Damien
"Alright, everyone, that was Don Vicent, a rising star in the acting industry. Don, thank you so much for your time. It was a pleasure talking to you," the host of Evening Talks with Celebrities said with a practiced smile. EC, as it was commonly known, was a popular night talk show in the region, drawing millions of viewers every Friday evening.
"Thank you, it was an honor," I replied, facing the center camera with a smile that felt mechanical but did the job. The audience was swooning, and that was all that mattered.
"And cut!" someone yelled from behind the camera. The show was pre-recorded and would air tomorrow night. As soon as the director's voice echoed, the set erupted into activity. I stood abruptly, signaling Mike, who had taken on the role of my manager, to follow me.
"Eh, wait, Mr. Don," the host called out, blushing. "I thought maybe, since we had such great chemistry during the recording, we could go to dinner?"
I nearly rolled my eyes. What chemistry? My "chemistry" was a finely tuned act—a performance designed to mirror and amplify her cues. That's what I did: read people and give them what they wanted.
Before I could respond, Mike stepped in. "I'm sorry, Mr. Don has to return home to his lovely wife," he said smoothly.
I nearly kicked him. Lovely wife? As if. But for the sake of appearances, I walked away without a word.
Behind me, I could hear whispers about how rude I was, but I didn't care. I wasn't like those actors who stayed behind to bask in the spotlight or curry favor. I didn't need anyone's good graces in this life.
By the time I reached the parking lot, Mike was hot on my heels. "Do you always have to leave like that?" he grumbled, opening the car door for me. "I can't keep putting out fires for you, Damien. One day, this is going to bite you in the ass."
"I don't care," I replied curtly, opening my iPad.
"What's she been up to?" I muttered to myself, scrolling through the app that tracked Cleopatra's movements. It wasn't spying, not really. The tracker was a precaution, installed to ensure she wasn't secretly working with the De Luca traitors who'd killed my twin. I'd never used it before today, but after her unexpected appearance earlier, I couldn't ignore it any longer.
Mike's voice cut through my thoughts. "Are you spying on your wife?"
"She's not my wife," I snapped. "And use her name."
"Fine. Are you spying on Cleopatra, the mafia princess?" he said with exaggerated emphasis. I shot him a glare.
"I'm not spying. I'm just looking," I corrected.
Mike rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure. But you've got to admit, that was weird. Imagine if I'd walked in and called you Damien instead of Don. We'd be screwed."
"Not necessarily," I replied. A year ago, on the day of our farcical marriage, maybe I would have cared. Now? Cleopatra and I barely existed in each other's worlds. She hadn't even bothered to attend the ceremony. Not that I'd wanted her there.
Mike slammed on the brakes as we approached a red light. "What do you mean? The Santigas are just as powerful as your family, maybe more so. If Cleopatra found out you were impersonating her real husband, she'd kill you. And I'd be collateral damage!"
"Quit whining. The Santigas are fools," I said dismissively. "Cleopatra's the only real mafia among them, and even she's no match for me."
"And how would you know that?" Mike asked, narrowing his eyes.
I hesitated. I'd looked into the Santigas months ago. Their "power" was a facade, propped up by wealth and a reputation for cruelty. In reality, they were bums—a family of indulgent cowards who preyed on the weak. But I couldn't tell Mike that.
"I just know," I said nonchalantly.
Mike sighed. "Tch. Does this have something to do with those days when your phone's off and you disappear?"
I glanced up from my iPad. "What are you, my wife?" I scoffed. "I can turn off my phone whenever I want."
"What's the point of having a manager if you don't tell me anything?" he shot back.
"You're not my real manager. You're my cousin," I reminded him.
"Exactly! All the more reason you should tell me your secrets," he retorted.
I sighed, deciding to throw him a bone. "Fine. If you must know, I've been… restructuring."
"Restructuring what?" he asked suspiciously.
"A gang I bought a few months ago," I admitted.
Mike nearly swerved off the road. "You did what?! Damien, are you insane?"
"It's strategic," I said calmly. "The De Lucas are fractured, and the Santigas are incompetent. There's a vacuum waiting to be filled."
"This is going to get us killed," Mike muttered, shaking his head. "And you're still going to the De Lucas tonight?"
"Of course, why wouldn't i?" I said.
He sighed, " Whatever, just be careful, I don't want you to take this revenge thing too far. Buying a gang? what on earth were you thinking?" He muttered the last part.
As usual, I ignored him. This was why I did not want to tell him. To catch a tiger you have to act like one, to kill the mafia, then you become the mafia.
"Drop me at the apartment. A car to their estate is waiting for me there." I said to him after a period of silence.
Mike sighed, his tone turning serious. "You know, you could just tell the world you're from a mafia family. It'd make your life easier."
"But I'm not," I said curtly. "I don't have a family. This isn't my identity."
"Yeah, but Don is. And Don's a mafia kid," he pointed out.
I smirked bitterly. "It's not Don who doesn't want to acknowledge it. It's his so-called family. They see his career as a disgrace."
Mike didn't respond. He just shook his head as we pulled into the parking lot of my apartment. He didn't need to say it—I already knew this tightrope I was walking could snap at any moment. But until then, I had my plans, and I wasn't about to stop.