Chapter Nine
Celia
The stage lights transformed everything into a glittering mirage. Through the haze of blue spotlights and atmospheric fog, the theater became a dream world where my fears should have felt distant, insignificant compared to the magic we created.
But I kept my gaze fixed on the fifth seat from the left, front row, center section.
Tommy Lace sat motionless in his charcoal suit, hands folded neatly in his lap, a program balanced on his knee. From this distance, he could have been any Vegas tourist enjoying a high-end magic show. Only the snake tattoo coiling around his right ring finger and the cold calculation in his eyes betrayed his true nature.
I caught his gaze as I completed a slow aerial spiral above the stage. His lips curved into a smile that chilled me through the sequins and corset. I forced myself to breathe—four-count inhale, four-count hold, four-count exhale—the pattern Roman had taught me during my panic attack.
"Focus on the routine," Val's voice murmured in my earpiece. "Third position, then the silk handoff."
I shifted automatically, muscle memory taking over where my scattered concentration failed. The midnight-blue corset cinched my ribs, its quick-release cord pressed against my hip bone, a constant reminder of my potential escape route. I'd rehearsed the release a dozen times since dawn, ensuring the mechanism would respond instantly when needed.
Val's hands swept through the air with dramatic flair, her crimson cape billowing behind her like liquid fire. "What we perceive as solid," she proclaimed to the audience, "is merely energy arranged to deceive our senses."
On cue, I extended my arms. The sapphire silk in my hands caught the light, casting fractured patterns across the stage like scattered gemstones. From the corner of my eye, I tracked Tommy's position. He hadn't moved, but his attention never wavered from me. Not from Val's elaborate illusions, not from the pyrotechnics, not from the doves that erupted from empty air. His focus remained fixed on his target—on me.
"Transition coming," Roman's voice replaced Val's in my earpiece. He'd positioned himself near the VIP section with a clear sightline to Tommy. "He's reaching inside his jacket."
My pulse spiked, but I maintained my smile. Tommy withdrew what appeared to be a phone, checked the screen, then typed something brief. Seconds later, I noticed two security guards shifting positions near the side exits.
"He's communicating with Enzo's men," Roman murmured, confirming my suspicion. "Stay alert."
The first half of the show passed in a blur of choreographed movements and hyperawareness. Val's voice washed over me as she wove her signature stories between illusions—tales of mystery and transformation that normally captivated me. Tonight, they were simply background noise to the silent communication flowing between Roman and me through our earpieces.
"Intermission in three minutes," Val announced as we completed the levitation sequence. "Reset for the cabinet illusion after the break."
Applause thundered as the house lights rose. The audience began shifting in their seats, conversations bubbling up like champagne fizz after the silence of rapt attention. Tommy remained seated while others headed for refreshments, his eyes never leaving the stage.
"I'll be watching him," Roman assured me. "Get backstage, stay with Val until the second half begins."
I slipped behind the heavy curtain, heart hammering against my ribs. The backstage area buzzed with the controlled chaos of intermission—stagehands adjusting set pieces, technicians checking equipment, dancers stretching in corners.
"Five minutes," called the stage manager. "Check your positions for Act Two."
Val caught my arm as I headed toward my costume change. "You're tracking well," she said, eyes sharp with concern. "But your energy feels off. Something I should know?"
I hesitated. Val had become more than just my mentor in stage illusion; she'd become something close to a friend. Part of me wanted to confess everything—about Tommy, about the danger, about Roman's mysterious role in all of this. But involving her meant putting her at risk.
"Pre-show jitters," I said instead. "Still getting used to the spotlight."
She studied me, clearly unconvinced. "Whatever's going on, remember what I taught you. The flash powder is in your right pocket. The trapdoor release is under the third panel from center. And the quick-release—"
"At my right hip," I finished. "I remember."
"Good." She squeezed my shoulder. "Because sometimes the best magic is the one that lets you disappear when you need to."
Roman's voice crackled in my ear. "Tommy's on the move. Heading toward the lobby."
I tensed, scanning the wings for any sign of unwelcome visitors. The backstage area was a maze of corridors, storage rooms, and curtained alcoves—perfect for someone looking to infiltrate unnoticed.
