Starlet: A Dark Retelling

by Cora Kenborn

  Last First Kiss was supposed to be my big break. It was payment for a lifetime of pain. I knew the producer was a sexist pig. Everyone knew it. Maybe some of those girls blew their way into their roles, but not me. I earned mine. But none of that mattered when Beyond the News decided it was open season on Paulo Bellini.

  If you had a vagina, you were guilty. No trial. No defense. Dominic McCallum banged his almighty gavel, and that was it. We were all hung in the court of public opinion.

  “So why Chula Vista?”

  I cut my eyes at his flippant change of subject. Once again, he just rips off the scab and leaves me to bleed. “Car broke down. Money ran out. The G-Spot was hiring.” I shrug. “Take your pick. Trust me, if everything had worked out, I’d be in Phoenix by now.”

  “What’s in Phoenix?”

  It’s a question I’m not prepared to answer, so I don’t. Instead, I roll my neck, wincing at the tight muscles. “It’s been a long day, Mr. McCallum. As much as I’ve enjoyed being harassed at work, dragged into alleys, pushed against walls, and attacked in my own home, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to take my shower and go to sleep now.”

  “No.”

  I blink. “I’m sorry, did you say no?”

  “Pretty and observant. You’re quite the package, Angel Smith.” He tosses a smug wink at me, and all I can think about is stealing that knife in his pocket and jabbing it in his eye.

  Try winking then, asshole.

  “Now that we’ve resolved past grudges—”

  “Resolved?” I laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

  But he is, which is made obvious by the fact he continues to speak. “I believe we still have my offer to discuss.”

  “Get out.”

  “Just give me five minutes, and if what I have to say doesn’t convince you to give me five more, I’ll leave.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the shit you tried to pull with Reggie’s new girl?” He doesn’t answer, and for the second time today, I hesitate. Probably a huge mistake, but I don’t see how this could get any worse. “Five minutes, and you’ll leave?”

  “You have my word.”

  “Great,” I mumble. “I’ll add it to the other worthless shit I own.” I motion toward our pathetic excuse for a couch. “Have a seat.”

  “Thank you.” He’s all confident and powerful, and fucking infuriating. The way he smiles around the words and the way those electric eyes never seem to blink, causes me to ache in the worst kind of way. The pain isn’t brutal, but more like subtle stabs. Sort of like taking a running leap into a giant pit of thumbtacks.

  He’s the asshole who stole your dream, I remind myself. I can’t let a pretty face and a nice body distract me from reality. A sinfully defined toned body. I swallow hard, running a hand along my throat where my pulse is dancing the tango.

  Five minutes. I agreed to this to get him out, not to proposition my stalker, so I clear my throat and sit in a nearby chair. Tossing the camera beside me, I clench my hands together in my lap. “Let’s hear it, Mr. McCallum.”

  “It’s Dominic.” His broadened smile sends my resolve flying out the window and a rush of heat between my legs.

  No! I’m not attracted to him. I let out a groan and clench my teeth. Focus, Angel.

  He leans forward and balances his elbows on his knees, “You seem nervous, Miss Smith.”

  He’s close. So close I ditch my own rules and breathe him in. God, he smells good. A deep mix of rich coffee and earthy pine. Like Christmas morning. Well, what I imagine Christmas morning would smell like. Not that I’ve ever had one.

  The thought jerks me out of my lust-filled haze and slams me back into reality.

  “Nervous?” I repeat the word, hating the slight wobble in my voice. “Not at all. I just... You have four minutes left.”

  His rough laugh melts over my skin. “What would you say if I told you I could not only fast-track your way back into Hollywood, I could make you the biggest star they’ve ever seen?”

  “I told you before, I’m not a whore.”

  “And I told you before, I don’t mean in exchange for sex.” I quirk an eyebrow which he answers with a wicked grin. “I mean, I wouldn’t turn it down, but that’s not what this is. I’m offering a professional opportunity for mutual gain. So, what do you say?”

  “I say there must be something you want pretty bad to make such big promises.” I force a polite smile. “You have two minutes to tell me what it is before I call the cops.”

