I nod slowly. "Mental health?"
Antonio hesitates. "Publicly? No records. Privately? If I had to guess, based on the patterns of her digital engagement and her public persona, she's chasing dopamine like it's a drug. That kind of digital dependency tends to make people volatile. Unpredictable when their supply's cut off."
"So, she's emotional," I summarize, the confirmation solidifying my initial assessment.
"Exactly."
I flip through the file, a rapid succession of images flashing across the screen. Photos from press events. Behind-the-scenes reels. Drunk airport footage, quickly deleted but archived. Half of her life is a meticulously crafted highlight reel, the other half just noise, digital exhaust. But I'm looking for something else. Something unfiltered by the need for public approval.
And there it is.
A single unedited photo taken by someone else and uploaded. She's sitting in an airport chair, scrolling on her phone, bathed in the harsh, unflattering glow of a terminal screen. No makeup. No smile. Her eyes are dead, vacant, devoid of the sparkle she projects. This is the girl I need to see. The one who exists when she thinks no one's watching.
"You think she'll talk?" Antonio asks.
I don't answer immediately. I tap the tablet screen once more, locking it, the glowing image of Nikki's dead eyes disappearing.
"She won't need to," I say finally. "I doubt she has anything to say. She'll listen though. And she'll learn."
Because in my world, people don't need to speak to confess, to reveal everything. They just need to survive long enough to understand the rules.
The rules of consequence.
Nikki Ricci has just entered my game.
She'll learn quickly.
Or the game will be over fast.
CHAPTER 3
NIKKI
Islide into the plush leather of the black SUV, immediately spreading out like I own the backseat. One perfectly tanned leg tucked beneath me, sunglasses pushed up onto my head, and my designer bag tossed with a dramatic flourish onto the seat beside me.
“Okay, Rome, let’s go,” I say with a fake, exaggerated yawn, stretching my arms high above my head, careful not to wrinkle my silk cover-up. “Somebody stir the pasta and pour the Prosecco. I’m arriving emotionally damaged and mildly hungover, which, honestly, is peak aesthetic right now. Don’t you think?”
The driver doesn’t laugh at my comment. Doesn’t even offer a polite chuckle, or a knowing glance. He just nods once, a curt movement visible in the rearview mirror, then taps the GPS screen on his dashboard. His profile is unreadable, his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead.
I frown at the back of his head. “Not chatty, huh? That’s fine. Totally fine, actually. I talk enough for both of us, really. It’s a gift. You’ll learn to love it. Everyone does. Eventually.” He’s supposed to engage, to be charmed. That’s how this works.
It always works.
He pulls out from the marina, the smooth hum of the engine a stark contrast to the lively chaos we just left. The curve of the road opens up to reveal sweeping views of cliffs plunging into the sea. It’s pretty, I guess. Picturesque. But honestly, I’ve seen better from a penthouse bathroom in Miami. I’m not easily impressed these days.
“I need coffee,” I announce, leaning forward slightly, as if my sheer force of will can transmit the urgency of my desire through the tinted glass partition. “Actual coffee. Not that watery tourist garbage they try to pass off as espresso. You know a place? Something local, with cranky old men huddled over tiny cups, and maybe some scary-looking baristas who hate me on sight? That’s the authentic vibe I’m chasing right now.”
Still no response. The driver’s hands grip the steering wheel, his attention unwaveringly on the winding road.
“Cool,” I sigh dramatically, flopping back against the seat. “Just ignore me. Totally fine. I didn’t want caffeine or basic human decency anyway. It’s cool. I’m used to it. The price of fame, I suppose.” I make sure to enunciate ‘fame’ with a little extra pop, just to see if it registers. It doesn’t.
I pull out my phone, the screen glowing. My latest reel, the one from the yacht, has crossed five million views. No biggie. I’ve gone viral before.Majorly viral. One time it was because I dropped a Gucci bag into the Venetian canal and screamed bloody murder. Another time it was because I sneezed glitter mid-makeup tutorial and looked like a disco ball having an allergic reaction. That one landed me a deal with a setting spray brand, thank you very much. But this? This isn’t my kind of viral.
This is… different.
My finger hovers over the comments section. They’re still flooding in, a dizzying cascade of text and emojis. Some of them are normal, the usual over-the-top praise or requests for makeup tips. But some of them...are off.
“You saw him too, right?”