"Keep visual on him," I whispered, moving toward the costume rack.
"Lost sight at the main doors," Roman replied, frustration evident. "Checking alternate entry points."
I reached the small changing area adjacent to the main stage. No time for a full costume change; I'd have to make do with the scheduled quick-change during the cabinet illusion. I adjusted my headdress and checked my flash-powder pouch, ensuring it was easily accessible.
"Places for Act Two," came the stage manager's call. "Thirty seconds to curtain."
"No visual on target," Roman reported. "Stay alert."
The house lights dimmed. My cue approaching, I moved to my starting position at stage right. Val stood center stage, silhouetted against a backdrop of stars. The music swelled, audience chatter faded, and we were back in the world of illusion.
The disappearing cabinet routine began exactly as rehearsed. Val's monologue about dimensional shifts filled the theater as I wheeled the ornate cabinet onto the stage. From my peripheral vision, I scanned the audience. Tommy's seat remained empty.
"The nature of reality," Val continued, "is merely a consensus of perception. When that perception shifts..."
She gestured for me to enter the cabinet. I stepped inside, taking my position as rehearsed. The interior was cramped but familiar, lined with the mechanisms that would allow my "disappearance" once Val closed the doors.
"Still no visual," Roman's voice came through the earpiece, tighter now, more urgent. "Nova, he's not in the audience anymore."
The doors sealed with a theatrical click—then blackness swallowed me. According to the routine, I had fifteen seconds to trigger the hidden panel and slide beneath the cabinet while a hologram created the illusion of my continued presence inside.
I felt for the release latch, found it, and pressed. The panel slid open with a whisper of well-oiled hinges.
That's when I felt it—warm breath against my neck, carrying the faint scent of expensive cologne and ash.
"Hello, Celia," Tommy's voice slithered into my ear, his hand clamping over my mouth before I could scream. "Time for your curtain call."
Terror froze me for a critical second—long enough for him to drag me backward through the darkness beneath the stage. His arm locked around my throat, crushing my airway as he pulled me deeper into the backstage labyrinth.
"Roman," I tried to whisper, but Tommy's grip tightened.
"Your cop won't reach you in time," he hissed, hauling me through a service corridor I'd never seen before. "Security's been instructed to keep him busy elsewhere."
We emerged into a dimly lit storage area stacked with old set pieces and unused props. Tommy shoved me forward, and I stumbled against a rack of costumes, gasping for breath as the metallic taste of fear flooded my mouth.
"Roman!" I managed to choke out. "Backstage storage—he's here!"
"I hear you," Roman's voice came through, steady and focused. "Keep him talking. I'm coming."
Tommy circled me slowly, a predator savoring the moment before the kill. In the half-light, his features sharpened into something inhuman—all hard angles and cold calculation. The shadows carved hollows beneath his cheekbones, turning his face skull-like.
"You thought you were so clever," he said, withdrawing something from his jacket. Metal gleamed—a knife with a blade that caught what little light filtered into the room. "Hiding behind sequins and stage makeup. Did you think I wouldn't recognize the woman who destroyed my family?"
"I did my job," I replied, inching backward toward a shelf of prop cages. One hand slid to my pocket, finding the pouch of flash powder Riley had given me. "Your brother broke the law. The evidence was there."
"The evidence YOU found," Tommy spat, advancing with the knife. "The little nobody legal assistant who spotted what nobody else could see. Do you know what they're doing to Vincent in prison? What happens to a man of respect when the system strips him of everything?"
I kept moving, creating distance, buying seconds. Through my earpiece, I could hear Roman's rapid breathing as he ran.
"Turn left at the next junction," I heard Val say—she must have intercepted Roman in the corridors. "Storage is straight ahead."
Tommy lunged, and I dodged, the knife slicing air where I'd stood a heartbeat before. My hand closed around the flash powder. I'd get one chance—I had to make it count.
"You can't escape, Celia," Tommy's voice dropped to a silky whisper. "I've been watching you for weeks. I know how you move, how you think. I was in your apartment, remember? I've seen where you sleep."
