Rylla POV
The stage was a hollow box of scaffolding and LED light.
Rylla stood at the mic, blinking through haze and camera flashes, waiting for the tech to finish calibration.
The band was barely audible in her in-ear monitors. Her assistant's voice wasn't.
"You've got a 7 a.m. call time at WCB Studios for that morning show segment. Hair and makeup at five."
Rylla nodded without hearing.
She was watching her own face on the giant rehearsal screen. The close-up cam caught every breath, every blink.
"Then wheels up back to Maine by noon. Your fan club interview is still locked at three p.m. And Cass wants at least one quote about your 'reconnecting with your roots.'"
Still nodding.
Still not listening.
Her face on screen smiled. Her real face didn't.
---
"Rylla, babe, look here."
The social girl held up her phone. Framing. Filming. Capturing "off-stage realness" for her Story.
Rylla tilted her head. Smiled like muscle memory. Flashed two fingers in a peace sign.
Internally: fuck off.
Externally: perfect.
The girl nodded and walked off, already typing captions. Probably something like "angel energy before the stage."
Rylla exhaled slowly.
She tasted foundation in the back of her throat.
---
Someone offered her water. She shook her head.
Someone else checked the bodice of her stage dress. Too tight. On purpose.
The spotlight came up for final light testing. It hit her shoulder like heat. Like pressure.
Her voice coach gave her a thumbs-up from the wings.
Rylla gave one back.
But her fingers shook.
---
She thought about the melody she wrote last night. About sunshine and the beach and a dangerous man with rough hands who'd never once ask for a quote or a playlist.
She didn't want a stage.
She wanted a damn exit sign.
Not forever.
Just long enough to remember how to breathe.
---
She looked down at her palms.
They were sweating.
She smiled again anyway. Just in case someone had their phone out.
Two hours to go.
And no one was coming to save her.
---
Francesco POV
Just down the street, the screen glowed against gold wallpaper.
Francesco Virelli leaned back on the hotel bed, legs crossed at the ankle, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand. He looked like he belonged on a magazine cover. Angelic face, jawline too clean for his sins, a gold chain catching light against his collarbone.
Jacket open. Shirt unbuttoned just enough. He didn't try.
He didn't have to.
On the television, Rylla Smith was singing—live from backstage, one of those polished behind-the-scenes edits that were barely real.
She looked like a fantasy someone else had painted.
And yet, he kept watching.
---
One of his men sat in the corner, scrolling through his phone, glancing up now and then.
"She's famous," he said. "You touch a girl like that, half the country goes hunting for your teeth."
Francesco sipped his whiskey.
"Who said anything about touching?"
Another guy, Leon, half-laughed. "You didn't have to."
Santo leaned on the wall near the minibar.
"You really think she'd fix Lucca?"
Francesco didn't answer.
Not right away.
---
On the screen, Rylla smiled.
Perfectly. Automatically.
And in the space between one camera cut and the next, something flickered.
Like she was a second away from cussing the world out.
Francesco tilted his head.
"I think she's tired."
He took another sip.
"I think she wants someone to grab her by the wrist and say, 'not this time.'"
---
The men went quiet.
No arguing.
No joking.
Just letting the idea settle like smoke in the room.
---
"It wouldn't be a kidnapping," Francesco added lazily. "It'd be a rescue."
Someone snorted. Another muttered about a lap dance.
Francesco smiled, easy and bright.
"Tell the jet crew to clear a route."
He finished his drink.
"We're going to give the Don a gift."