Page 26 of Lethal Lover

“What’s wrong?” Trixie asks, swatting at a balloon that flies in her face as a car rushes past.

Warren scowls. “Yeah, you look pissed or terrified. You gotta work on that RBF, honey. Be thankful for the gifts you get. One day, your adoring fans will forget you.” I don’t appreciate his unsolicited advice any more than I appreciate this letter. I want to trash it and walk away, show that sick fuck what I really think of him. But will that anger him? Enrage him? Will he come after me for trashing his gift?

Trixie moves the balloons across the table toward Schrader, who pushes them toward Celia. “War, I think something’s actually wrong. Elena, what’s wrong?” Her face shows genuine concern, and I’m shocked that she even cares. Maybe the bad happenstances have given her a new perspective or something.

I tremble and bite my lip. I don’t even want to open this letter. Everything about this is terrifying. Someone is harming people around me to get to me, and I can’t tell if they’re trying to help me succeed, scare me into quitting, or wishing me dead. I hand the envelope to Trixie and cover my face, then listen as she tears the envelope open and pulls the letter out.

“Oh, shit, babe…” She sounds afraid too. “War, read this.”

I lower my hands and fold them in my lap and watch in horror as Warren folds open the letter and the others lean in to see.

Elena, I’m so happy things are working out this way. That horrible man had it in for you and now he’s gone. That’s a good thing because now your career will take off and I will get to enjoy you all the more. Shame I didn’t think of it sooner. XOXO.

He lays it down on the table, and Schrader snatches it up, and he and Celia pore over it.

“How long have you been getting letters like this?” Trixie is suddenly all concerned about me, and I don’t even care that she used to hate me. I am one of the gang now. They are accepting me. And for once, Warren isn’t being hyper controlling.

“Months. This is like the fifth or sixth letter, maybe, I’m not sure.” My body feels so tense, it might snap like a rubber band if pushed. Warren scowls at me and purses his lips. He’s not happy about this, and I wonder if he thinks he should have been protecting me better.

“You told anyone?” he asks, and I nod.

“I told Flemming and the director. I think this guy is stalking me. I am so scared. I feel like he’s the one making all this bad stuff happen. Like he had Mr. Monroe mugged and Nina killed. And I don’t think the fire was an accident. Guys, I think the stalker did all of it.” Shaking, I take the letter back as Celia hands it to me, though I’d rather not have it. “And I think he knows I’m here right now. I think he’s watching me.”

Warren starts to chuckle and then bursts into laughter, which seems like an odd reaction. Trixie gives him a cross look and Schrader seems annoyed. I don’t understand why he’s laughing.

“You should be checkin’ out that boyfriend of yours. That’s what you ought to do.” Warren calms himself and rearranges the trash on his plate.

“Liam? Why him?” Warren has had it out for Liam for so long now. Every time he comes to visit me, Warren has a nasty comment or gives him angry glares. It’s no secret that Warren doesn’t like him.

“Not Liam—Dominic.” The name makes my blood run cold as Warren says it. “Dominic Salvatore. He’s the son of Luciantonio Salvatore, the Mob boss. He’s the Italian Don, honey. Dominic is playing you.”

“No…” I mumble, and I shake my head. It’s not true. Liam isn’t playing me. This is made up by Warren to scare me or upset me. Nothing more than a lie.

“It’s true. You need to watch your back. It’s likely these things are happening all around you because he’s involved. You should be scared.” Warren stands and picks up his tray, and looking down at me, he says, “I tried to warn you.”

Trixie takes my hand as Warren leaves and pats it. “If I were you, I’d ditch the balloons and card. You need to tell the police.”

One by one, all the others leave, following the path Warren took back toward the theater. It’s not time to go back yet, but I don’t want to sit on this street corner and wait to be attacked by some psycho with a thirst for blood. I leave the card, the balloons, and my trash on the table for the busboy and stand.

Warren can’t be right.

Liam is sweet and funny and protective. He isn’t dangerous except for his mild temper issue. He’s wealthy, but he earns his money the right way, with his little coffee shop. I can’t really believe that he would lie to me the whole time and deceive me that way, but I can’t really explain how Warren knew the name Dominic if it isn’t true. And how did that same name get onto an inscription on a watch on Liam’s nightstand if it isn’t true?

My mind races, and I want to go home to be with my Mom now. But I have a show to do, and without Nina, there’s no one to perform.

Maybe coming to New York was the worst decision of my life. Maybe the Midwest is really where I belong. Bad things are happening to good people, and I want no part of it. And I definitely want no part of the Italian Mob.

Thanks, Warren, for giving me that many more nightmares.

17

LIAM

I’m learning all the new faces around the theater now, mostly because with my father’s money, I’ve secured the business as our own. His name is on the deed—with permission—but I will manage it. And of course, it will be done through an LLC with my name hidden in some fine print so I can truly manage through an alias and no one will know I’m pulling these strings. Though, Dad may come and introduce himself later on if he feels it’s necessary.

Tonight, the auditorium is bustling. A crowd larger than any I’ve seen before has amassed here under the news of the former owner’s passing and a new owner taking over. The atmosphere is charged with excitement and curiosity, and I make my way through the sea of people, nodding and smiling at those who may recognize me. I can feel their eyes on me, wondering who this new owner is and what changes I will bring to their beloved theater. Some may be apprehensive, but most seem eager for something new and fresh. I know I am. Flemming was an anchor holding this place back, and I plan to make it thrive, even if I have to do so by deceptive, behind-the-scenes means.

The lights glow warmly overhead in the lobby, and I step through the double doors, breathing in the familiar scents of popcorn and stale cigarettes. The floors creak beneath my feet as I make my way toward my favorite seat, directly behind where the critics always sit. The murmur of voices fills the air like a symphony, mixing with the rustle of programs and clinking of glasses. The red velvet curtains part to reveal the stage adorned with elaborate sets from their current production, and everyone begins to take their seat as the emcee steps through the part in the curtains to share the somber announcement of the former owner’s memorial service.

---