He advanced again, backing me toward a metal cage filled with mechanical doves for Val's finale. I let him push me closer to the wall, watching for my moment. The scent of dust and old fabric filled my nostrils as the distance between us narrowed.
"You don't have to do this," I said, playing for time. "Your brother's case is on appeal. There are legal ways—"
"Legal?" Tommy laughed, the sound echoing in the cavernous space. "Like the 'legal' way you helped lock him up? No. The Licata family handles justice our way."
He lunged again, and this time I was ready. I flung the flash powder directly at his face, the chemicals igniting on contact with air. A blinding white explosion filled the storage room, accompanied by a concussive bang that momentarily disoriented us both.
Tommy howled, hands flying to his eyes. I didn't waste the advantage, bolting past him toward the exit. The corridor stretched ahead, a confusing maze of turns and doors.
"Right at the junction," Roman directed through the earpiece. "Then immediate left."
I ran, hearing Tommy's furious footsteps behind me. The midnight-blue corset restricted my breathing, making each gasping inhale a struggle. Without slowing, I yanked the quick-release cord at my hip. The corset loosened instantly, allowing my lungs to expand fully.
"He's closing," Roman warned. "Duck into the next doorway on your right. Costume storage. There's another exit on the far side."
I followed his instructions, bursting into a room lined with racks of elaborate costumes from past productions. Feathers, sequins, and fabrics in every color created a kaleidoscopic jungle to navigate. The air smelled of mothballs and fabric preservative.
Behind me, the door banged open.
"I’m coming for you, Celia," Tommy called, his voice eerily calm despite the flash powder attack. "You can’t hide from me."
I crouched behind a rack of feathered headdresses, my mind racing. The exit Roman mentioned had to be across the room—past at least twenty feet of open space Tommy would surely see me cross.
My gaze landed on a nearby shelf stacked with prop birds—the mechanical doves Val used in her finale. I grabbed one, its weighted metal body substantial in my palm. Throwing it as hard as I could toward the far corner, I watched as it clattered against a metal rack, white feathers flying.
Tommy whirled toward the sound, knife raised. "Clever girl," he murmured, advancing toward the distraction.
I seized the moment, darting toward the opposite exit. My fingers closed around the handle, twisting desperately—only to find it locked.
"Roman," I hissed into the earpiece. "The door's locked."
"Break right," he commanded. "Service ladder behind the red costume rack. It leads to the catwalk."
I dove behind the rack just as Tommy turned back, his gaze sweeping the room. The service ladder was there—narrow metal rungs ascending into darkness.
I began to climb, moving as silently as possible. The catwalk above would give me height advantage but leave me exposed. Below, Tommy methodically searched each costume rack, slashing fabrics with his knife as he went. Silk and satin tore under his blade, the ripping sounds heightening my terror.
"Keep climbing," Roman urged. "I'm almost there."
I reached the catwalk, a narrow metal walkway suspended above the costume storage. Below, Tommy had fallen silent, which terrified me more than his taunts. I crept forward, testing each step for creaks that might give away my position.
"Where are you?" I whispered into the earpiece.
"Approaching from the west corridor. Stay low."
The catwalk led toward another door—possibly a maintenance access to the main theater catwalks. If I could reach it, I might find my way back to the populated areas where Tommy wouldn't dare attack me openly.
I was halfway there when the catwalk shuddered. Tommy had found the ladder and was climbing up, moving with the efficiency of someone familiar with theater architecture.
No time for stealth now. I ran, boots clanging against metal as I sprinted for the exit door. Behind me, Tommy's heavier footsteps accelerated.
The door loomed closer—ten feet, five feet—my hand stretched toward the handle.
Something whistled past my ear, striking the door with a metallic thunk. Tommy's knife, embedded in the metal just inches from my head.
I froze, the momentary shock slowing me just enough. Tommy closed the distance, grabbing me from behind. He spun me around, his face contorted with rage, one hand closing around my throat while the other retrieved a second knife from his jacket.
"No more games," he snarled, backing me against the catwalk railing. Below, the costume storage room seemed miles away, a dizzying drop that would certainly break bones if not worse.