  He smiles back, but it’s nowhere near as polite. “How about I show you instead?” Keeping his eyes on me, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a worn picture. Carefully unfolding it, he flips it around between his fingers and holds it up for my inspection.

  It’s a little girl, and the longer I stare, the more my eyes sting. Not because of the obvious expensive dress she’s wearing, but because of the vacant, sad look in her eyes. She’s looking at the camera as if begging someone to hear her.

  “Cute kid.”

  “Look familiar? Long, dark hair and green eyes.”

  “That’s not me.”

  “No, it’s Alexandra Romanov. This picture was taken four days before the murders.” I’m still staring at the photo when he pulls out another folded up picture and holds it up. “But this is an FBI aged-progressed photo of what Alexandra Romanov would look like today.”

  This one is much different. It’s a woman. Older, but just as sad. I stare at her long dark hair and haunted green eyes. I swallow hard at the stubborn set of her jaw and pale skin.

  He’s right. The resemblance is uncanny.

  “Look, I’m not interested in whatever—”

  “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you it’s the fifteenth anniversary of her disappearance,” he says, drawing my attention back to the hard lines on his face. “It’s all over the news that the estate has offered a million-dollar reward for information leading to her return.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  His hold tightens on both pictures as he pushes them even closer. “To quote a certain mouthy waitress, it’s been a long day. Do I really need to point out the obvious? You could be sisters, or at the very least cousins.”

  That’s when it hits. When his words from earlier make sense, and all his cryptic offers converge into a moment of stark clarity. Horrified, my jaw drops. “Have you lost your fucking mind? You want me to pretend to be Alexandra Romanov? As in the Hollywood royalty Romanovs?”

  He shrugs, as if the idea isn’t absurd. As if we’re simply trick-or-treating down Rodeo Drive. “The estate has hundreds of idiots trying to pass themselves off as Alexandra Romanov every day. They never get past the phone screen.”

  I let out a patronizing laugh. “And you think I will?”

  “You have something they don’t have.”

  “Common sense?”

  “Me.” He smirks. “Like it or not, when I talk people listen. If I write that I’ve found the missing heiress, you’ll get more than a phone screen. You’ll get the keys to the kingdom.”

  “Wait, this is what you were talking to Naomi about? So, what…she failed your little test, so you thought you’d give me a spin?”

  “I wouldn’t quite put it that way.”

  “Even if I were to consider this, which I’m not, your plan has a fatal flaw.” He raises an eyebrow, and I let a pause hang in the air before leaning forward. “The Romanovs are the first family of Hollywood. Do you honestly think the estate would hand over a million dollars over a cartoon printout? They’ll demand a DNA test, and once that comes back, I won’t have to worry about getting kicked out of my apartment. I’ll be behind bars.”

  “The DNA test won’t be a problem.”

  I snort. “Yeah, right. The next thing you’ll tell me is you know a guy.” A slow smirk creeps across Dominic’s face, and my stomach drops. “Oh my God. You know a guy.”

  “That’s a conversation for another day.” He glances at his watch. “I beli
eve my five minutes are up, Miss Smith.” Dragging that smoldering stare up to my face, he cocks a dark, slanted eyebrow. “So, do I get five more, or do I leave?”

  “Why do you enjoy digging into people’s pasts, Mr. McCallum?”

  “It’s Dominic, and don’t avoid the question.” He looks at me again. It’s just a simple glance, but it carries the weight of an avalanche behind it. If I’m not careful, it’ll bury me.

  I clear my throat while fighting to regain my senses. “I’m not interested.”

  “Do you have a deep-seated aversion to success, Angel?”

  Drawing my eyes up, I collide with his icy stare. “You tell me, Mr. McCallum.”

  After meticulously folding both photos, he tucks them back in his pocket and leans closer. “I told you to call me Dominic.”

  “And I told you I wasn’t interested in your offer. I guess neither of us listens too well.”

