“It’ll only take five minutes,” she insists, her hand still firmly on my arm.
As soon as Valentina sits me down, the producer dusts my face with powder while speaking with her in rapid-fire Italian. I can make out some of it, but not all—Italian was never a language I cared to master.
Then, through the crowd noise, I hear something that makes me sit up straighter. A voice—distinctive, melodic, with that particular cadence I’ve come to recognize.Bix. She’s singing somewhere nearby.
I try to rise, but the producer gently pushes me back into my seat with a professional smile. “Un momento, per favore.”
In moments, the cameras are rolling, and the producer begins asking us questions. Valentina elaborates with dramatic gestures and musical laughter.
I answer in mostly one-syllable words, my attention split between the interview and the music drifting through the square.
“Smile, Slayer,” says the producer, gesturing to his own face.
Valentina laughs and says something in Italian. I don’t catch it—but I get the gist. Something like, “He’s too cool to smile.”
I force my lips into an upward slant, but my mind remains elsewhere. The music has grown louder, and I can hear the crowd’s enthusiastic response.What exactly is happening out there?
“You are quite the rebel in America, no?” the interviewer asks me. “Even in high school, Valentina says you were different from the other boys.”
“I suppose so.”
“He was impossibly moody,” Valentina interjects, placing her hand on mine. “Always writing in notebooks, playing that guitar. I knew even then he would be famous.”
The way she tells it, you’d think we were high school sweethearts, not that she barely acknowledged my existence.
I do my best to fulfill Valentina’s desires, but I’m more than grateful when the interview finally comes to an end.
“Caro mio,” she says, tenderly touching my shoulders once the cameras stop rolling. “I will find you later this evening. I hear there may be dancing.”
“Wish I could,” I tell her. “But I must make it a short night. My concert is tomorrow.”
“Oh, come on. Just one dance?” She edges closer, looking into my eyes, her lips inches from mine. The scent of her perfume surrounds me. It’s nothing like the rose scent that clung to Bix’s skin this afternoon.
The memory of Bix in my arms, her trust as I tied the scarves around her wrists, the look in her eyes afterward... It all floods back, making this moment with Valentina feel hollow and performative.
Then I hear it.
The camera’s click.
Oh God.
I shift her gently away. “I really have to go, Valentina. I’ll catch you later.”
I walk quickly through the crowd, following the sound of the music that’s drawn nearly everyone’s attention. They all smile and wish me well as I pass.
I nod in return, but twenty years in the business has taught me that a majority are waiting for me to fail. Few people in the history of the modern music business can match the two-decade run I’ve had. They’re all just waiting for it to end.
The music moguls in the crowd want that. They want to use my example to prove that an artist without studio guidance is nothing. And even though Sterling has skin in the game, put some money on the table, I suspect he would feel a bit vindicated if I fail.
Before allowing me go off in my own direction for the new album—and to greatly finance its production myself—he told me for years that I had another decade of top-of-the-charts fame in me if I’d stick to his plan.
But I’m not going that route.
I’m not keeping the same style.
This album will immediately illustrate why I waited three years to release anything new. It will prove why I staked my fortune on this. This album will send waves through the industry.
As I approach the bandstand, the crowd parts slightly, giving me a clear view of the stage. What I see stops me cold. Bix is there with that server from the yacht club, Sade—the one who modeled topless at Caroline.
