Previously on L.A. Connections…

Carlo Bravetti returned to L.A. and reclaimed the family’s Hollywood Hills estate, declaring that the Blackthornes would finally pay for the past. Suspicion flared when Stormy confronted Brett about his connection to Mickey Donovan, but Brett kept his secrets close, leaving Stormy more convinced than ever that something dangerous is brewing. Mickey tightened his grip on Rydell Productions, and later charmed Suzanne over an intimate seaside lunch, Riley accused Steve of leaking the video that cost him his job, only to be met with smug denial. Blake began questioning the legitimacy of Sadie’s sudden cancer diagnosis. Sharon dropped a bombshell on Brett by confessing she’s married, just before a stunning twist revealed her to be none other than Carlo Bravetti’s wife. And as Nico unveiled plans to resurrect a shuttered nightclub as the family’s new power base, Carlo warned him to think bigger than personal revenge

* * *

Yellow tape still clung to the wrought-iron gate, fluttering slightly in the morning breeze. Detective Carver stood just inside the property line, hands on his hips, his eyes scanning the area.

Behind him, Detective Morales flipped through a tablet. “You know this place has already been gone over six ways from Sunday,” he said. “CSI, forensics, private security consultants. Prints, fibers, blood spatter. There’s nothing left to squeeze.”

“I know,” Carver replied.

“So what are we doing here?”

Carver nudged the gate with his foot and it creaked open with ease. “I’m wondering why Zoanne Voss’s house made it onto someone’s radar at all.”

Morales frowned. “I’m not following you.”

“For Bel Air, this place is sloppy.”  He moved slowly up the drive. “Gate barely worked. Alarm system hadn’t been serviced in years.” He pointed to the roof. “Cameras aren’t even operational.”

Morales checked his tablet. “Owner never bothered to fix them. Security company dropped her last year for nonpayment.”

“Exactly,” Carver said. “This place didn’t scream ‘fortress.’ to an intruder. Instead, it says ‘nobody’s paying attention’.”

They stepped around a forensic marker still taped near the patio door.

“Ty Stratton didn’t help,” Morales added. “Struggling actor. Picked up escort work on that Noir Companions app. Not exactly someone who travels with muscle.”

“No,” Carver agreed.

Morales shrugged. “Which is why the working theory is still that this was random. Guys looking for guns and cash and found two people instead.”

Carver looked toward the house again. “But random doesn’t mean careless,” he said. “It means someone was looking for an easy target.”

Morales studied him. “You don’t buy it?”

“I buy that it wasn’t personal,” Carver said after a pause. “Whoever did this didn’t plan it out. They just knew how to recognize a place that was vulnerable.”

Morales closed his tablet. “So, what’s your theory?”

Carver shook his head. “No theory. Just an observation.”

They walked back toward the street, the house looming behind them.

* * *

Nico never had any trouble attracting women. Actresses between auditions, models killing time, waitresses who slipped him their numbers with the check. He had one on his arm and in his bed nearly every night before going to prison. He wasn’t tall, wasn’t imposing, but he knew how to fuck, and they loved him for it.  

Prison changed the logistics, but not his appetite. While he preferred the company of women, he didn’t pretend the attention from other inmates didn’t register.

And in the days since his release, he’d had a satisfying return to the pleasures of sex with beautiful women. So far only a couple of prostitutes, but he was looking for efficiency, so it worked for now. But what he couldn’t avoid was the undeniable truth that he enjoyed occasional sex with men. 

An escort app led him to Travis, an executive assistant for some big talent agent. He had a huge dick and fucked Nico in a hotel room he rented in West Hollywood.  Afterwards, he got his phone number so he could contact him directly whenever the need arose.  

With his appetite satisfied, Nico could think clearly again. He slid into his black Maserati convertible and pulled out of the lot. The city slipped past as his thoughts drifted to his father’s warnings about patience and not acting on his personal grievances. 

Nico had nodded and played the obedient son. Inside, however, nothing had cooled. Inside, The Beast yearned to get and to exact his revenge. He was filled with bloodlust. That woman and her younger companion in Bel Air had done nothing to satisfy it. 

Especially now that doubt had begun to spread. Now that people were whispering about who told the truth at the trial, and who didn’t. The story that had cost him half his life was cracking at the edges.

Miranda Blackthorne had helped put him away with a lie, and she was going to pay with her life.

Nico smiled to himself as he slipped on a pair of sunglasses and accelerated onto the boulevard. Some things were worth disappointing his father over.

* * *

Phoebe stepped off the elevator into the offices of the Miranda Blackthorne Agency like she’d wandered onto another planet. She slowed instinctively, taking it all in.

“So this is where you work,” she said in wonderment.

“On good days,” Kelly replied, amused. “On bad days, it’s a pressure cooker with better lighting.”

Courtney sat at the reception desk, scrolling through her tablet. She looked up and smiled. “Nice to see you again, Phoebe. We met at the party. I’m Courtney.”

“Yeah, hi again, Courtney.” 

“Welcome to the circus.” She then looked at Kelly. “Riley Weir said he’s running late.”

“Thanks, Court.” 

Heather stood nearby with Jane, mid-conversation, when they noticed Kelly and Phoebe. Heather waved and Jane offered a pleasant smile. 

