The first time I insulted Enzo Caruso, I had no idea people were afraid of him.
The second time, I knew exactly who he was.
That was the problem.
“You called him Mr. Hostile Takeover.”
Marcus stared at me backstage like he was trying to decide whether my funeral would require assigned seating.
I shrugged and checked my lipstick in the cracked mirror above the sink.
“He looked hostile.”
“You also called him the human version of a locked briefcase.”
“He looked emotionally unavailable.”
“Natalie.”
“And I stand by the tax-audit-with-cheekbones thing.”
Marcus covered his face.
It was 7:28 on a Thursday night at the Lantern Comedy Club, a basement comedy room in Chicago where the carpet had absorbed enough beer to qualify as a protected wetland and the greenroom coffee tasted like somebody had dissolved a nine-volt battery in hot water.
I had performed there for six years.
Six years of turning terrible dates, cheap apartments, family drama, weight comments, and the spectacular failure of my accounting degree into jokes.
Comedy had never made me rich.
But it paid my rent.
Usually.
And more important, it gave me a microphone.
I had spent most of my life hearing opinions about my body.
Too big.
Too loud.
Too much.
Comedy was the one place where being too much was practically a job requirement.
Twenty-four hours earlier, I had walked onto that stage in jeans and sneakers, spotted a ridiculously handsome man sitting alone near the back, and made what would turn out to be either the best or worst professional decision of my life.
I talked to him.
He wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my car.
Dark hair threaded with silver.
A watch that looked expensive enough to have its own security detail.
And a face so serious it seemed personally offended by joy.
So naturally, I asked him if he'd been born angry or had taken a certification course.
The audience laughed.
He didn't.
That encouraged me.
I told him he looked like he fired waiters for bringing sparkling water instead of still.
I asked whether his personality was being held hostage.
Then I called him a tax audit with cheekbones.
That finally did it.
One corner of his mouth moved.
Barely.
But I saw it.
For twelve minutes, I worked him into the set.
By the time I left the stage, 183 people were screaming.
I felt incredible.
Then another comedian grabbed my arm.
“Do you know who that was?”
“No.”
“Enzo Caruso.”
“Okay.”
“Caruso.”
“Still okay.”
Then he explained.
Real estate.
Hotels.
Security companies.
Restaurants.
Political connections.
And a Chicago reputation that made newspapers use words like alleged with extraordinary enthusiasm.
I went home, microwaved leftover Chinese food, Googled Enzo Caruso, closed my laptop, opened it again, and briefly considered whether Wisconsin was far enough away.
By morning, I had calmed down.
Mostly.
Powerful men had better things to do than destroy comedians over crowd work.
Probably.
Then Marcus pointed toward the curtain.
“Look.”
“No.”
“Natalie.”
“If there's a spider, kill it.”
“It’s worse.”
I pulled the curtain aside two inches.
And stopped breathing.
Front row.
Center seat.
Enzo Caruso.
Same expensive watch.
Different dark suit.
White shirt.
One ankle resting over the opposite knee.
He had arrived early.
Worse, he'd deliberately chosen the seat closest to my microphone.
A large man sat several feet behind him. Thick shoulders. Black jacket. Expression suggesting he had never once enjoyed a team-building exercise.
Security, obviously.
I dropped the curtain.
“No.”
Marcus nodded solemnly.
“Yes.”
“He came back?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Marcus spread his hands.
“Maybe he enjoyed being called a foreclosure notice in human form.”
The host stuck his head through the door.
“Thirty seconds, Natalie.”
Perfect.
My career had finally become exciting in a way that might require legal counsel.
Marcus grabbed my elbow.
“Maybe don't roast him tonight.”
I looked at him.
That was his mistake.
Telling me not to do something had previously resulted in my dropping out of accounting school, becoming a comedian, dating a drummer for four disastrous months, and getting bangs in 2019.
“Fine,” I said.
Marcus relaxed.
“I'll be respectful.”
He immediately looked worried again.
The host shouted my name.
I walked onto the stage.
Applause hit me.
Blue stage lights.
Clinking glasses.
Warm lamps glowing on little tables.
A drunk guy in the second row already laughing like breathing was the funniest thing he'd heard all year.
I opened with three minutes of material about dating apps.
Then I looked down.
Enzo was watching me.
No threat.
No smile.
Just calm.
Like he'd paid twenty-eight dollars plus a two-drink minimum specifically to see what kind of terrible decision I would make.
People from the previous night had recognized him.
Whispers moved through the room.
I stared at him.
He stared back.
Then one corner of his mouth lifted.
Go ahead.
That was what the expression said.
So I did.
“Well.”
People started laughing before I said anything else.
I pointed at him.
“There he is.”
The club erupted.
Enzo leaned back.
“Most people who get roasted at a comedy show spend the next day avoiding eye contact.”
More laughter.
“This man bought a closer seat.”
Enzo smiled.
I nodded thoughtfully.
“That's either confidence or a very specific psychological condition.”
The big man behind him almost smiled.
