14. Ryder

14

So many fuckin' people… Ryder thought the crowds would get smaller as Luna's run of shows continued, but the opposite seemed to be true. There had to be a hundred fans waiting outside the theatre, plus the ubiquitous reporters and a guy holding a large wooden cross who urged her to repent, repent, repent. Ryder's body camera filmed all of them.

He forced himself to focus on the surroundings, not on her. She was doing what she had to—signing autographs, posing for pictures, making small talk. Before he met her, he'd figured she loved the attention, but now he saw the way she steeled herself before she walked out the door. He also saw the chart she'd taped to her refrigerator door. Ninety-eight boxes that she ticked off as she completed each concert. At the end, there was a picture of a bed and a TV. Luna didn't want to take an expensive vacation when the show was over; she just wanted to sleep and watch Netflix.

And last night, she'd added a cake to the chart.

And a dog.

Was it dumb to be jealous of an imaginary dog?

A guy tried to put his arm around Luna, and Ryder stepped forward, ready to remove the offending limb—from the man's shoulder if necessary—but Luna sidestepped gracefully and held up a hand. She had this. She was used to being pawed by strangers. Ryder didn't like it, but he had to respect her decisions.

Tonight, she'd worn capri pants, wedge sandals, and a cropped T-shirt. With Amethyst out of the picture, she'd subtly changed the way she dressed—out with the tiny shorts and the barely-there tops, in with tailored pants and shirts that didn't threaten a wardrobe malfunction every time she moved. At home, she preferred sportswear, leggings and loose sweaters, and a pair of fluffy moccasins gifted by Caro.

Damn, she was beautiful.

Ryder was dressed in an ill-fitting suit. The purpose was twofold—firstly, it acted as a uniform that let him fade into the background, and secondly, the poor cut of the fabric hid a multitude of weapons. If Mark A made one wrong move, he'd regret it.

Luna played to the crowd for fifteen minutes, then moved inside. Ryder had already been in touch with Derek Monroe, who reported no new gifts for Cleopatra and also mentioned that he'd be stationing additional guards by the backstage doors. There were two of those—the door from outside that they were using tonight, and a staff door in the hallway that led from the main hotel. Ryder nodded to the guard outside as they passed, and he nodded back.

"Feeling okay?" he asked in a quiet second as they headed for Luna's dressing room.

"Mm-hmm." She glanced sideways and flashed a tiny smile. "At least I slept well."

They'd both slept well. Luna hadn't invited him into her bed, so he'd dumped his bag in the spare room, fully prepared to spend the night there. Then they'd fallen asleep watching a movie about werewolves that was all CGI and no plot. In the early hours when he'd woken, neck cricked, and carried a groggy Luna back to her room, she'd gripped his hand and told him to stay. She'd used his shoulder as a pillow the way she had in San Gallicano, and when they woke in a tangle of limbs and sheets, she'd kissed him on the cheek before she disappeared into the bathroom. They still needed to have a long talk about the future, but he knew one thing for sure: Luna Maara would be in his.

She greeted each of her dancers with a hug, and Paul glared over her shoulder at Ryder. Ryder kept his expression impassive. They weren't each other's competition, and they had the same goal, which was to keep Luna safe. He couldn't hate the guy.

But he could hate the next guy.

The newcomer was an inch shorter than Ryder with dark hair and a sharp jaw. His physique said he clearly spent time in the gym, and his suit fit a fuck of a lot better. He walked in as if he owned the place.

"Luna…" The prick kissed her on both cheeks. "I just wanted to check everything's okay? Derek said there was a security issue?"

"I'm fine. There's a creepy guy sending me stuff, that's all."

"You want me to look into that?"

"My own security is handling it, but thank you."

Ryder stepped forward. "The notes are being analysed, sir, and we have protocols in place."

"Good. Let me know if you need anything else tightened up here." He wrapped an arm around Luna's shoulders and turned her away, effectively dismissing Ryder. "There's someone I want you to meet."

Who the fuck was this asshole, and why wasn't Luna giving him the cold shoulder? Information came from an unlikely source.

"That's Romeo Serafini," Paul muttered from behind. "His daddy owns the hotel."

Ah, fuck. The Mob boss's son. Okay, rumoured Mob boss. Frank Serafini was no Al Capone, but he wasn't clean either. Ryder had only seen one picture of Romeo, taken several years ago, and he'd worn his hair much longer back then, like Italian fucking Jesus. Ryder went after them.

The person Romeo wanted Luna to meet turned out to be a kid. A dark-haired girl, no more than seven or eight years old, stood by the craft table clutching a guitar in one hand and a bunch of flowers in the other.

"This is my niece, Alessia," Romeo said, his back to Ryder. "She wants to sing for you."

"Uh, okay."

The kid handed the flowers to Luna and settled herself onto a stool, legs dangling. Ryder prepared to grit his teeth, but Alessia was surprisingly good. She missed a couple of notes as she sang one of Luna's songs, but the grin on her face when Luna joined in for the second verse made Ryder smile too. He'd never really thought about having a family, but damn, he and Luna had so many decisions to make.