“This place is incredible,” Phoebe said. “So… Hollywood.”

Kelly laughed. “That’s what we sell, anyway.”

“Are you sure I’m not in the way?”   

“Not at all,” Kelly replied with an assuring smile. “I just have one meeting and he’s apparently running late.”

“Phoebe, have you decided to stick around L.A. for a while?” Heather asked as she and Jane approached.  

She nodded happily. “Yeah, Kelly was nice enough to invite me to stay. It’ll be nice to get to know my sister and nephew.”

“That’s great,” Jane said, then as an afterthought, she added: “Oh, I wanted to tell you I watched one of your mother’s films the other night in the hospital. Mansion of the Damned. It was so good! Charlotte Wheland is a captivating actress.”  

“That’s so sweet. I’ll tell her. She never gets tired of hearing things like that.”  

“Did you ever hang out with her on movie sets?” Kelly asked.

“I didn’t,” Phoebe replied. “I was pretty young when she retired from acting so it was never a world I was really ever exposed to. Until now, anyway.” 

Before anyone could respond, a sharp voice cut through the office.

“God damnit!”

Every head turned toward Miranda’s office. Jane made her way to the doorway and leaned inside.  “Everything okay?” 

Miranda rose from her desk and snatched up her tablet.  “Well, there’s a Substack piece about me circulating, so short answer: No.”  

Jane stood clear as Miranda emerged, her cheeks flushed with fury. 

“What is it?” Kelly asked.

Miranda’s eyes flicked across the screen as she scrolled through the story.  She cleared her throat and read aloud, her voice steady but strained.

“What if the Sunset Studios murder conviction was built on teenage testimony riddled with doubt?  New attention has been drawn to inconsistencies among key witnesses—now powerful figures in Hollywood—raising questions about whether memory, pressure, or ambition played a role in sending Nicodemo Bravetti to prison for twenty-five years…”

Silence fell over the bullpen. Heather looked down, her face flushed with heat as she felt Miranda’s eyes burning through her.  

“They’re calling it a cultural reckoning,” Miranda said. 

“Who wrote it?” Jane asked as she peered over Miranda’s shoulder at the tablet. “Oh god, it’s a Crowe piece.”  

“A what?” Phoebe asked.   

“Bennett Crowe,” Miranda said flatly. “Substack’s favorite moral do-gooder. He gloms onto other people’s trauma and calls it cultural criticism. Ethics, power—he hits all the buzzwords and lets the internet do the rest. God, I want to wring his scrawny neck. That is, if he ever came out from behind his keyboard.”

Finally, Heather spoke. “I’m sure it’ll blow over.”

Miranda turned slowly, fixing her with an icy look. “Really, Heather? In what universe?”

Heather stiffened. “I just mean people have short attention spans. There’s always another outrage.”

“Are you kidding?” Miranda scoffed. “It’s already been shared half a million times. Someone’s probably already working on a follow up. Besides, he’s not accusing us of lying. It’s worse. He’s suggesting we might be wrong. That’s all hacks like Crowe need.” 

Heather folded her arms. “I never said Nico was innocent.”

“No,” Miranda replied coolly. “You just said you weren’t sure. And that’s all anyone needed.”

Jane shifted uncomfortably. Courtney stared at the floor.

Miranda’s voice softened slightly. “We were there. We saw what we saw. This guy wasn’t even born in 1999.”  

Courtney looked up.  “I don’t know,” she said quietly.  

“Know what?” Miranda asked.  

Her eyes went to Miranda, then away. “I replayed that night in my head for years. Over and over.” She swallowed. “And the truth is… I don’t know if I actually saw him push her.”

Miranda’s jaw clenched. “Courtney—”

“I remember the shouting, the loud music,” she said. “I remember how close they were to the edge. I remember her stepping back.”

“And?” Miranda asked.

She looked directly at Miranda now. “And I remember you saying it. Right away. ‘He pushed her.’ You were so sure.”

Heather watched with bated breath.

“You kept saying it,” Courtney went on. “Over and over. By the time the police asked us what happened, it wasn’t even a question anymore. That’s what we’d seen. That’s what we were supposed to say.”

Miranda stared at her. “Because that’s what happened.”

“Maybe,” Courtney said quietly. “Or maybe I believed it because you did. Maybe that’s why Heather did too.”  

Miranda’s voice dropped, controlled and dangerous. “So now I coerced you.”

“No,” Courtney said. “You convinced me.”

She stared at Courtney for a long beat, jaw clenched, hands perfectly still at her sides. When she finally spoke, her tone was calm. “Pack up your desk,” she said. “You’re done here.”

Courtney blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Miranda said. “I don’t employ people who stand in my office and suggest I lied under oath.”

Jane stepped forward immediately. “Miranda, wait—”

Kelly shook her head, already moving closer. “This is not the time to make a decision like that.”

Miranda cut them both a look. “This is exactly the time.”

Heather opened her mouth, then stopped herself.

Jane tried again. “Courtney was just being honest about her memory.”

Kelly lowered her voice. “You’re letting your anger make this personal.”

“It is personal,” Miranda said flatly. “This woman was my enemy in high school. She hated me then and apparently she’s been waiting all this time to destroy me.”

