Page 86 of One Filthy Kiss

“Tommy Romano.”

Tracking down a rising star is like following a trail of golden breadcrumbs.

Tommy Romano has it all: the classic good looks, the stature, the charisma. And a stunning co-star on his arm. He’s all set to become one of Hollywood’s highest paid actors over the next five years if all goes to plan and he doesn’t fuck up along the way.

If.

As far as I’m concerned, Tommy Romano has already made his first huge mistake.

Fortunately for me, he’s currently filming in Hollywood’s Paramount studio.

The security guard tries to block me from entering until he’s rewarded with a glimpse of Bruno’s holster and a wad of cash. He still avoids making eye contact as he points me in the right direction.

This studio is busier than mine; it has had a lot of cash thrown at it over the years. A lot of Hollywood stars too. We wait for the scene to finish and for the director to yell, “Cut!” before we approach Tommy.

He checks out my suit, his eyes lingering a beat too long on my bodyguard. A makeup assistant comes over, and he dismisses her with a wave of his tanned hand.

I extend my hand in a formal greeting and introduce myself.

“How can I help, Mr. Sabatelli?”

I smile. “Tell me about Nikki Marshall.”

His eyes dart all around to check if anyone is listening. Several people turn away and pretend to be busy doing something else.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know who you mean.”

“Oh.” I feign surprise by raising an eyebrow. “So, you haven’t been meeting up with her in secret?”

I barely finish before he bolts for the exit.

We don’t chase him.

Bruno has already arranged for some of his team to guard the exits, and by the time we find Tommy pinned down by two burly men with biceps the size of watermelons, he is willing to talk.

He sits in the back seat of my car with his wrists bound and glares at me, as Bruno trains his pistol at the actor’s temple from the front passenger seat. The windows are tinted. No one watches us drive away with Tommy Romano, no one questions where we are going.

“Why did you visit the Pink Palace Motel with Nikki Marshall two days ago?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

The trigger of Bruno’s gun clicks beneath his forefinger.

Tommy’s answer changes. “I’ve never heard of the Pink Palace Motel.”

“Let me jog your memory.”

I slide the defaced photograph from my pocket and show it to him. His eyes linger on the image, but he doesn’t speak.

“Do you know the people in this picture?” I pretend to study it myself. “It’s impossible to see their faces because some fucking bastardo scratched them out as a prank, but I’m guessing there’s a perfectly acceptable explanation for this.”

“I didn’t do it.”

The bullet from Bruno’s gun grazes the tip of Tommy Romano’s right ear before it hits the backseat.

“You were saying.”

Blood trickles from the damaged flesh, down the side of Tommy’s face and onto his shirt. “Look, I had no choice, alright? If I didn’t do it…”