“Who’s the guy in the car? That’s not a tourist.”
“That building behind you isn’t supposed to be there. Looks abandoned.”
I tilt my head, frowning at the screen. Great…the creepy online detectives are back in full force again today. They’re not exactly new. People always see weird stuff in the background of my posts. Ghosts. Reflections that are mistaken for aliens. Once, a shadowy figure that turned out to be my wig stand. But this? The energy feels different. Not just my normal lunatic fans.
The comments are relentless. And none of them, not a single one, are about me.
“Anyone else freeze at 00:13???”
“Okay but that guy? The CAR? The SUIT??”
“What did he just pass off? Why does this feel like a Netflix trailer? Is this real or a promo ad?”
There’s another one that has nineteen thousand hearts that says:
“Not QueenNikki catching an international crime syndicate mid-reel. Stay safe Queen!”
19k
I want to laugh a deep-belly laugh to keep myself from completely losing it. This is nuts. I didn’t go to Positano tobecome the poster girl for MafiaTok. I went for content. For sun-kissed skin and reels that sell bikinis and bronzer and maybe another outrageous deal with a flat tummy tea company.
Instead, I filmed a drop dead gorgeous Italian man stepping out of a luxury car like he was born from dark shadows and Italian leather, exchanging a thick package with a gangster, and looking hotter than should be legally allowed.
And now the whole freaking world is obsessed.
But not with me.
Withhim.
I keep frantically scrolling. The video views are over eight million now. The video’s been reposted by multiple meme accounts, true crime podcasts, viral video commentary channels. There’s a slowed-down version with a filter and dramatic music.
There’s even a fan edit someone made with lots of sparkles, transitions, the whole works and I’m not even the main focus.
Now I’m a supporting character in my own damn content. What the actual hell is going on?
A cold sweat breaks out across the back of my neck. Janelle is already on a plane back to the United States and the man driving the car hasn’t spoken since I climbed in. Not once. Just silence and this horrible, winding road that’s beginning to make me carsick.
My champagne buzz is long gone. All I have now is the cold, creeping dread this isn’t a PR crisis I can walk back with an apology post and a sad-face filter. Because somewhere out there, the sexy man in the suit knows he was seen. By millions. And he doesn’t strike me as the “live, laugh, love” type of guy.
My hands are shaking now. I open my voice memos and hit record. “This is Nikki Ricci,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to film anything. I didn’t even see him when I posted it. I didn’t know what it was. Please, if anyone finds this… I swear I didn’t know.” I hit save. I don’t know why I do it. Maybe I think it’llhelp if I vanish. Maybe someone will find it and post it, and the algorithm will swoop in to save me.
The car turns inland abruptly. I glance up from my phone, a prickle of unease starting to tickle my skin. “Um. Excuse me? Are we taking a scenic route? Because my GPS, which, you know, is always right, says Rome is definitely that way.” I point vaguely in the direction we were originally heading, as if my finger possesses some magical directional power.
Still silence.
The road narrows, becoming a tight tunnel of trees. No signage. No other cars. Just the endless green, pressing in. The sun, which was so bright on the coast, barely penetrates the canopy here.
My heart gives a weird little flutter, a nervous beat. I laugh, a short, sharp sound. Not because I’m amused. Because I’m starting to feel the edges of something genuinely weird, something beyond my ability to filter or spin, and I honestly don’t know what to do with it. My usual playbook is useless.
“Okay,” I say. “So, this is the part where I die, right? That’s what’s happening? Is this a prank? Are you pranking me? Am I on Italian Punk’d? Because somebody is going to owe me so many apology croissants.” I try to keep it light, try to make it a joke, because if it’s a joke, it’s not real. Which means I’m not in danger.
No answer.
His eyes stay locked on the road, steady, focused, unblinking. As if he’s driving a very expensive hearse, and I’m the guest of honor. Joy, joy. What a way to ruin a vacation. Even a working one.
“Listen,” I continue, the words tumbling out, a desperate attempt to fill the terrifying silence. “If you’re actually, truly, seriously going to murder me, can you at least let me fix my lipstick first? And maybe change into a more Instagram-appropriate outfit? I want to die looking hot. It’s a brand thing. I have a reputation to uphold, even in the afterlife.”
Still nothing. No twitch of a muscle, no sigh. I’m talking to a brick wall, a very expensive, very fast brick wall that’s rapidly taking me in the wrong direction.