Courtney listened stiffly but didn’t interrupt.

Miranda’s gaze turned briefly to Heather. “I can’t fire you because you’re a partner,” she said coolly. “No matter how inconvenient your doubt suddenly is.”

Exhaling, Heather stared at her in alarm. 

Miranda turned back to Courtney. “But I will be damned if I let someone who’s waited twenty-five years to question me stand here and call me a liar.”

Jane exhaled, defeated. Kelly’s expression hardened with disappointment.

Courtney nodded slowly, as if she’d expected this all along. “Okay,” she said quietly. “I’ll go.”

She gathered her bag and a bottle of nail polish from the reception desk, pausing only once to glance at Heather. Then she left, heels steady against the floor, the glass doors closing behind her.

Miranda turned away first, already retreating toward her office. “Back to work,” she said crisply.

* * *

Alex strongarmed the maitre’d at The Ivy for the best table in the place, which turned out to be a banquette in the corner, far from anyone who might eavesdrop, but central enough where she could be seen.  

Stormy arrived first, kissed his mother on the cheek, and draped his jacket over the back of his chair. Keaton followed a few minutes later, sunglasses still on. He gave Alex a quick squeeze before taking his seat on her opposite side.

“I don’t think the two of you realize how rarely this happens,” she said once menus were set aside. “Both of my sons at the same table, not actively trying to destroy one another.”

Stormy smirked. “Give it a few minutes.”

Keaton flashed him a grin. “I’m behaving. For our mother.”

Alex waved a hand. “I’ll take it.”

Keaton took a sip of water and then folded his hands on the table. “Stormy, I wanted to say how glad I am that Jane and the baby are okay,” he said genuinely. “That must have been a scary experience.”

“It really was,” Alex said, placing a hand to her heart. “You have no idea how close Jane came to losing the baby.” 

“I’m sorry that all this is happening,” Keaton continued. “With the assault charges, I mean. They have to know you felt justified. Or at least that you were acting out of grief.”  

Stormy nodded, grateful but wary of optimism. “I appreciate that.”

Alex squeezed Stormy’s hand.  “But Jordan’s lawyer is excellent and he will make sure that everything works out.”

“I hope so,” Keaton said.

Alex clasped her hands, pleased. “See? Growth.”

Keaton seized the opening. “Speaking of growth—Stormy, I wanted to talk to you about my screenplay.”

Stormy raised an eyebrow. “Here we go.”

“American Star,” Keaton said easily. “Nathan Blackthornes’ life story. The rise, the fall, the way he died saving that man from a burning car on Mulholland. You said yourself you thought it was good. I’m still waiting on a decision whether you want to produce it.” 

Stormy was quick to respond. “See, I think—”

But Alex cut in smoothly. “It is a good screenplay, darling,” she said to Keaton. “But are we really sure Nathan is worthy of being immortalized in a biopic?”

Keaton smiled. “That’s what makes it cinematic.”

She laughed, conceding the point. “Well, if it does happen, I want approval on who plays me.”

Stormy shook his head in amusement. “You’re already negotiating, mother?”

“I’m a pro at negotiating,” Alex said. “I know how this works.”

Stormy turned serious. “The truth is, I am considering it. But if we move forward, I’m in control. Final say.”

Keaton nodded. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Alex looked between them, her satisfaction unmistakable. “I love seeing you two work together,” she said warmly. “Even if it’s begrudging.”

Stormy lifted his glass. Keaton followed suit.

“To family,” Keaton said.

Stormy smirked. “On a trial basis.”

Alex laughed, and for a moment it felt like what she’d been hoping for for the last ten years.

* * *

Riley paced the length of the conference room like a caged animal, jacket off, sleeves pushed up, agitation etched into his face. Even upset, he still looked unfairly good with his hair falling into his eyes as he dragged a hand through it.

“I don’t get it,” he said, stopping short and turning to Kelly. “I didn’t send that video to anyone. I didn’t even know it existed. Who records something like that and just… sits on it?”

Kelly sat at the table, composed but sympathetic, her hands folded in front of her. “I’m really sorry,” she said honestly. “I know this feels like everything is collapsing at once.”

“They fired me,” he went on in disbelief. “Just like that. No warning. No conversation. Silverdale didn’t even pretend to care what my side was.”

She nodded. “Studios panic. But actors survive scandals like this all the time. Careers come back, and sometimes stronger.” She met his eyes. “And you’re not going to be unemployed for long. I’ll find you something else. A better role.”

Riley let out a breath. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” Kelly said firmly, then shifted. “Have you seen Natalie?”

He laughed despite the circumstances. “I mean, she’s living right next door, so hard not to. But she won’t talk to me. She refuses to listen to my side. Not that I can blame her, I guess.  I just never thought she’d move on so fast.” 

Kelly’s expression softened. “I’m sure she’s just hurting and lashing out. After some time has passed, she’ll realize this isn’t what she wants.  Whether she chooses to forgive you and live with what you’ve done is another story. But I don’t think Steve will be around long.” 

Riley shook his head. “I hope you’re right. Thinking about her shacking up with him is driving me insane. And I know he’s the one who leaked that video.” 

Kelly stood, crossing the room to him. “Hey,” she said gently. “This is a low point for sure, but it won’t stay here.”

