Chapter Seven
Celia
I couldn't do this anymore.
Standing in my dressing room, staring at the lipstick message still smeared across my mirror— He can't save you —I made the decision I'd been circling for days. This charade had to end. Playing magician's assistant while a psychopath hunted me was madness. My stalker had escalated from notes to sabotage to explicit threats. The next escalation might be fatal.
The memory of Roman's touch lingered on my skin, a ghost of pleasure amid mounting fear. What had I been thinking? Our desperate encounter in the prop room had been reckless, potentially explosive for both our carefully constructed facades. I still didn't know who Roman King really was or why he carried himself with such vigilance. All I knew was that being around him made me feel both safer and more endangered.
But this wasn't about Roman. This was about survival. I needed to leave the Jade Petal immediately, contact Detective Alvarez, and demand a new safe house. Somewhere far from Las Vegas, with no connections to my previous life or to the mysterious dealer who had somehow slipped past all my defenses.
I packed quickly, stuffing essentials into my shoulder bag. The costume department could have their sequins and feathers back. I'd changed my mind about becoming Nova Sinclair. I'd changed my mind about hiding in plain sight.
After scribbling a hasty resignation note to Val—who deserved better than my abrupt departure—I headed for the staff elevator that would take me to the hotel's secure parking structure. My rental car waited there, keys already in my pocket. Miles had rented it under a third name, neither Celia Marshall nor Nova Sinclair. I'd drive to the police station, demand protective custody, and let the professionals handle this mess.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. I stepped inside, punching the button for the garage level. As the doors began to close, a hand shot between them, forcing them to reopen.
A man in a maintenance uniform slipped inside, hood pulled up over a baseball cap despite the building's warmth. He kept his face angled away from the security camera in the ceiling corner.
My pulse spiked. The elevator felt suddenly airless, confined. I pressed myself against the cool metal wall, hand slipping into my pocket where I kept the panic button phone Detective Alvarez had given me.
The man reached past me to select a floor, his sleeve riding up to reveal a distinctive tattoo on his right hand—a coiled snake winding around his ring finger, its scales a dark greenish-blue against his skin.
"Going somewhere, Ms. Marshall?" he asked, voice low and silky. "Or should I call you Nova?"
Ice flooded my veins. He knew both my names. He knew everything.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I managed, thumb hovering over the panic button.
He turned toward me then, finally letting me see his face. Late thirties. Dark hair. Unremarkable features except for the cold calculation in his eyes. Eyes that had watched me from shadows, from audiences, from the other side of my apartment door.
"You looked better in navy," he said, the non sequitur sending chills down my spine—a deliberate reference to the note that had started this nightmare.
I straightened, fight instinct overriding flight. "Who are you?"
"Just an admirer," he replied, lips curving in a smile that never reached his eyes. "Though I'm disappointed you're trying to leave before tomorrow's performance. A lot of people are looking forward to the finale ."
The way he emphasized finale left no doubt about his meaning.
"What do you want from me?" I kept my voice level, refusing to show the terror clawing at my throat.
"Justice." He leaned closer, invading my space with deliberate intimidation. The scent of stale cigarettes filled my nostrils. "My brother enjoyed the accommodations you arranged for him. Ten to fifteen years, wasn't it? I thought you might appreciate a similar experience—confined, watched, knowing every moment might be your last."
Understanding flickered—this was about a criminal case. Someone I'd helped put away. Miles had warned me that my stalker might be connected to one of our firm's prosecutions, but which one? We'd handled dozens of cases with prison sentences.
The elevator slowed, approaching the next floor. My stalker shifted closer.
"Tomorrow night," he whispered, breath hot against my ear. "Front row seat. Don't disappoint me, Celia. Running only makes the hunt more entertaining."
The doors slid open, revealing Riley Cho waiting to board, arms full of costume accessories.
"Nova!" they exclaimed, immediately sensing the tension. Their eyes narrowed at the maintenance worker. "Everything okay?"
The man stepped back smoothly. "Just discussing the A/C issues in the dressing rooms." His voice transformed completely—casual, professional, unremarkable.
"Really?" Riley's skepticism was evident as they stepped aboard, deliberately positioning themselves between us. "Funny, I thought maintenance requests went through facilities management, not directly to performers."
He offered a bland smile. "Just being thorough." He nodded at me. "Remember what I said about the temperature settings." The thinly veiled threat hung in the air between us.
As he exited at the next floor, Riley subtly raised their phone, snapping a photo of his retreating form that captured the distinctive snake tattoo on his hand.
Once the doors closed, Riley turned to me. "Who the hell was that?"
"I don't know," I lied, voice shaking slightly. "But he wasn't maintenance."
"No shit." Riley examined the photo they'd taken. "That snake tattoo looks like Licata crew ink. My cousin did time with those guys." They glanced up sharply. "What's a Vegas mobster want with you?"
The name Licata triggered a vague memory. One of our bigger cases last year had involved organized crime, but I'd worked on so many files the details blurred together.
