Chapter 3
NIKKI
Islide into the plush leather of the black SUV, immediately spreading out like I own the backseat. One perfectly tanned leg tucked beneath me, sunglasses pushed up onto my head, and my designer bag tossed with a dramatic flourish onto the seat beside me.
“Okay, Rome, let’s go,” I say with a fake, exaggerated yawn, stretching my arms high above my head, careful not to wrinkle my silk cover-up.
“Somebody stir the pasta and pour the Prosecco. I’m arriving emotionally damaged and mildly hungover, which, honestly, is peak aesthetic right now. Don’t you think?”
The driver doesn’t laugh at my comment. Doesn’t even offer a polite chuckle, or a knowing glance. He just nods once, a curt movement visible in the rearview mirror, then taps the GPS screen on his dashboard. His profile is unreadable, his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead.
I frown at the back of his head. “Not chatty, huh? That’s fine. Totally fine, actually. I talk enough for both of us, really. It’s a gift. You’ll learn to love it. Everyone does. Eventually.” He’s supposed to engage, to be charmed. That’s how this works.
It always works.
He pulls out from the marina, the smooth hum of the engine a stark contrast to the lively chaos we just left.
The curve of the road opens up to reveal sweeping views of cliffs plunging into the sea.
It’s pretty, I guess. Picturesque. But honestly, I’ve seen better from a penthouse bathroom in Miami. I’m not easily impressed these days.
“I need coffee,” I announce, leaning forward slightly, as if my sheer force of will can transmit the urgency of my desire through the tinted glass partition.
“Actual coffee. Not that watery tourist garbage they try to pass off as espresso. You know a place? Something local, with cranky old men huddled over tiny cups, and maybe some scary-looking baristas who hate me on sight? That’s the authentic vibe I’m chasing right now. ”
Still no response. The driver’s hands grip the steering wheel, his attention unwaveringly on the winding road.
“Cool,” I sigh dramatically, flopping back against the seat.
“Just ignore me. Totally fine. I didn’t want caffeine or basic human decency anyway.
It’s cool. I’m used to it. The price of fame, I suppose.
” I make sure to enunciate ‘fame’ with a little extra pop, just to see if it registers. It doesn’t.
I pull out my phone, the screen glowing.
My latest reel, the one from the yacht, has crossed five million views.
No biggie. I’ve gone viral before. Majorly viral.
One time it was because I dropped a Gucci bag into the Venetian canal and screamed bloody murder.
Another time it was because I sneezed glitter mid-makeup tutorial and looked like a disco ball having an allergic reaction.
That one landed me a deal with a setting spray brand, thank you very much. But this? This isn’t my kind of viral.
This is… different.
My finger hovers over the comments section. They’re still flooding in, a dizzying cascade of text and emojis. Some of them are normal, the usual over-the-top praise or requests for makeup tips. But some of them...are off.
“You saw him too, right?”
“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 to become 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.
With him.
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’ll help 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.
I try to message Janelle, “driver is weird, send help if I don’t make it to Rome,” but the bubble just spins, unsent. I refresh again. Still nothing.
Now my phone is showing no signal.
I quickly open the voice memo app again and start recording. Just in case. Just in case this isn’t a joke. Just in case this is the real, unfiltered version of my life, the one I never post.
“Hi,” I whisper into the mic, my words barely a rustle.
“If you’re hearing this, I’m either being kidnapped or driven to a terrible Airbnb.
Possibly both. My name is Nikki Ricci. Please don’t let my last selfie be from that yacht.
Also, tell Janelle I’m sorry for being a nightmare, even though she totally deserves it.
” My attempt at humor falls flat even to my own ears.
The car slows and the hum of the engine deepens, struggling against something.
Then it turns onto a gravel path hidden beneath an archway of thick, ancient trees.
The canopy above us grows even denser, blotting out the sun entirely.
Trees close in, their branches scraping against the sides of the vehicle, a harsh, grating sound.
I sit up straighter, my body rigid against the leather seat. “Seriously,” I say. “You need to tell me where we are. This isn’t cute anymore. This isn’t funny. This is actually freaking me out. I’m supposed to be in Rome soon.”
No response, not that I expected one at this point.
My chest tightens, a vice squeezing the air from my lungs. The spunk completely shatters now, leaving only raw fear. “Hey! I am not joking. Stop the car. Right now. I said stop the damn car!”
His hand moves. Not to the brake, not to turn to me. To a small switch near the dashboard. A faint click echoes through the quiet car and the car door locks engage.
A heavy, final sound.
I jerk the handle. Nothing happens. It’s locked. My fingers scrabble at it, frantic, useless. Damn, why didn’t I jump out of the car before now?
“No! This is not happening to me.”
I slam my palm against the tinted window, leaving a sweaty print. “LET ME OUT!” The sound seems to be absorbed by the thick glass.
He keeps driving, completely unbothered. I’m background noise, a nuisance. As if I don't exist beyond his obligation to transport me to wherever the hell we’re going.
Tears sting my eyes, hot and unexpected, and I blink hard, willing them away.
I hate this.
I hate that I’m crying.
This is so unlike me. I never cry except on camera. Otherwise, it’s a waste of mascara.
“Please,” I choke out, the word a desperate plea.
“You don’t have to do this. I don’t know who you think I am or what you think I’m worth, but I can pay you.
I promise. I just need to get to an ATM machine.
I’ll get you money or do a brand deal for you for free.
Just take me back. Or drop me off right here.
I’ll never tell a soul, I swear. I’ll act like this never happened. ”
My voice cracks. I hate that it cracks. That it sounds scared.
“Please,” I whisper again. “Just let me go.”
We pull into a clearing and suddenly an enormous villa appears. It looks like something from an old movie, but without the glamor. There are men in dark suits waiting, standing perfectly still. One of them steps forward and opens my door.
They don’t say a word. They just look at me, assessing their prey.
My legs won’t move. Every muscle is screaming to run, but I’m frozen in fear. I’m in ridiculously high heels anyway. How far would I get trying to outrun them? Three feet?
“Get out,” the driver says. It’s the first thing he’s said since we left the marina.
I turn to glare at him. “Oh, now you decide to talk? Where the hell am I? What is this place? What do you want?”
He says nothing else. Just looks away, as if I’m no longer his problem, a package delivered.
Bastard.
The man outside doesn’t wait for me to step out. He reaches in, his hand closing around my arm. Not hard, not bruising, but firm.
I try to pull back. “Don’t touch me! I’ll scream. I will post your faces all over the internet! I will ruin you! You have no idea who you’re dealing with, buddy!”
He says nothing. Just tugs me forward, his pace unhurried.
“Do you even know who I am?” I shout, the words echoing uselessly in the still air. “I’m Nikki Ricci! The QueenNikki! You can’t just steal me like I’m luggage! I have eight million followers! They’ll find me!”
I twist hard, aiming a sharp elbow for his gut, but he smoothly sidesteps. I sprint three steps toward the road before another arm clamps around my waist. “Let me go!” I scream, kicking like a feral animal. “I swear to God I will ruin you!”
No one answers. No one even looks impressed. Which, in a twisted way, might be the worst part. My biggest weapon, my digital army, is useless here. They don’t care about my eight million followers. They probably don't even know what a follower is.
“Help!” I scream as loud as I can. “Somebody help me!”
I’m dragged up the steps and through a heavy, ornate door. It shuts behind me with a loud thud, a sound that feels too final, like a tomb closing.
I’m not in control anymore and I’m terrified.