He gave a hollow laugh. “Feels pretty permanent.”

“Come over tomorrow night,” she said impulsively. “Dinner. Nothing heavy. We’ll talk strategy.”

Riley looked at her, surprised and grateful. Slowly, a small smile broke through the exhaustion. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” Kelly replied, squeezing his arm. “Seven?”

“I’ll be there,” he said.

As he headed for the door, he felt like the weight wasn’t as crushing for once since his life had imploded.

* * *

Blake barely had time to shut the door to Eddie’s office before an arm hooked around his neck and yanked him backward.

“Jesus, Eddie!” Blake barked, laughing despite himself as his brother hauled him into a headlock.

“Still slow,” Eddie said, grinning as he tightened it just enough to make a point. “You’d be dead in the wild.”

Blake elbowed him in the ribs. “Let me go, you psycho.”

Eddie released him and shoved him away, both of them laughing now, the way they always did when they briefly forgot that they were adults with real problems.

“Thought you were a client,” Eddie said, straightening his shirt. 

“That’s how you greet clients?” Blake asked with a laugh as he dropped into the chair across from his desk. “How’s the glamorous life of digging up other people’s secrets, anyway?”

“Pays the rent,” Eddie said. “You see Dad lately?”

Blake kicked his legs up, propping his feet on the desk. “You know I haven’t.”

“Come on, man. He’s getting up there in years. He’s not going to be around forever. Make nice with him while you still can.”  

Shrugging defensively, Blake gestured with open hands. “I have been nice,” he replied. “We just had dinner with him, and I was pleasant as can be.”  

“That was five months ago,” Eddie deadpanned. “He’s doing good. He really is. Taking his meds, not drinking too much, just wrapped Midnight Boneyard.”

But Blake was still skeptical. “Yeah, well, we’ll see how long that lasts.” Then he dismissed the topic as swiftly as he could. “But that’s not why I’m here. I need your help checking something out for me.” 

“Not in any trouble, are you?” 

“Nothing like that,” Blake said. “It’s Iris’s sister, Sadie. She claims she was just diagnosed with lung cancer. Discovered after she got hit by a car.”

Eddie leaned back, instantly alert. “And you don’t buy it.”

“No,” Blake said. “One minute Iris is ready to cut her out of her life, the next Sadie’s suddenly terminal? No paperwork. No oncologist name. Just vibes and vague doom.”

“Feels manufactured,” Eddie said.

“Exactly,” Blake replied. “I’m not saying she’s lying, but something feels off. And Iris is falling for it because she wants to believe her sister isn’t a monster.”

Eddie nodded slowly. “You want medical records, doctor confirmation, a timeline…”

“I want the truth,” Blake said. “Before Iris sacrifices her entire life to guilt.”

Eddie cracked a smile. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”

Blake stood, relief flickering across his face. “Thanks, man.”

Eddie rose too, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “That’s what big brothers are for.”

Blake smiled, heading for the door, but the unease lingered. 

* * *

Siobhan sat across from Vaughan at Craig’s in West Hollywood, impeccably dressed and cool-eyed, her London accent still prevalent despite years stateside. Across from them, Travis remained quiet and observant, present less as a participant than as reinforcement—there if needed, and invisible if not.

Vaughan swirled his wine. “Have you seen the latest little firestorm?” he asked casually. “A Substack piece by Bennett Crowe.”

Siobhan lifted an eyebrow. “No, but I’m familiar with his work.”

“Well, he’s in rare form,” Vaughan said. “It’s about Miranda. Or rather whether she lied on the stand twenty-five years ago.”

Siobhan paused. “I was still in London.”

“Ah,” Vaughan said, pleased. “Then you missed quite the spectacle.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Late nineties. Sunset Studios. The Bravetti crime family on one side, the Blackthornes and Rydells on the other. Hollywood, money, bodies, secrets. Nico Bravetti gets convicted of murder and sent away for twenty-five years.”

“And now?” Siobhan asked.

“And now,” Vaughan continued smoothly, “there’s doubt. Just whispers at first, mind you. But it’s getting louder. Crowe’s suggesting the witnesses—Miranda included—weren’t as certain as they claimed. That Nico might’ve been the fall guy so the family could stay clean.”

Travis glanced up, interest flickering across his face.

Siobhan set her fork down. “That’s… serious, innit?”

“I’d say so,” Vaughan agreed. “And it raises a question. If even part of it is true—if she bent the truth when it mattered most—what does that say about her moral compass now?”

Siobhan studied him. “You’re of course suggesting I reconsider my representation.”

“I’m suggesting you ask yourself whether you want someone with that history guiding your career. Optics matter. And Miranda Blackthorne’s are… complicated.”

“Still working the system, aren’t you, Vaughan?” Siobahn asked with a faint, knowing smile. She slid her chair back. “Excuse me while I powder my nose.”

“Of course,” Vaughan said smoothly. 

He gave Travis a subtle look. Travis rose immediately, dutiful as ever, pulling Siobahn’s chair out and offering his arm. He escorted her toward the ladies’ room, leaving Vaughan momentarily alone at the table.

Then a figure swept in and dropped into Travis’s vacated chair. Vaughan barely had time to look up before he sighed. “Sheldon. This is a surprise”

“What the hell are you doing having lunch with Siobahn Saxton?” Sheldon asked, cutting him off. 