  A low laugh rumbles in his throat, and he shifts backward, draping his arm over the back of the couch. “I’ve already warned you about that attitude, cupcake. While I can appreciate a ballsy woman, the public likes their starlets demure.”

  “I’m not your cupcake,” I huff.

  Suddenly standing, he clears the distance between us in only a few steps. I have every intention of looking him right in the eye and telling him to get out, but the thing is, well, it’s not his eyes I’m staring at. He’s just the right height and my chair is low enough to land my face two inches from his groin.

  And judging from the massive bulge in his pants, that’s the only thing that’s two inches.

  I want to look away, but I can’t. It’s like I’ve been dickmatized, and the more I stare, the warmer my face gets.

  “Angel?” I glance up to find an amused smirk on his face. “My eyes are up here.”

  Leaping to my feet, I tip my head back, and glare at him.

  At his eyes.

  Yep, definitely his eyes.

  Dominic glances down at the non-existent space between us. “Don’t give me an answer right now. It’s late, and we both need some sleep. Believe it or not, there’s a decent place to stay nearby that doesn’t have bars on the windows.”

  Asshole.

  “Take the night to think it over. My producer has to get back to LA, so I’ll have her drop me off at a rental car place in the morning, and then I’ll come by. Say around ten o’clock? We’ll go for coffee. My treat.”

  I pretend to swoon. “Such a big spender. Unfortunately, I’ll have to decline. I have to be at the bar at ten.”

  “Then make it breakfast, and I’ll be here at eight.” Hooking a finger under my chin, he tips my face up. “I suggest you unlock the door for me, Miss Smith. Unless, you prefer I do it myself.”

  “Do it, and I don’t think you’ll like what happens next.”

  “Oh, cupcake, you have no idea what I like.” He lowers his head, his lips barely brushing against the shell of my ear. But it’s enough that I have to press my lips together to trap the moan threatening to slip out. “But I know exactly what you like.”

  I don’t know why I ask. He’s obviously baiting me, but my mouth refuses to cooperate and gobbles it up before my brain can reel it back in. “Is that right? And what do I like?”

  I only vaguely register him moving toward the door, but the wolfish grin he gives me as he cocks his chin over his shoulder permanently brands itself into my memory.

  “I guess you’ll just have to open the door to find out.”

  Chapter Ten

  Dominic

  Silence is the gateway to hell.

  That’s why after the damn radio won’t turn on, I drive down a dusty road in Chula Vista at seven-forty-five in the morning with the devil on my mind instead of the woman I’m on my way to see.

  The devil is a tricky fucker. He operates a lot like a credit card. He’ll lay the world at your feet and ask for nothing in return.

  For now.

  That’s the thing about making deals with a man who rules the underworld. He waits until you hit rock bottom and then he strikes. And to be honest, his business plan is a lot more tempting than his saintly counterpart.

  But there’s an old saying—everything in life comes with a price tag. Eventually the devil will come calling, and just like a credit card, if you’ve fucked around and let the interest pile up, there’s no way out. Your soul is his.

  My mom used to have a saying, too—wish in one hand, shit in the other, then see which one fills up the fastest. As a kid, I ignored it. Much like I did most of the life tips she imparted during the rare hour or two she found herself coherent.

  But it wasn’t until years later when I was fifteen that it finally clicked. When I hadn’t eaten in three days. When I was desperate and reckless.

  The day I met the devil.

  Seventeen years ago

  Same shit, different day. I’m sitting next to a gutter, my stomach gnawing a hole in itself, when some asshole in a designer suit walks out of the deli behind me. I try to ignore him, but the smell of meat and cheese is driving me crazy. So, yeah, I watch this lucky bastard. I watch him straighten his tie, take one bite of a meatball sub, then throw it in the trash.

  And I lose it.

  A damn meatball sub flips a switch in my head.

  So, I fall in line behind the asshole who tossed it, and just as he rounds the corner onto a side street, I make my move. Within seconds, I have his wallet in my hand without causing the slightest flutter of his suit jacket. Feeling smug, I slow my stride, ready to turn back, when a strong hand grabs my wrist.

