The national tour should have been the happiest thing that had ever happened to me.
For approximately forty-eight hours, it was.
Then Enzo started asking questions.
Not jealous-boyfriend questions.
Enzo Caruso questions.
Who owned the venues?
Who handled transportation?
Who controlled security?
What company insured the tour?
Who had final approval over promotional material?
At first, I found it sweet.
Then irritating.
Then alarming.
We were having dinner at my apartment when I finally put down my fork.
“You know I'm going on a comedy tour, right?”
“Yes.”
“Not invading a country.”
His expression didn't change.
“I'm asking reasonable questions.”
“You asked for the driver's employment history.”
“He'll be responsible for you.”
“He'll be driving a bus.”
“Exactly.”
I stared at him.
“Normal people don't say ‘exactly’ there.”
Enzo leaned back.
“I want you safe.”
“I know.”
“Then what's the problem?”
“The problem is you keep treating my career like a building you're acquiring.”
His jaw tightened.
“That's not what I'm doing.”
“It feels like it.”
He looked away.
I knew enough about Enzo now to recognize the signs.
The stillness.
The careful voice.
The retreat behind control.
I softened.
“Enzo.”
He looked back.
“I spent six years building this,” I said. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“No. I don't think you do.”
I stood and walked toward the kitchen window.
“When I started comedy, everybody had advice. Lose weight. Dress differently. Don't talk about dating. Talk more about dating. Be nicer. Be meaner. Smile more. Smile less. Don't scare men. Don't make women uncomfortable. Don't swear. Swear more.”
He listened.
“I finally figured out the only way to survive was to stop asking permission.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“You're trying to make decisions around me.”
His face hardened slightly.
“I would never interfere with your career.”
That sentence mattered.
I remembered it later.
At the time, I believed him.
Enzo came to my first major theater show two weeks later.
Fifteen hundred seats.
Sold out.
I stood backstage shaking.
He found me five minutes before showtime.
“Nervous?”
“No.”
“You're lying.”
“Deeply.”
He adjusted the collar of my jacket.
“You've performed for drunk bachelor parties at midnight.”
“Correct.”
“You've survived hecklers.”
“Yes.”
“You've insulted me publicly.”
“Repeatedly.”
“And I'm terrifying.”
“According to Google.”
His mouth curved.
“You'll be fine.”
I grabbed his hand before he could leave.
“Stay where I can see you.”
His eyes softened.
“Always.”
That night was magic.
Every joke landed.
Every pause worked.
The crowd rose at the end.
Standing ovation.
I walked offstage crying.
Marcus grabbed me.
Enzo was behind him.
I ran straight into Enzo's arms.
He held me while I laughed and cried at the same time.
“I did it.”
“You did.”
“I really did it.”
“You were incredible.”
For one perfect minute, there was no Caruso reputation.
No gossip.
No danger.
No insecurity.
Just a woman who had finally reached the stage she'd dreamed about and the man who had watched her get there.
Then I noticed a stranger standing near the dressing-room door.
Tall.
Expensive coat.
Smiling.
“Natalie Russo?”
Enzo's arm tightened around me.
The stranger noticed.
“My name's Grant Mercer. We haven't officially met.”
I recognized it.
Grant Mercer had produced three of the country's biggest comedy tours.
“Of course.”
He shook my hand.
“You were terrific.”
“Thank you.”
“I've been trying to reach Marcus.”
Marcus appeared.
“You have?”
Grant smiled.
“I think we're thinking too small with twenty-two cities.”
My heart stopped.
“How small?”
“Forty.”
I laughed because I assumed he was joking.
He wasn't.
“Forty cities?”
“Potential streaming special at the end.”
I looked at Marcus.
He looked ready to pass out.
Then I looked at Enzo.
He wasn't smiling.
Grant noticed.
“Problem?”
“No,” Enzo said.
But I knew him.
Something was wrong.
Later, in the car, I asked.
“What's your issue with Mercer?”
“I don't trust him.”
“Why?”
“He's had business problems.”
“What kind?”
“People who work with him sometimes discover the deal wasn't what they thought.”
“My lawyer can handle the contract.”
“Natalie.”
“No.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were going to.”
His jaw shifted.
“I know men like him.”
“And I know my business.”
“Do you?”
The second the words left his mouth, silence filled the car.
Enzo closed his eyes.
“Natalie—”
“Pull over.”
“I didn't mean—”
“Pull over.”
He did.
I opened the door.
He caught my hand.
“I'm sorry.”
I looked at him.
“Never do that.”
“I know.”
“No, listen to me. Never make me feel like I got here because I don't understand my own career.”
“I won't.”
I pulled my hand free.
“I love that you want to protect people. Your mother. Lucia. Marco. Me.”
His eyes changed at that last word.