Vaughan smiled with a shrug of his shoulders. “Relax. It’s business. Perfectly innocent.”

Sheldon snorted. “You don’t do innocent, Dad. And you definitely don’t do actresses with complicated contracts unless there’s an angle.”

“Honesly, son, we were just talking shop.”

“Uh-huh.” Sheldon leaned back, crossing his arms. “And what shop exactly? Because it looks a lot like you planting seeds about Miranda.”

Vaughan’s expression didn’t falter. “Miranda’s name came up because it’s everywhere right now. I didn’t put it there.”

Sheldon leaned forward. “Or did you?” he asked. “Did you have anything to do with that video being played at the M.B.A. party?”

Vaughan laughed softly. “What video?”

“Don’t,” Sheldon warned. “I know when you’re lying.”

“My only crime,” Vaughan said calmly, “is appreciating a good scandal when one drops into my lap. I didn’t make the tape. I didn’t press play. I certainly didn’t hypnotize Heather Rydell into saying something incriminating to Victor all those years ago.” 

Sheldon stared at him, unconvinced. “Funny how everything you touch just happens to explode.”

“Coincidence,” Vaughan replied pleasantly.

Sheldon shook his head. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Vaughan leaned back, unfazed. “So is everyone else. I just happen to be better at it.”

Rising from the table, Sheldon gave his father one last amused look before weaving through the dining room toward the restrooms. He exhaled once he was out of sight, irritation and suspicion still buzzing under his skin.

Inside the men’s room, Sheldon barely had time to wash his hands before the door opened behind him and Travis entered.

He closed the door slowly, a wide grin on his lips. “Fancy meeting you here.”  

Sheldon eyed him through his reflection in the mirror. “Now you’re cruising bathrooms? You always seem to show up in the most random places.” 

Travis stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Like that night at the Rack & Tap. Kind of lucked out with that one. You, me, Blake. Was wild, huh?”

Sheldon stiffened. “Drop it.”

Travis pressed against Sheldon from behind. “You were so hot that night,” he murmured. 

“Travis—”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice how rock hard you got when my dick was in your ass.” His hand went to Sheldon’s pants and slipped beneath the waistband.   

“Enough.” Sheldon caught his wrist, pushing it away, though not as fast as he should have. He felt Travis’s hot breath on his neck and shivered. “Blake and I are together. Monogamous.”

Travis studied him, unconvinced. “For now.”

Sheldon turned around and forced distance between them. “Your horns are showing.”

Travis lifted his hands in mock surrender, his mouth still framed in a crooked smile. “Relax. Just saying… offer’s there if you ever change your mind.”

Sheldon didn’t respond. He grabbed a paper towel, dried his hands, and left the restroom without looking back.

* * *

Brett watched Sharon from his spot near the dining table, catalog tucked under her arm, taking in the space she already knew too well.

“I’m glad you came back,” he said, genuinely relieved.

She turned to face him, composed but guarded. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure that I would. After the things you said the other day… well, it just didn’t seem like a good idea under the circumstances.”  

“You mean because you’re married,” Brett said, although it hardly seemed necessary. It was all he’d been thinking about since she told him. 

“Yes. But I’m here to finish a job. And frankly, I have too much invested creatively to turn it over to someone else.”

Brett smiled.  “I’m glad, because—”

She was quick to cut him off. “But only if we keep this professional. And only if you can accept that I’m married.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I can.”

She studied him, searching for cracks. Finding none to speak of, she nodded once and opened the catalog, spreading it across the table. Fabric swatches, wood finishes, floor plans.

They leaned over it together, their bodies nearly touching.

“This works,” Brett said, pointing to a mid-century sectional. “I like the clean lines. By far my favorite so far.” 

“You like it better than the Cassina we looked at the other day?” 

Brett nodded.

“You have good instincts,” Sharon told him. “Just don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”

He smiled, then glanced at her. “Any plans tonight?”

She nodded. “Dinner with my husband.”  After a beat: “Yourself?”

Groaning, Brett ran a hand through his hair.  “Some charity fundraiser I got roped into. I wasn’t asking for a date, I promise. My receptionist usually goes to these things with me. I was just curious.”  

“Well, you know what they say about curiosity,” Sharon said with a grin. 

“Your husband,” he said lightly, as if it were just another design detail. “Who is he? And what does he do?”

Her fingers ran along on the page. “He’s very powerful,” she said after a beat.

Brett looked up. “In what way?”

“In every way that counts,” Sharon replied softly. 

After a few moments of silence, they returned to the catalog, but something in the room had shifted as if an invisible line had been drawn.

* * *

That evening, Riley answered a knock at the door wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, irritation already written across his face.

“Can I help you?”

Detective Carver held up his badge. Morales stood just behind him, notebook already out. “Riley Weir?”

Riley gulped, lingering in the doorway. “Yeah.”

Carver got straight to it. “We’re investigating the murders of Zoanne Voss and Ty Stratton.”

Relief washed over Riley. For a second he thought he was about to be arrested for solicitation. That would be the cap on an already shitty year, he mused. 

“Yeah, I couldn’t believe it when I heard about what happened,” he said. “How can I help?”

