Antonio, our drone pilot and unofficial resident eye candy, doesn't even look up from the remote control in his hands. He’s navigating the drone to some ridiculously scenic spot for later B-roll footage. “Probably the bikini, babe. Or the vibe. You’re always serving, sweetheart.”
“No, no, seriously,” I insist, sitting up, the knot in my stomach twisting tighter. “It’s too fast. It’s breaking the internet faster than my latest dance challenge. And that’s saying something.”
My thumb hovers over the play button. I hit replay, letting the clip run. My perfect hair, my perfect smile, me posing, me twirling, and there it is.
The black Maserati.
Just a blur in the background, nothing major. But then I glance down at the comments, and the speed at which they’re popping up is genuinely unsettling. They’re not about me anymore.
They’re abouthim.
“Who’s the guy in the suit? Seriously, who is that?”
“My God! He’s gorgeous. And dangerous. Tell me more.”
“That’s not a tourist. Look at his shoes, people. Designer. And that car? Not a rental.”
“Girl…what are you waiting for? Go get him!”
“SOMEONE ENHANCE. RIGHT NOW. NIKKI, ZOOM IN!”
“What the hell…” I mutter. My heart isn’t just fluttering now; it’s stuttering.
“Everything okay?” Janelle leans over, her face suddenly serious, her eyes narrowed as she glances at my screen, then back at me. She knows my tells. She knows when the performance stops.
“Yeah. Totally,” I force out, flashing a wide, bright smile that feels brittle. “Just… nasty trolls being trolls. Or bots from hell trying to destroy my algo. You know how they are. Always trying to find something, anything, to ruin a good moment.” I even manage a laugh, but it sounds hollow in the salty air.
Something is definitely off.
No, more likely something is very, very wrong.
CHAPTER 2
RAFFAELE 'RAFE' VALENTINO
The fucking video is thirty seconds long. Long enough blow up my entire operation.
I freeze the video at 00:13. There I am, stepping out of the Maserati. One hand on the door, the other taking the package. My face is in profile, clear and identifiable. The sun hits my watch just right, a flash off polished steel. It's the kind of detail a curious mind could analyze and then obliterate everything I've built.
The video isn't a deepfake or a leak. It’s worse. This is raw reality, captured by a stupid stranger. Now I'm being obsessed over by people who have no idea what they're actually seeing.
And it all happened in under an hour.
Enzo stands beside me, arms crossed, his face unreadable. He doesn't need to say one word. I already know what he's thinking.
Visibility is vulnerability.
"She didn't tag anything suspicious," he finally says. "No names. No context. Just… vibes."
I glance at him. "'Vibes'? What the fuck does that mean?"
Enzo exhales, disgusted. "Her choice of word, not mine."
I hit play again. The blonde girl chatters in the background, some ridiculous commentary about ocean drama. The comments started blowing up the moment she posted it. The second the viewers stopped looking at her and started dissecting the shape of my jaw.
The viral video isn't a targeted campaign with a bot army boosting the algo. No, it's pure, viral chaos. The kind no one can predict, and even fewer can survive.
"It's not the girl racking up the views," I murmur. "It's me."
