Chapter 42

Chapter

Forty-Two

"Any star thinks it's out of reach until it falls."

― Tamerlan Kuzgov

Alexsei

I nudged the man's leg, but he didn't budge. "Yeah, dude's dead," I said, arms crossed.

"Oh my god," Scarlett cried, covering her face as she sobbed.

"We know he's fucking dead," Angelo snapped, rolling his eyes. "We don't need you for that, Sherlock."

I sighed. "Alright, so what's the plan?"

The hotel room fell silent, broken only by Scarlett's ragged sobs. She stood there in a cropped t-shirt and a shredded mini leather skirt that barely covered her bruised legs. Her high heels, the kind you'd expect to see on a stripper, gave her the appearance of someone far from in control. She was shaking, her whole body trembling like she was about to shatter.

"I-I can't b-believe I-I killed him," she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.

By "him," she meant the lifeless figure sprawled on the floor. The random creep who'd been hiding under her bed, probably waiting for the right moment to drug her or worse.

As an international superstar, Scarlett attracted her fair share of psycho stalkers and unhinged groupies. A few weeks ago, some fifty-year-old lunatic had jumped on stage during her performance, armed with a knife. Her security had barely managed to tackle him before she got hurt.

"Don't stress it, he probably had it coming," I said, smirking as I tugged at the dead guy's Hawaiian shirt. "Just look at this shirt. Crimes against fashion should be punishable by death."

Scarlett looked up, her tear-streaked face registering my words before she collapsed back into sobs.

"So, what happened?" I asked, turning to Angelo, who scratched at his beard, glancing at his watch like he had somewhere better to be.

"She came in, used the bathroom, and went straight to bed. She was falling asleep when the guy sneezed," Angelo said, shrugging. "She freaked, he crawled out, she grabbed that lamp," he gestured to the shattered ivory lamp lying nearby, "and whacked him over the head. Knocked him out, his neck hit the bed frame, and voilà—dead."

Scarlett lifted her head, fresh tears cutting paths down her cheeks.

I'd first met Scarlett Harper two years after Angelo. She'd called him once, freaking out after being arrested for a DUI. Naturally, I tagged along. We ended up in a police station where I met a woman with huge tits, fiery red hair, and pale skin so white she could be a ghost. Over the years, Angelo had played the role of her savior, rushing to her side whenever she got herself into shit. I never asked why he was so protective of her, but he always was.

Scarlett had been a trainwreck for years, and honestly, I didn't see anything changing.

"I was scared," she whimpered between sobs. "I didn't know the lamp would hurt him that … badly."

Angelo and I exchanged glances, trying to keep from laughing.

"Oh, of course, Scar'," I said, faking sympathy. "Because lamps are so soft and cuddly."

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, her mascara smudged beyond repair. "I-I just panicked."

Angelo chuckled. "Well, you sure showed him."

Scarlett's expression shifted from grief to panic. "What am I going to do now?"

I shrugged. "Bury the body and move on. Honestly, I don't see why you dragged me here from fucking Russia for this," I gestured to the corpse on the floor.

Angelo sat on the bed. "Someone paid him to kill her."

I raised an eyebrow. "He was a groupie?—"

Angelo cut me off. "I found forty grand in cash in his back pocket. There's a message on his phone that says, ‘Is it done?'"

I smirked. "Maybe he was saving up for a deluxe tour package. You know, front-row seats for the afterlife."

Scarlett shot me a look that could kill. "This isn't funny, Alexsei."

Angelo paced the room, his tone dark. "We need to find out who hired him."

I crossed my arms, narrowing my gaze at Scarlett. "Got any enemies?"

Being famous sure comes with perks—money, drugs, fans worshipping you. But it also comes with plenty of people who want to see you dead.

Scarlett shook her head. "Not that I know of..."

Angelo stopped pacing. "We need to dig deeper."

Then, Scarlett gasped, her eyes wide with terror. "Wait! I think I know who wants to kill me."

I sighed, running a hand over my jaw. I guess the night was far from over—just my fucking luck.