The blade kissed my throat—cold, sharp, and hungry. A sting bloomed just below my jaw.
"You took everything from us," Tommy hissed. "Now you'll understand what it means to lose everything too."
I clawed his arm, gasping for leverage, for breath—anything to break his grip before the knife dug deeper. The catwalk swayed beneath our struggle, the metal groaning ominously.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
Roman's voice—not in my earpiece, but in the room. Tommy's head whipped around, the knife still pressed against my throat.
Roman stood at the catwalk entrance, his casual dealer's stance replaced by something harder, more authoritative. His hand no longer held cards but a gun, aimed with unwavering precision at Tommy's head.
"Let her go," Roman commanded. "Now."
Tommy's arm tightened around me, the knife pressing deeper. I felt a warm trickle of blood where the blade bit into my skin.
"Back off," Tommy warned. "Or I open her throat right here."
Roman didn't flinch, his aim remaining steady. The transformation was startling—the charming poker dealer had vanished, replaced by someone accustomed to life-or-death confrontations. Someone trained. Someone dangerous.
"Last chance," Roman said, his voice cold and certain. "Release her, or the next thing you feel will be a bullet."
Tommy's laugh was brittle. "You won't risk hitting her. Not at this distance, not with this knife at her throat."
"True," Roman acknowledged, stepping forward. "But I don't need to shoot you to stop you."
He moved with lightning speed, closing the gap between us before Tommy could react. What happened next was a blur of violence—Roman's hand knocking Tommy's knife arm away from my throat, his body twisting to break Tommy's grip on me, the gun pressing against Tommy's temple.
"On your knees," Roman ordered. "Hands behind your head."
Tommy hesitated, calculation flickering across his features. For a terrible moment, I thought he might launch himself at Roman, forcing a deadly response.
Instead, a slow smile spread across his face.
"Detective Kane," he said, recognition dawning. "So that's why you've been watching our table games so carefully. The famous undercover man finally reveals himself."
Roman's expression betrayed nothing, but the gun never wavered. "Knees. Now."
With exaggerated care, Tommy sank to the catwalk, hands rising behind his head. "You're too late, you know. The transfer is already happening. By the time your team mobilizes, the merchandise will be gone."
"What merchandise?" I asked, hand pressed to the shallow cut on my neck, feeling the warm stickiness of blood between my fingers.
Tommy's gaze shifted to me, amusement replacing rage. "You really don't know, do you? Your boyfriend isn't just any cop. He's been hunting my family for years. Tell her, Detective. Tell her how you used her as bait while the real action happened upstairs."
Roman's jaw tightened. "On your stomach, hands behind your back."
Tommy complied, still smiling. "The famous Roman Kane. Your reputation precedes you. Vincent said you'd be trouble if you ever showed up in Vegas. Seems he was right."
Detective? Roman was a detective? The revelation hit me like a physical blow. The charming poker dealer with the too-observant eyes, the man who'd helped me plan our trap—he'd been law enforcement all along. While I'd been hiding as Nova, he'd been hiding something far more significant.
I opened my mouth to demand answers, but movement behind Tommy caught my attention. A shadow detached itself from the darkness of the service corridor.
"Roman!" I shouted. "Behind you!"
He spun, weapon raised, as Enzo Grimaldi emerged onto the catwalk, his own gun trained on Roman's back.
"Lower your weapon, Detective," Enzo ordered, his Italian accent thickening with tension. "Or I drop you where you stand."
Roman didn't move, gun still aimed at Tommy. We stood frozen in a lethal tableau—Roman covering Tommy, Enzo aiming at Roman, me caught in the middle with no weapon and no good options.
I stood paralyzed, blood sticky on my neck, watching the man who'd promised protection now threaten to kill the only person standing between me and a blade.
"You're too late," Enzo continued, advancing slowly. "The exchange is complete. Evidence secured and transported offsite. You've lost."
"Have I?" Roman's mouth curved in a cryptic smile. "Queen of Hearts folds."
The strange phrase hung in the air for a heartbeat, seemingly meaningless.
Then all hell broke loose.