“How well did you know Mr. Stratton?” 

Riley shrugged. “Auditions, mostly. We competed for a lot of the same roles.”

Morales glanced up. “Would you say you were rivals?”

Riley carefully considered his question. “I guess. But I mean, you win some, you lose some.”  

“Were you enemies?” Carver pressed.

Riley laughed, incredulous. “We weren’t exactly on each other’s Christmas card list if that’s what you mean.”  Then suddenly realization dawned.  “Wait, am I a suspect?”

“We’re just asking questions,” Carver said reassuringly. “Have to cover all the bases.”

“We found a video shot on Mr. Stratton’s phone,” Morales told him. “The creation timestamp and device ID confirmed he was the one who uploaded a certain video of you in a… shall we say compromising position.”

The courtyard began to spin. Riley blinked. “What?”

Morales continued calmly. “Shot on his phone. Uploaded from his device. We recovered the original file.”

Riley ran a hand through his hair, stunned. “That… no. That doesn’t make any sense.” 

Next door, Steve emerged from his unit, shirtless, hauling a trash bag toward the bins. He slowed when he heard Riley’s voice.

“Stratton set it up with the woman you were with in the video,” Carver explained. “Screen name 4Voyeurs. She claims he was in the apartment across the way filming.”

“Why?” 

“Still want to maintain that you weren’t enemies?” Morales asked.

Riley could barely wrap his head around the news.  

“Any idea why he would have waited so long to post the video?” Morales continued. “He posted it the same night he was murdered.”  

Thinking, Riley shrugged.  “I had just gotten a job in a TV movie. I guess maybe he was jealous and wanted me fired. I don’t know.”   

Carver shifted gears. “Did you know Zoanne Voss?”

Riley swallowed. “No. I mean—no, not really.”

Morales watched him closely. “You sure?”

“I accompanied her to the premiere of Dominion Protocol a few Months ago. That was it.”

“How did you meet her?” Carver asked.

Riley hesitated.

Morales didn’t blink. “Noir Companions?”

Riley exhaled. “Yeah.”

The detectives exchanged a glance.

“Thank you,” Carver said. “That’s all for now.”

As they turned to leave, Riley stood frozen in the doorway, trying to understand how a stranger from an audition room had detonated his life.

* * *

The suite at the Beverly Wilshire was opulent and immaculate, peppered with personal effects that made it a Bravetti residence. It had been retained by the family for decades. 

Nico stood at the bar, mixing Negronis with expertise while Carlo stood by adjusting his shirt cuffs.

“Your bartending skills are impressive, Nicodemo,” Carlo said with a chortle. “It’ll come in handy very soon.” 

“Why is that, Papà?” Nico asked, grinning as he strained the liquid into three rocks glasses.

Carlo ceremoniously presented a manila envelope. Nico took it, opened it, and smiled.

“The deed to the nightclub,” Carlo said simply. “It’s yours. I hope you do something worthwhile with it.”

Nico looked up, a grin spreading across his face. “Of course, Papà. I intend to.”

Behind them, the bedroom door opened. Sharon stepped out, fastening a pair of earrings, her reflection briefly catching in the mirror as she crossed the room.

Carlo turned at once, his expression softening. He leaned in and kissed her. “Ready for dinner, bella?”

“Yes,” Sharon said easily. “I’m famished.”

He offered his arm, then paused. “How was your day?”

“Good,” she replied. “I’m working on a beautiful house in Venice.”

Carlo smiled. “Don’t work too hard.”

She laughed lightly. “Don’t worry. The owner has a lot of great ideas.”

Carlo nodded, pleased, taking her comment at face value. He glanced back at Nico. “You joining us?”

Nico shook his head, already slipping the envelope under his arm. “Not tonight. I’ve got too much to do. I need to start planning the club.”

Carlo studied his son for a moment, then nodded with approval. “Good. Work never waits.”

Nico watched as they headed for the door together, Sharon’s hand resting comfortably on his father’s arm. The door closed behind them, leaving him alone in the suite.

He smiled to himself. Everything was finally in motion.

* * *

The fundraiser was already in full swing when Brett arrived, the ballroom buzzing with chatter and the soft clink of glasses. He handed his coat to the attendant and stepped inside with Sam at his side who played her role with smiles and charisma.

“Stick close,” Brett murmured. “These things turn feral after the first open bar.”

Sam smiled. “I’ll protect you from the hedge fund guys.”

He made the rounds quickly—handshakes, practiced smiles, the usual compliments about projects that were “very exciting” and deals that were “almost there.” When he’d done enough to be seen, he leaned toward Sam.

“I’m going to grab us drinks,” he said. “Don’t let anyone pitch you anything while I’m gone.”

“No promises,” she replied dryly.

Brett headed for the bar—and froze halfway there.

Across the room, near a cluster of high-top tables, Suzanne stood with Mickey. His hand rested lightly at the small of her back as he murmured something into her ear. She laughed, soft and intimate, her head angling toward him in a way Brett recognized instantly.

He felt jealousy at first, though he couldn’t understand why. He hadn’t thought about her that way in years. But their chemistry had at one time been undeniably powerful, so maybe the feeling was natural. 

Then worry followed close behind. Mickey wasn’t just another man at a fundraiser. He was someone Brett had learned to take very seriously.

