Lysandra Vale
The first bad omen of the night was my bra strap snapping mid-jump onstage.
There I was, mid–Queens vs. Brooklyn pizza rant, when my left boob tried to stage a prison break. I managed to wrangle it back without flashing the audience, but it set the tone. Comedy: 1. Dignity: 0.
Still, the crowd was with me. Laughing, cheering, recording my jokes like I was something worth bootlegging. And for once, there was no Domenico in the front row—no unnerving gaze, no silent predator energy making me feel like prey in heels.
And I didn't know whether to be relieved or… disappointed.
(Heart, what the hell is wrong with you?)
After the set, I lingered in the dressing room longer than usual, mostly because Juniper was busy live-tweeting my set as though she was my unpaid PR rep. ("Lysandra just said it again! TSA = mafia. I am deceased.")
I peeled off my stage outfit, tugged on sweats, and let my adrenaline drain. That's when the knock came.
"Delivery for Lysandra Vale."
I froze. I hadn't ordered food. Juniper hadn't ordered food. Nobody we knew had the money to send flowers unless Trader Joe's was running a clearance sale.
Still, the stagehand set the bouquet inside before I could stop him.
Lilies.
Big, white, flawless lilies. Elegant. Funeral real lilies. The kind of flowers people sent when someone died—or was about to.
"Oh," Juniper cooed, already halfway to them. "They're gorgeous! You have a secret admirer."
"Nope." My stomach dropped straight through my sneakers. "This is not good."
"They're flowers. Not anthrax."
I leaned closer, heart pounding. No card in the bouquet. But when I lifted the vase, there it was, tucked beneath. Black. Sleek. Silver embossing.
Domenico Rauth.
My throat went dry.
Juniper squinted. "Wait. Him? Mafia Silk-Tie Daddy?"
"Don't call him that!"
"You're blushing."
"I am not! I'm sweating with terror. There's a difference."
"Uh-huh." She wiggled her brows. "So what's the message here? Flowers of doom? Or flowers of woo?"
I shoved the vase back at her like it had teeth. "It's terrifying. That's what it is."
Because I remembered what he'd whispered after my last show: Be careful what jokes you tell on tour. Crowds laugh. Enemies don't.
The lilies were confirmation. This wasn't flirtation. This was a warning bouquet.
Or worse—an early obituary.
By the time I got home that night, I was vibrating between fear and fury. I paced my living room in sweatpants and an old t-shirt that read "World's Okayest Comedian," staring at that black card like it had summoned itself out of hell.
Juniper had begged me not to call. "Sleep on it, babe. Mafia men are like stray cats—you feed them attention once, and boom, you've adopted a problem."
But my brain wouldn't shut up. The silence was worse than the lilies.
So I called.
The line picked up after two rings. No hello, no fumbling, just:
"You kept my card."
His voice poured through the phone—low, smooth, and smug as sin.
I swallowed. "So you do answer your own phone."
"Only when I expect the call."
"Wow. Creepy. Do you… get off on timing, or—"
"Lysandra." My name in his mouth sounded like a prayer that had already been sinned on. "Why are you calling me at midnight?"
"Why are you sending me funeral flowers?"
A beat of silence. Then, calm as glass: "I didn't."
"Oh, please." I threw myself onto the couch, clutching the phone like a weapon. "Huge, expensive lilies show up at my gig, no card, just your name like a mafia-themed calling card—and you're telling me that wasn't you?"
"It wasn't."
"Uh-huh. And I suppose Santa Claus did it?"
His laugh was soft. Dangerous. "If I wanted to threaten you, Lysandra, I wouldn't waste money on lilies."
"That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"Truth often does not."
I pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead. He sounded so calm. Like my panic was entertainment.
"So if it wasn't you," I pushed, "who the hell was it?"
"Someone else who enjoys your jokes," he said smoothly. "Not everyone laughs for the same reason."
"Wow, cryptic. Thanks, Fortune Cookie of Doom."
"Fortune cookies are cheap. I am not."
"Jesus Christ, do you flirt or do you extort?"
"Both."
My pulse stuttered. Damn him. He wasn't even in the room, and somehow he was toeing that line between terrifying and… magnetic.
I exhaled sharply. "Listen, Mister Not-My-Florist, if you're telling the truth, then someone else is sending mafia-coded death lilies, and that is not in my contract."
"You should be careful." His tone dropped, lower, weightier. "If it wasn't me, then it was someone with a reason to sign my name. And people who use my name without permission… rarely live long."
I sat up straighter. "Okay. That's not comforting. That's extra not comforting."
"You called me," he reminded me, smooth and steady. "You wanted my honesty. Or my voice."
"I wanted answers!"
"You sound disappointed."
"I sound—" My voice cracked. "You're impossible!"
"And you're entertaining."
"God, why do you talk like that? Like you're constantly auditioning for the role of 'Tall, Dark, and Menacing.'"
"I don't audition, Lysandra. I'm cast."
My mouth went dry. The nerve. The audacity. The—
"Okay," I said, heat flushing my cheeks. "You know what? You might think you're sexy-scary with your silk suits and ominous flower drama, but I am not playing this game."
"You already are."
"Goodnight, Domenico."
"Sweet dreams, little comic."
Click.
I threw my phone across the couch, buried my face in a pillow, and screamed.
Because here was the terrifying part:
I wasn't sure if I was more afraid of the lilies… or how much I wanted him to actually send me a bouquet.