  Run.

  But I can’t. All I can do is stare at the inked hand holding me in place. Colorful tattoos cover his skin, but once my eyes lock on the biggest one, my heart pole vaults into my throat.

  An ornate cross spans his wrist to his knuckle, a scroll twisting around it bearing the words ‘l’unica famiglia’. That’s when I look at his face.

  Fuck.

  Of all the men in LA, I had to pickpocket Luciano Ricci. A fucking made man in the Vitoli crime family.

  Time tangles itself in a tight little coil only to spring apart in a spray of movement, metal, and rapid Italian. One minute, I’m facing a gangster on a crowded street, and the next, I’m facing an alley wall with a gun pointed at the back of my head.

  Luciano nods and one of his men twists my arms behind me like a pretzel. Locking his fingers behind his back, he paces around me, tilting his head side to side like a lion assessing his prey. Finally, a cold smile spreads across his face. “You’re gonna wish you hadn’t done that, boy.”

  Wish in one hand, shit in the other, then see which one fills up faster.

  It’s ironic that it takes standing in a dirty back alley, with a gun pressed to the back of my head for that phrase to finally make sense. Wishful thinking is nice, but it’s not reality. This here? This is reality.

  And reality sucks.

  Just like a handful of shit.

  “Kill me.”

  He blinks. “What?”

  “Are you deaf?” I shout. “I said pull the trigger and get it over with.”

  In two wide steps, we’re face to face. So close I can smell the marinara on his breath. “Do you know who the fuck I am?”

  “You’re Luciano Ricci. You answer to Marco Vitoli, and I’m pretty sure he’d be pissed to hear you got pickpocketed by a fifteen-year-old street rat.”

  Daggers shoot from his eyes. I guess he’s waiting for me to elaborate, but I don’t. Finally, he grabs my face. “Boy, do you have a death wish?”

  “Maybe I do.”

  Luciano smiles. The men behind me laugh. I stare all of them down. I might only be fifteen, but by God, I’m no pussy. If I’m about to die, I’ll die like a man.

  But there’s no gunshot. No pain. No bright light, or demons rising from hell like Mom keeps warning me about. Only Luciano’s smirking face as he nods toward the men behind me and lowers his hand.

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Do
minic.”

  “Well, Dominic, you keep fucking with the wrong people and someday you’ll get your wish.” That tattooed hand clamps around the back of my neck. “But today is not that day.”

  Without another word, he steers me toward the black SUV idling at the far end of the alley. It isn’t until we’re seated in the back and traveling down Hollywood Boulevard that he pulls out a cigar. We sit in silence as he takes his time unwrapping the cellophane. By the time he lights the end, the short fuse I have left burns to the ground.

  “Look, I—”

  “Death wish, huh?” He chuckles in between puffs. “Well, let me give you a piece of advice, Dominic.” He jabs the cigar at my chest. “If you want something, you make it happen. Wishes and hope are useless weapons, and the fool who stands with his hand out waiting for life to step up to the plate only ends up with two things.”

  “What?”

  His lip curls. “Empty hands and an empty wallet.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Dominic

  Present Day

  Angel narrows her eyes. “What’s that look for?”

  We’re sitting across from each other at an outdoor cafe about ten miles outside Chula Vista. Coming here was a strategic move to force her out of her comfort zone. At the bar and her apartment, she had the upper hand. Now we’re on neutral ground, and there’s nowhere to run. No Violet to interrupt. No door to throw me out of. And I’m not leaving without the answer I want.

  “Nothing,” I mutter, forcing myself not to stare at her like a fucking pervert.

  She doesn’t buy it. Made evident by the exaggerated eye roll as she dumps at least a quarter cup of sugar in her coffee. I watch her lift the cup to her mouth, and she catches me staring at her lips. She pauses, the corner of her mouth curling in a knowing smirk.

  Fuck.

  This devil-kisses-my-ass vibe she has going on is doing nothing to calm the hard-on I’ve had for damn near fifteen hours. There’s only so many times a man can jerk off before his dick needs medical attention.