonight, I'm legally changing my name and abandoning you."
Best friends are trash.
The stage manager gave me a thumbs-up. Showtime.
I stepped out into the lights, the crowd roaring. My legs wobbled, but my mouth knew what to do.
"Good evening, everyone!" I started. "I just found out I'm going on tour, which means my parents finally believe comedy is a job. My dad actually said, 'Lys, maybe one day you'll open for Seinfeld.' Like, thanks, Dad. Shoot for the stars, but also remember you're garbage."
Laughter. Warm, rolling, delicious.
I leaned into it, riding the rhythm. Jokes about my landlord. About New York pizza politics. About the mafia, because of course.
"Honestly, you know you're in Queens when the local mafia guys hold family barbecues louder than Fourth of July. Nothing says intimidation like Tony Two-Times arguing over potato salad."
The crowd howled. Phones lifted, recording. My pulse steadied. I was flying.
And then I saw him.
Front row. Dead center.
Domenico.
Again.
I froze. Just for a heartbeat. But it was enough.
He sat there, legs crossed, expression unreadable. Suit immaculate. A man who looked like he'd walked out of a Vogue spread titled Murder, But Make It Fashion.
For a second, the room shrank to just him and me.
I did what any professional would do.
I panicked.
"Uh—anyway!" I stammered. "So… garlic knots!"
Laughter covered me, but my pulse hammered. He didn't blink. Didn't smile. Just watched.
Not the crowd. Not the show. Me.
I powered through, "Garlic knots are just doughnuts that went to the dark side."
My joke landed. The people laughed.
"But they stress me out. That, and airports. Airports stress me out because they make me take off my shoes, my belt, my dignity. TSA is basically the mafia, but instead of kneecaps, they break your will to live."
My every punchline was sharp, but underneath, my brain screamed. Why was he here? Why now?
When the curtain finally dropped, I stumbled backstage like I'd survived a firing squad.
Juniper shoved a water bottle into my hand. "You killed it."
"Yeah, and I might literally get killed." I jerked my head toward the stage. "He's here."
"Who—" She peeked through the curtain. Froze. "Oh. Ohhh. He's really hot!"
"Juniper!"
"What? He is. Like, dangerous-sexy. Like, 'he might strangle me with a silk tie, but I'd thank him.'"
I buried my face in my hands.
When I looked up, he was already backstage.
How he got past security, I'll never know. But there he was, six feet of calm menace in tailored wool, standing like he owned the building.
The crew parted around him instinctively, like pigeons sensing a hawk.
He walked straight to me.
"Congratulations," he said, voice smooth, deep. "On the tour."
I blinked. "Thanks. Did you… buy a ticket?"
His mouth tilted. Almost a smile. "Something like that."
My throat went dry. Juniper, bless her chaotic soul, chose that moment to shove herself between us, grinning like an idiot.
"Hi, I'm Juniper, Lys's best friend, unpaid assistant, occasional therapist. You're…?"
He looked at her with mild amusement. "Domenico Rauth."
She squeaked. Actually squeaked. "Like… the—?"
"Yes."
"Oh." She fanned herself with my water bottle. "Cool, cool. I'm just gonna… die somewhere else now. Carry on." She bolted fast. That Traitor.
She left me with him.
I squared my shoulders. "Why are you here?"
"To see you."
I swallowed. "Why?"
"Because you interest me."
My brain short-circuited. That wasn't an answer. Or maybe it was the most irritating answer possible.
Before I could respond, he stepped closer, low enough that only I heard:
"Be careful what jokes you tell on tour, Lysandra. Crowds laugh. Enemies don't."
The words slid over me like ice water.
Then he was gone, leaving the faintest trace of cologne and chaos in his wake.
Juniper reappeared, eyes wide. "Girl. You're doomed. Or engaged? Hard to tell."
I sat down hard, water bottle shaking in my hand.
Because here's the thing.
The mafia hadn't just noticed me.
The mafia was following me.
And I wasn't sure if that was terrifying…
Or flattering.