"I have no idea," I lied.
Riley's eyes narrowed. "This connected to the sabotaged lighting rig?"
I nodded, unable to deny the obvious connection.
"So much for my 'disgruntled employee' theory." Riley stuffed the costume pieces under one arm and thumbed through their phone. "I'm sending this to Val and security."
"No!" The word escaped before I could stop it. "I mean—I need to handle this myself. If that man is what you think he is, involving others could put them in danger."
Riley studied me for a long moment before their expression softened. "You're running from something serious, aren't you?"
I didn't answer, which was answer enough.
Riley sighed. "Fine. I'll hold off sending this around, but I'm keeping it. And you—" they pointed a finger at my chest, "—are not going anywhere alone until we figure this out. Whatever you're mixed up in, you've got people here now."
The fierce protectiveness in their voice nearly broke my composure. I'd spent so many days feeling isolated, hunted, alone. The idea that someone—even someone who barely knew me—would stand in harm's way for my sake was overwhelming.
"My dressing room, five minutes," Riley declared as the elevator reached their floor. "I've got flash powder leftover from last season's shows. If someone's gunning for you, we're upgrading your defensive capabilities."
Before I could refuse, they were gone, leaving me alone with the realization that my escape plan had evaporated. The stalker knew I was planning to run. He'd be watching exit routes, parking structures, taxi stands.
Worse, he'd be watching tomorrow's performance from the front row. Whatever he had planned for his "finale," it would happen in full view of an audience.
I couldn't run now. But I could prepare.
Licata Family Syndicate:
Vegas's Most Feared Crime Organization.
The headline glared from my laptop screen as I huddled in my dressing room, researching the crime family Riley had mentioned. They had departed after delivering a crash course in flash-powder usage and extracting my promise to stay put until showtime.
I scrolled through news articles, police reports, and court summaries about the Licata organization. The crime family had operated in Las Vegas for three generations, evolving from crude protection rackets into sophisticated financial operations. Vincent Licata, the current head, had diversified into money laundering through legitimate businesses—including, allegedly, several Strip casinos.
Vincent's conviction last year had been a major coup for law enforcement. The case hinged on financial evidence that proved he'd been using shell companies to funnel illegal cash through legitimate venues. The prosecution's star exhibit: a secondary accounting ledger showing the actual sources of funds.
My heart began to race as memories clicked into place. I'd worked on that case. I'd spent weeks reconstructing that ledger from digital fragments and paper records, correlating dates and amounts to establish the money trail. It had been meticulous work that had earned me a promotion at Bailey & Finch.
I found a mug shot of Vincent's younger brother, Thomas "Tommy Lace" Licata. The same cold eyes that had watched me in the elevator stared back from my screen. He'd been suspected of involvement in three witness intimidations, though charges were never filed. Witnesses had a habit of recanting or disappearing when Tommy Lace took an interest in their testimony.
Then I found it—the trial transcript Miles had mentioned. The prosecution had specifically credited the discovery of the financial evidence:
The State acknowledges Ms. Celia Marshall, whose exceptional analytical work in reconstructing the defendant's shadow ledger provided the critical evidence for today's conviction.
My name, right there in the public record. Easy to find for anyone with motivation and basic research skills.
The snake tattoo on Tommy's hand now made sense. It was the Licata family symbol—the constrictor that slowly squeezed its victims. Tommy hadn't been stalking me randomly. He'd methodically targeted me as revenge for his brother's conviction. The notes, the break-in, the sabotage—all calculated steps in a plan to make me suffer before whatever finale he had envisioned.
I closed the laptop, mind racing. Running wasn't an option anymore, not when Tommy Lace was watching so closely. Fighting back alone was suicide against someone with his resources and connections.
I needed help.
"I need to show you something."
Roman looked up from the deck of cards he'd been shuffling as I slid into the seat across from him in the employee break room. His expression revealed nothing, but his eyes traveled quickly over my face, assessing my state.
After our encounter in the prop storage room, I'd expected awkwardness. Instead, his demeanor was all business—focused, controlled, somehow more distant than before our intimacy rather than less.
"What is it?" he asked, setting the cards aside.
I pulled out my phone and showed him the photo Riley had taken in the elevator. "This man cornered me today. Threatened me. I think he's behind the sabotage."
Roman studied the image, his face impassive but something hardening in his eyes. "The tattoo is distinctive."
"It's connected to the Licata crime family," I said, watching carefully for his reaction. "I think he's targeting people at the Jade Petal as revenge for something that happened in the past."
"What kind of revenge?" Roman's question was measured, careful.
I hesitated, calculating how much to reveal. "I think it's connected to a case that...someone I know worked on. A legal case against the Licatas."
"Someone you know?" His eyebrow arched slightly.
"Yes." I held his gaze steadily. We were both dancing around truth, offering partial revelations while concealing our core secrets.
"This person," Roman said slowly, "they helped convict a Licata?"
I nodded. "Found financial evidence. The brother wants payback."
