Still, the stars got even with him before the picture was over. Ren had been garroted, set on fire, beheaded, and castrated-that one had hurt. Now he was being publicly drawn and quartered for driving America’s movie sweetheart to suicide. Except-wait a minute-that was his real life, wasn’t it? His very own, very real, very fucked-up life.

All the screaming was making his head pound. He glanced back up at the screen in time to watch blood spray as the redhead bit the dust. Tough luck, sweetheart. That’s what you get for being taken in by a pretty face.

Neither his head nor his stomach could tolerate more, and he slipped out of the darkened movie theater. His pictures did big business internationally, and as he eased into the milling crowd that was enjoying the warm Florentine night, he glanced around to make certain no one recognized him, but the tourists and locals were too busy enjoying the busy street life to take notice.

The last thing he wanted to do was deal with fans, so he’d taken time to alter his appearance before he’d left his hotel room, even though he’d been functioning on less than two hours of sleep. He’d slipped in some brown contact lenses to hide his trademark silver-blue eyes and let his dark hair-still long and sleek from the picture he’d finished shooting in Australia two days earlier-hang free. He’d also neglected to shave, hoping the stubble would camouflage a chiseled jaw that might have been passed down from his Medici ancestors. Although he’d rather have worn jeans, he’d costumed himself in the elegant garb of a wealthy Italian: black silk shirt, dark trousers, exquisite loafers with a scratch across one toe because he was as careless with clothes as he was with people. Keeping a low profile was a relatively new experience. Generally, if there was a spotlight around, he liked to make certain it was shining on him. But not right now.