Brett stayed where he was, watching as Mickey leaned in again and Suzanne didn’t pull away.

Then he kissed her, and Brett’s blood went cold. 

* * *

Dessert plates had just been cleared when Kelly leaned back in her chair, finally relaxed, wine warming her cheeks.

“So, Phoebe’s settling in?” Keaton asked, swirling his drink.

“She is,” Kelly said. “It’s strange. I spent my whole life thinking I was an only child, and suddenly—there she is. Sleeping down the hall.”

Keaton smiled. “You’ve always been good at making room for people.”

She laughed. “Not always.”

“That was a long time ago,” he said gently. “Now you’re a lovely, intelligent, beautiful woman with a good heart.”

She wanted to believe him. That was the dangerous part.

Outside, the night air was cool. Keaton opened the car door for her, his hand lingering at her waist when she slid in. They didn’t make it far.

He leaned over the console, kissed her slowly at first as if testing the waters. She responded before she could stop herself, fingers sliding into his hair, years of restraint dissolving in seconds.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmured against her mouth.

She laughed softly, breathless. “I can tell.”

“Let’s go back to your place,” he said.

She pulled back just enough to shake her head. “My mother’s there. R.J. too. And Phoebe.”

He groaned, followed by a chuckle. “Oh, right.”

She hesitated, then smiled. “We could go to yours.”

“That’s thirty minutes away,” he said, his voice low. “I don’t know if I can wait that long.”

Kelly looked at him and grinned.

The windows fogged almost immediately as they scurried into the backseat, clothes flying in every direction. Kelly straddled him, easing onto his dick, her head thrown back as she succumbed to the pleasures that had long been missing. 

* * *

The fundraiser had thinned just enough to create pockets of privacy with clusters breaking apart, conversations trailing off as donors drifted toward the exits or the bar. Brett waited, nursing the same drink as he watched.

When Mickey disappeared toward the restrooms, Brett moved.

“Suzanne,” he said gently, approaching her from the side. “Just wanted to say hello.”

She turned, surprised, then smiled. “Brett. Hi. I’m glad you did.”

“You look… well.”

“Thank you,” she replied easily. “You too.”

“Book tour over?” he asked. 

“Yes. I can’t tell you how good it is to be back home.

There was a brief pause as years of shared history and unspoken context were compressed into a few seconds.

“So,” Brett said, keeping his tone light, “I noticed you were here with Mickey Donovan. How did the two of you meet?”

“We ran into each other at the hospital,” Suzanne said. “It was when Violet was brought in and I was there with Heather.”

He wanted desperately to tell her the truth. That Mickey was there visiting the man who sold Violet the drugs in the first place. But he said nothing out of fear that Mickey would retaliate. Instead, he asked, “Do you know what he does?”

Suzanne’s smile faded slightly. “Why?”

“I’m just asking,” he said carefully.

She tilted her head. “He’s in logistics.”

Brett exhaled, amused. “Is that what he told you?” 

“Really, what is this all about?” she replied calmly. “Do you have something against Mickey? Who is he to you?” 

Again, Brett wanted to tell her to run the other way, but he was trapped. “He’s… nobody,” he said with much reluctance. 

“Well, then?”

Brett pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes continuously darting to the restrooms to see if Mickey was returning. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. I think you’ve been hurt enough.” 

Suzanne studied his face carefully. “I can take care of myself, Brett.”

”I’m not trying to—”

She cut him off, not unkindly but firmly. “Do I tell you who you should or shouldn’t date?”

“No,” Brett said quietly.

“Exactly.” She softened, touching his arm briefly. “I appreciate you looking out for me. Truly. But this is my choice.”

Across the room, Brett caught sight of Mickey returning.

Suzanne followed his gaze and smiled. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

She stepped away just as Mickey reached her side, his hand finding her back with easy familiarity.

Brett watched them together, his heart pounding in his chest. 

* * *

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the Blackthorne mansion’s parlor. Coffee sat untouched on the table, legal pads already cluttered with notes.

James stood near the fireplace, arms crossed rigidly over his chest. Alex sat on the sofa beside Jane while Stormy paced—too wired to sit.

Michael Larrabee adjusted his glasses and didn’t bother easing them in. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this,” he said. “This felony assault charge is sticking. The D.A. is looking to make an example out of you.”

Stormy stopped pacing. “The guy’s a drug dealer,” he exclaimed. “He was abusing Amelia, he got physical with her at our house. He started this into motion.”

“And the D.A. will argue you escalated it,” Larrabee replied evenly. “And you’re a public figure with a temper, a motive, and resources.”

Jane frowned. “He was panicking. I was in the hospital. Our baby—”

“I understand,” Larrabee said, his tone firm. “But juries don’t try cases based on context. They try them on narrative.”

James turned sharply. “What narrative?”

“That you’re entitled,” Larrabee said. “That you believe consequences don’t apply to you. That when you felt cornered, you chose violence.”

Stormy scoffed. “That’s bullshit.”

“It’s effective bullshit,” Larrabee replied. “Especially when the victim is positioning himself as a nobody who got steamrolled by a powerful man having a bad day.”

“A nobody who runs drugs for a crime family,” Stormy said ruefully. “So we drag them into court to testify to it.”  