Something flickered in Roman's expression—recognition, perhaps, or confirmation of a suspicion. He reached for my phone, zooming in on the tattoo. "Tommy Lace," he murmured, almost to himself.
"You know him?" I tensed.
"By reputation only." Another careful answer. "He's dangerous, Nova. More dangerous than you realize."
"I know exactly how dangerous he is," I countered. "He's already tried to kill Val with the lighting rig. He's been leaving threats in my dressing room. And today he made it clear that tomorrow night's performance is when he plans to make his move."
Roman's eyes narrowed. "He specifically mentioned tomorrow night?"
"Front row seat," I confirmed. "He called it 'the finale.'"
Roman was silent for a long moment, his fingers drumming once on the table—the only visible sign of internal calculation. "You need to pull out of the show," he finally said. "Leave the Jade Petal immediately."
"I tried. He intercepted me at the elevator. He's watching all the exits."
"I could help you—"
"No," I interrupted. "Running isn't an option anymore. He'll just follow me to the next hiding place. Keep threatening people around me. This ends tomorrow night, one way or another."
"What are you suggesting?" His voice carried a note of wariness.
"A trap," I said simply. "He'll be in the front row expecting to execute whatever plan he's arranged. But we'll be ready for him."
"We?" Roman's eyebrow arched again.
"I saw how you handled my panic attack. The breathing technique, the calm under pressure. You've had training." I leaned forward. "I don't know who you really are, Roman, and you don't know who I am, but I think we're both very good at what we do."
A faint smile touched his lips. "That's an understatement."
"Then help me. Just for tomorrow night. We set a trap, catch him in whatever act he's planning, and let security handle the rest."
Roman was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. I could almost see the internal debate playing across his features—weighing risks, calculating angles, considering contingencies.
"What exactly did you have in mind?" he finally asked.
I outlined the plan forming since my elevator confrontation. "I'll perform as scheduled. Val's already added extra flash powder to the finale—she thinks it's just a precaution after the lighting rig incident. If Tommy makes a move, I'll have multiple escape routes built into the performance. But I need eyes on him from the audience."
"Front row is VIP seating," Roman noted. "I can arrange to be nearby. High-limit dealers often accompany special clients to the shows."
"Perfect. We'll need a way to communicate." I hesitated, then added, "Val has wireless earpieces for the performance. I could get you one."
He nodded. "Good. If I spot anything suspicious, I can warn you immediately."
"I'll have flash powder, the quick-release corset, and the trapdoor access beneath the stage," I continued. "Val's been drilling me on all of them."
"It's still dangerous," Roman warned. "Tommy Lace isn't working alone. He's got connections throughout the Jade Petal."
"Including security," I guessed, remembering Enzo's calculating eyes at the emergency meeting.
"Especially security," Roman confirmed. "Trust no one except Val and possibly Riley."
"And you?" I challenged softly.
His eyes met mine, the intensity of his gaze almost physical. "And me."
The moment stretched between us, charged with unspoken questions and the memory of skin against skin. Whatever lies existed between us, whatever secrets we kept, there was also a thread of genuine connection at the core, beneath all the deceptions. It was what I was holding onto, the only thing that could possibly get me through this alive.
"Tomorrow, then," I said, breaking the silence. "I'll have Val set up the extra flash charges and prepare the emergency protocols. You arrange to be near the VIP section."
Roman nodded, his expression shifting to something harder, more focused. "I'll be there. No matter what happens, Nova, remember—"
My phone buzzed, interrupting whatever he had been about to say. I glanced down, seeing Miles Thatcher's encrypted email address on the notification.
"I need to take this," I said, rising from the table.
Roman caught my wrist as I turned to leave. "Be careful. Every minute between now and tomorrow night is a vulnerability."
His concern seemed genuine, the heat of his fingers against my pulse point a reminder of our shared intimacy. I nodded once before pulling away.
Back in my dressing room, I opened Miles's encrypted email. A single scanned document was attached, secured behind multiple password prompts. The brief message read only: Confirmation of motivation. Take precautions.
The attachment was a court transcript—the same one I'd found online, but with one crucial addition. A handwritten note in the margin beside my name, in what appeared to be Vincent Licata's handwriting: Marshall woman found ledger. T—handle after verdict.
The coldness of the instruction, the casual ordering of what was clearly intended to be my elimination, sent a chill through me. This wasn't just revenge conceived after his conviction. This was premeditated. Vincent had instructed Tommy to "handle" me while he was still on trial, anticipating the possibility of his own conviction.
For over a year, Tommy Lace had been planning my destruction.
The knowledge should have terrified me further. Instead, a strange calm descended, replacing fear with crystalline resolve. Tomorrow night wasn't just a performance—it was a confrontation that had been inevitable since the moment I discovered Vincent Licata's shadow ledger.
I closed the email and began my preparations. No more running. No more hiding behind the Nova persona. Tomorrow, Celia Marshall would face Tommy Lace directly.
And only one of us would walk away.