“But protection stops being protection when the person you're protecting doesn't get a choice.”
He nodded slowly.
“You're right.”
I wanted that to solve it.
For a while, I thought it had.
The forty-city offer moved forward.
My attorney negotiated.
Marcus negotiated.
I negotiated.
Enzo stayed out of it.
Or so I believed.
Then strange things began happening.
A hotel suddenly upgraded the entire touring staff.
A venue in Detroit replaced its security company two days before my appearance.
A driver Marcus had hired was quietly removed after a background issue surfaced.
Each time I asked Enzo, he denied involvement.
Technically.
“I didn't make the decision.”
“Did somebody who works for you?”
Silence.
“Enzo.”
“I made a phone call.”
“That is making the decision with extra steps.”
“The driver had two DUIs.”
“Then tell me.”
“You would've thought I was interfering.”
“You were interfering!”
We fought.
We made up.
Then fought again.
The more successful I became, the more Enzo worried.
The more he worried, the more he controlled.
The more he controlled, the harder I pushed back.
Meanwhile, the internet loved us.
Pictures appeared everywhere.
Me leaving his restaurant.
Enzo at my shows.
Giuseppe the stuffed flamingo sitting in the back of his Bentley after I'd forced him to transport it.
People turned us into a romance before we had figured out what we were ourselves.
Then Grant Mercer called me.
“I've got news.”
“Good?”
“Very.”
The streaming platform wanted the special.
I screamed.
Marcus screamed.
We hugged.
I called my mother.
I called Rosa.
I called Lucia.
Then I called Enzo.
No answer.
That was unusual.
I tried again.
Nothing.
At eleven that night, he appeared at my apartment.
He looked exhausted.
“Where were you?”
“Working.”
“You couldn't text?”
“I'm sorry.”
I studied him.
Something was off.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Enzo.”
He took off his coat.
“Mercer's company has financial problems.”
I stared.
“How do you know?”
“I had someone review it.”
“You investigated my producer?”
“I investigated a business partner who controls forty dates of your life.”
My stomach tightened.
“Without telling me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew you'd say no.”
There it was.
The sentence that cracked something.
I stepped backward.
“You knew I'd say no, so you did it anyway.”
“I found something.”
“That doesn't make it okay.”
“He owes money.”
“To you?”
“No.”
“To people connected to you?”
Enzo didn't answer.
My stomach dropped.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“What did you do, Enzo?”
“I made sure the tour financing was stable.”
“How?”
Silence.
I understood.
“You put money into it.”
“Indirectly.”
My face went cold.
“You invested in my tour?”
“It wasn't—”
“Without telling me?”
“Natalie.”
“How much?”
“It doesn't matter.”
“It matters to me!”
He stepped closer.
“I wasn't buying your career.”
“Then what were you buying?”
“Security.”
I laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“You promised me.”
“I was trying to protect what you've built.”
“No. You were trying to control whether it could fall.”
He looked genuinely wounded.
That made it worse.
“Do you know what people will say if they find out?”
“They won't.”
I stared at him.
That answer told me everything.
He had made sure they wouldn't.
I grabbed my coat.
“Where are you going?”
“Marcus's.”
“Natalie.”
“I need space.”
“I can fix this.”
I turned at the door.
“That sentence is exactly the problem.”
I left.
The next morning, my phone had 117 notifications.
Marcus called before I could open any of them.
His voice sounded wrong.
“Natalie, don't go online.”
Of course I went online.
The headline was everywhere.
COMEDY'S NEWEST STAR FUNDED BY SECRET MAFIA BOYFRIEND?
Another:
NATALIE RUSSO'S CAREER BOUGHT BY ENZO CARUSO.
Then the ugliest one.
FROM FRONT ROW TO NATIONAL TOUR: WHAT DID NATALIE RUSSO REALLY TRADE FOR FAME?
My hands started shaking.
Someone had leaked documents showing money connected to Enzo's companies moving into Mercer's tour financing.
Photographs of us were attached.
Dates.
Contracts.
Hotel upgrades.
Security changes.
Everything.
The implication was unmistakable.
I hadn't earned anything.
Enzo had bought it.
And because I was a woman dating a powerful man, the internet filled in the rest.
I called him.
He answered immediately.
“Natalie—”
“Did you see it?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me it's fake.”
Silence.
“Enzo.”
“The documents are real.”
My eyes filled.
“But the story isn't.”
I couldn't speak.
He said my name.
I ended the call.
Then another notification appeared.
Grant Mercer had released a statement.
He claimed he'd been pressured by “outside financial interests” connected to Enzo.
And just like that, the entire country believed the worst thing anyone could say about a woman who had spent six years fighting to be taken seriously.
That I hadn't earned my success.
That I'd slept my way onto a national stage.
And somewhere behind the headlines, someone had known exactly where to stab.