Larrabee looked at him over the rim of his glasses.  “You want to get the Bravetti’s into court?” he asked, his gaze falling over each one of them. “Again?”

“Well, it’s a pretty important detail,” Stormy insisted. 

The attorney rubbed a hand over his face. “Let’s table that for now. I’m not saying we won’t, but…”

Stormy didn’t wait for him to finish. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

“No, I agree with Michael,” James announced. “Dragging the Bravetti’s into this right now is a bad move. Let’s see what other options we have.”  

Alex leaned forward. “What are our options?”

“We fight,” Larrabee said. “But you need to prepare for the possibility that this goes to trial. And if it does, everything—everything—about this family becomes relevant.”

A heavy silence followed.

Stormy dragged a hand down his face. “So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Larrabee replied carefully, “that there are people who benefit from you looking reckless, or dangerous, or guilty.”

Jane tightened her grip on Stormy’s hand.

James stared out the window, decades of damage control pressing down on him. “Then we don’t give them anything else to work with.”

Larrabee met his gaze. “That would be ideal.”

Stormy exhaled slowly, fury simmering just beneath the surface. “I’m not going to jail.”

“I’ll do everything I can to prevent that from happening,” Larrabee said.

* * *

Phoebe sat at the kitchen island, cradling her mug, watching Kelly move around with an ease that suggested a very good night.

“I didn’t even hear you come home,” Phoebe said casually. “How was your date with Keaton?”

Kelly smiled to herself as she poured cream into her coffee.  “Very well.”

Phoebe grinned. “I knew it.”

Kelly took a sip, then leaned back against the counter. “But we’ve been here before and it never wound up working.”

“Why not?”

“It’s… complicated,’ Kelly said with a sigh of resignation.

“So give me the shorthand,” Phoebe said. “What’s the history?”

Kelly considered. “We dated seriously a few years ago. He checked a lot of boxes—smart, charming, a little dark and brooding, kind of geeky in a sexy way.” She shrugged with a smile. “But he couldn’t commit. He was always chasing approval. Hollywood’s. His mother’s. We kept going back to each other, and it never worked.” 

Phoebe nodded. “His mother is Alex Reynolds, right? The mega movie star.”

“That’s her,” Kelly said. “And she never liked me being with Stormy or Keaton. To her I’ll always be the housekeeper’s daughter.”

Phoebe hesitated, then asked gently, “I heard… something happened between them. Years ago when he first came to town.”

Kelly exhaled. “Fifteen years ago, Keaton came to L.A. looking for his parents. He’d been given up for adoption and he wanted answers. Closure, I guess.” Her voice softened. “It didn’t go well.”

“What happened?” Phoebe asked quietly.

“He snapped,” Kelly said. “Held Alex at gunpoint. Nobody got hurt, but it was bad enough that he went to prison for a year.”

Phoebe’s eyes widened. “Wow.”

“He got out,” Kelly went on. “And he did the work. You know—therapy, accountability, whatever penance he thought he owed. He came back different. Not perfect, but better.”

Phoebe sat with that for a moment, then smiled. “Honestly? He seems great. I’m happy for you.”

Kelly met her gaze, something warm and cautious in her eyes. “Me too. So, what about you? Anyone special back in Santa Barbara? I keep expecting guys to show up in L.A. in droves looking for you.” 

She laughed. “No, actually. Being a nurse, it’s hard to have a social life. The hours are killer.”  

“I bet,” Kelly replied, then as if someone had just occurred to her. “Oh, I wanted to ask you a huge favor. If you’re not interested, please just say so.”  

“What is it?” 

“Well, with Courtney being fired—as you were witness to…” Kelly began. 

Phoebe let out a small scoff. “Yeah, it’s been permanently ingrained into my mind.  I mean, brutal isn’t the word.” 

Kelly sighed.  “Yeah.  Well, we’re without a receptionist, and until we can find one, do you think you’d want to fill in?” Then she was quick to add: “I know it’s ridiculously insulting to suggest since you’re a nurse with training and certifications, but it would really help us out of a jam.  And I promise it’s not always as hostile as yesterday. Besides, it could give us more time to get to know each other.”

“I’d love to,” Phoebe said happily. 

“Yeah?”

She nodded.

Kelly smiled and gave her a quick squeeze. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

“Me too,” Phoebe said, lifting her mug to her lips as she settled into the moment.  

* * *

Courtney stepped out of Eddie’s office in Beverly Hills with her keys already clenched in her hand. The door shut behind her with a finality she felt in her chest. Nothing. No trace of Clark or her money. And now no job.

By the time she reached her Range Rover parked by a quiet corner of Canon Drive, her hands were shaking. She slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door, exhaling sharply as if that might reset everything.

She glanced up, and in the rearview mirror, she saw a man sat in the back seat.

Courtney gasped, her mouth open in a silent scream that never came. A hand came out of nowhere, clamping gently but firmly over her mouth. Another rose into view, the unmistakable gleam of a handgun catching the light. 

“Shh,” Nico murmured close to her ear. “Long time no see.”

Her eyes flooded with panic, darting wildly, as the city moved on outside the windshield—cars passing, people laughing, a normal afternoon—while Courtney sat frozen and terrified.