Romeo was obviously proud of his niece, and Ryder was considering changing his mind about the guy when he slipped his arm around Luna again.

"You made Alessia's year," he said. "She was a big reason Papa booked you for the show."

"She's a great singer. How long has she been playing the guitar?"

"Two years. She wins every talent show she enters."

"Does she enjoy competing?"

"She begs us every day to go on Fifty Seconds to Fame. You know it?"

"The TV talent show? I was a guest singer last season. Alessia would do well."

"Maybe, but she's too young for that world. If she still wants to sing when she's older, there's a stage waiting for her here."

"Ms. Maara," someone called. "Ten minutes till make-up."

"I just need to get something to eat," she said, ducking out from under Romeo's arm and turning away.

"The food's satisfactory?"

"Really good. You have an excellent chef."

"We do. Why don't you join me for dinner after the show?"

That motherfucker. Ryder's hands balled into fists, and so did Luna's. She didn't like the position she was in either.

"It'll be late, and I'm always tired after a performance."

"My driver can take you home." Romeo touched her arm, and she flinched. Ryder wanted to go full caveman, but he couldn't afford to cause a scene. "What's the harm? We're both young and single."

Ryder held his breath.

"I'm not single," Luna said, and a weight rolled off his chest.

Romeo raised an eyebrow. "My information was wrong?"

"So wrong."

"Then where is the lucky man? If you were mine, I wouldn't let you out of my sight."

A shrug. "He's working."

Romeo leaned in close and whispered something too quiet for Ryder to hear, and Luna laughed.

"Oh, he'll know. Trust me on that."

"Well, if you change your mind, the offer still stands."

"Your niece is waving at you."

When Romeo turned to look, Luna spun neatly on her heel and headed for the other side of the room. Ryder followed, somehow feeling both irritated and turned on.

"You handled that nicely," he murmured so only Luna could hear.

"I've had a lot of practice. Thanks for not punching him. I saw you ball up your fists."

"You did the same."

"I did?"

Venus and Aisha appeared from the left, and Ryder lost Luna to her backup dancers. The show went almost without a hitch. When a woman near the front fainted, Luna insisted on pausing until someone brought her water, and Ryder knew that it wouldn't be her compassion that got reported tomorrow, it would be the fact that she yelled at the band to "Stop, just stop!" And when someone muttered in her earpiece, she told them to screw the schedule. Loudly. The audience had cheered. Watching her tonight solved a mystery that had bugged Ryder in San Gallicano. If Luna was such a bitch, how come she had so many fans? The answer was clear now. The fans who saw her live, who saw her caring side, loved her. But those who only saw her online persona, who read what others wrote and lapped up the scandals, they thought she was a spoiled brat.

In what was becoming a nightly ritual, Ryder drove Luna home, raced to Blackwood, switched the SUV for a Honda compact, pulled a ball cap low over his eyes, and made his way back to Cromer Place. Luna called him on the way to say Mark A's food delivery had arrived. Mexican this time. Ryder spotted a trash can on the street and dumped the bag in it.

The neighbourhood was quiet, and it seemed the paparazzi were following the routine too. They'd learned that once Luna arrived home after a show, she was there for the night, so why stick around for no reason? Ryder filed that piece of information away for future reference and paused on the landing before he went back inside, pretending to check his phone. He didn't feel any eyes watching, and operators tended to develop a sixth sense when it came to surveillance. He'd collected the food two nights running, not Luna, and Mark A hadn't said a word about it—tonight's note was the usual drivel—which led Ryder to believe that he wasn't watching the building personally twenty-four-seven.

Ryder was about to head back inside when his phone rang. His stomach lurched when he saw the name on the screen.

As usual, Ana didn't waste words. "We have a lead on Irina. Who is now called Elene."

He took one last look around and stepped back into the empty lobby.

"What kind of lead? You know where she is?"

"Not yet. But it seems that all Luna's money wasn't enough because Mack found her online, trolling for a new victim on Illumina. It's a dating website catering to high-net-worth individuals."

"Can Mack trace her?"

"Elene is hiding her location, so we're taking a different approach."

"Which is…?"

"She's currently chatting with a twenty-eight-year-old trust fund baby named Tripp Carrington, who has more money than sense."

"Tripp?"

"A clerk was rude to Mack in the grocery store yesterday, and he was wearing a name badge."

"You're catfishing her?"

"No, you're catfishing her."

"Huh?"

"Mack's using your picture, pretty boy. We'll keep you updated."

Ana hung up, and Ryder leaned against the wall and groaned. Then he fired off a text to Mack.

Ryder

Tripp? Seriously?

The answer came right away. Like Ana, Mack rarely slept, although for a different reason. Ana was part vampire; Mack was merely a workaholic.

Mack

You're welcome :)

Ryder pushed off the wall and headed for the stairs. Luna was waiting, and he needed to spend time with his girl.