PROLOGUE
EIGHT YEARS AGO — MANHATTAN
Emily felt empty inside.
The ballroom was a blur of champagne flutes, designer dresses, and tailored suits. She’d been paraded around like a trophy all evening, long enough that thishadto be it, or so she’d hoped.
At eighteen, Emily was a well-known actress, used to the spotlight, but tonight felt different. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that it was her birthday, but nobody except her older sister, Chelsea, seemed to care.
Speaking of which, Chelsea now pulled her to the side and handed her a candlelit cupcake. The smile on Emily’s face dropped when her sister was snatched away by their mother a second later. After making a wish, Emily set the cake to the side and escaped.
Past the hotel’s catering was a screening room she’d spotted during final check yesterday. Inside, Blu-ray discs sat beside a player on a table. Her fingers flipped through the titles:Nights of Cabiria,La Dolce Vita,Cinema Paradiso. These were a few of her comfort films, despite her mother's gripe about their appropriateness.
The final choice wasNights of Cabiria. A familiar scene of a couple in a field greeted her on the screen. When the dialogues started, Emily mouthed the lines, testing her retention for an upcoming audition. Her agency promised the role was “career-changing”. Emily was willing to bend until she broke to perfect the part she’d play, because there was no debate about whether she’d land it.
She would.
Footsteps interrupted Emily’s thoughts. She froze in her seated position. As the door opened, the girl switched the TV off and scrambled into a nearby closet. Surrounded by coats and linens, she peeked through the crack in the door to see a young man step inside.
He looked twenty at most and enviously tall for his age. His dark hair was groomed, swept back from his face, but his suit looked a little too big for comfort.
He was followed by a man with eyes as dark as a storm. When said man closed the door behind him, he swallowed the young man up in them.
“Continuerai a umiliarmi così? Continuerai a essere debole? Alla tua età facevo più di quanto tu avresti potuto immaginare.”
She understood a few words thanks to watching the Italian versions of so many films, and boy, was he angry.
The young man didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, his eyes locked onto the carpet. If she hadn’t seen him walk in earlier, she would’ve thought he was a statue.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Nicolas.”
Nicolas’s eyes snapped up. That was when Emily noticed their color. Dark brown. Like rich coffee beans.
Her eyes went back to the man who’d spoken.
Riccardo Re.
The CEO of a media group that had expanded into North America. He was Italian, domineering and feared by many in the film industry due to rumors of him having ties to the mafia. Emily only knew this because her mother had made her memorize every name on the guest list and everything about them.
And this young man, Nicolas Re, was his son.
At the next act, she had to stifle a gasp by slapping her hand over her mouth.
Riccardo grasped the front of his son’s suit harshly. “Don’t make me have this conversation with you again. I expect you to act accordingly. Understood?”
No answer.
He repeated it roughly.“Understood?”
The young man nodded.
With one last look, Riccardo left, slamming the door behind him.
Silence filled the air.
Emily could hear her own heartbeats.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