I caught it.
“Oh, no.”
He froze.
I pointed.
“You don't get to hide.”
Everybody turned.
The poor man straightened.
I looked between him and Enzo.
“Wait. Is he not allowed to laugh?”
The room exploded.
Enzo glanced back.
His security guy became a statue.
And Enzo laughed.
Not the controlled little half-smile from the previous night.
Actually laughed.
Head dipping.
Shoulders moving.
Warm, genuine laughter from a man half of Chicago apparently treated like exposed electrical wiring.
Something inconvenient happened inside my chest.
I liked it.
So naturally I attacked harder.
“You dressed up again.”
Enzo glanced at his suit.
“Don't act confused. Nobody dresses like that for a basement comedy club unless they're getting married afterward or acquiring the building.”
Another laugh.
Great.
Now I had noticed his smile.
That was going to be a problem.
“Stop doing that.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“The smiling. Yesterday you looked terrifying. I had a clear artistic direction. Now you smile and suddenly I have to acknowledge the cheekbones.”
A woman behind him yelled, “HE LIKES YOU!”
I froze.
The audience screamed.
I looked at Enzo.
He didn't deny it.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
His eyebrows rose.
“You stay out of this.”
He hadn't spoken.
That somehow made it worse.
For the next forty minutes, he became my favorite target.
His watch.
His posture.
His sparkling water.
The strange, dignified way he clapped.
Every few minutes, he answered.
Short.
Dry.
Annoyingly funny.
Finally, I leaned against the microphone stand.
“You know what I don't understand? Why are you even here again? Did your social calendar collapse?”
“I canceled dinner,” he said.
The audience reacted immediately.
I stared down at him.
“You canceled dinner for this?”
His eyes stayed on mine.
“For you.”
Four words.
That was all.
The audience lost its collective mind.
Somebody near the bar screamed.
A woman slapped her table.
Marcus later swore a bartender dropped a lime.
And I, Natalie Russo, professional comedian and woman who had once performed seventeen minutes after discovering my boyfriend was cheating on me, temporarily lost access to the English language.
I put a hand against my chest.
“Sir.”
Laughter rolled through the room.
“You cannot bring organized confidence into a vulnerable arts space.”
He laughed again.
But my pulse had changed.
Because for you hadn't sounded like crowd work.
Afterward, Marcus waited backstage wearing the expression of a man who had just witnessed the beginning of a bad decision.
“Don't.”
“I said nothing.”
“You're about to.”
“I was merely wondering when your comedy set became a forty-minute first date.”
“It didn't.”
“You asked whether he was single.”
“Demographic research.”
“You asked whether he cooks.”
“Consumer data.”
“You told him his smile was distracting.”
“Professional criticism.”
Marcus stared.
I stared back.
Neither of us believed me.
Then an employee appeared.
“Natalie? Somebody's waiting outside.”
I knew.
Enzo stood alone in the hallway.
No security.
No entourage.
Just him.
Up close, he was worse.
Sharper jaw.
Dark eyes.
Broad shoulders.
And that ridiculous suit.
I folded my arms.
“Complaint?”
“No.”
“Demanding an apology?”
“No.”
“Buying the club and turning it into a parking garage?”
“Not tonight.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
His eyes stayed on my face.
That surprised me.
Men had looked at my body my entire life.
Some appreciatively.
Some critically.
Some with that irritating curiosity certain men reserved for curvy women, as if attraction to us required special paperwork.
Enzo looked at me.
Not around me.
Not through me.
At me.
“So,” I said. “You came back.”
“I did.”
“Front row.”
“Yes.”
“After yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“You understand most normal people avoid repeat humiliation.”
“Most people aren't you.”
Damn him.
That was good.
I tightened my arms.
“And apparently most people aren't emotionally committed to Italian tailoring.”
His mouth twitched.
Then he asked one word.
“Tomorrow?”
I frowned.
“What about tomorrow?”
“Are you performing?”
“Eight-thirty.”
He nodded.
Then he walked away.
That was it.
No phone number.
No threat.
No dramatic rich-man speech.
Just tomorrow.
Marcus emerged from behind the door.
“How much did you hear?” I asked.
“All of it.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don't.”
I watched Enzo disappear around the corner.
Despite every sensible instinct I possessed, I smiled.
Because Chicago's most intimidating man had discovered I could make him laugh.
And apparently one front-row ticket wasn't going to be enough.
The next evening, however, his seat was empty.
At 8:29, I told myself I didn't care.
At 8:30, I checked again.
Still empty.
At 8:31, the host introduced me.
I walked onto the stage irritated at myself for being disappointed.
Then a waiter approached the stage carrying a cup of coffee.
“Delivery for Natalie.”
The audience laughed.
I frowned.
There was a folded note beneath the saucer.
I opened it.
Three words.
Turn around, comedian.
I turned.
Enzo Caruso was standing at the back of the room.
And beside him was a woman beautiful enough to make every insecurity I'd spent years turning into jokes suddenly stop being funny.