What the hell. He could tolerate his own company for a few weeks until the heat from Karli’s suicide died down and he felt more like getting back into the swing of things. For now, the idea of moving around incognito was novel enough to keep him entertained.

He looked up and realized he’d wandered into the center of Florence, the crowded Piazza della Signoria. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been alone. He made his way across the cobblestones to Rivoire and found a table under the awning. The waiter appeared to take his order. Considering his hangover, he should stick with club soda, but he seldom did what he was supposed to, and he ordered a bottle of their best Brunello instead. The waiter took too long delivering it, and Ren snarled at him when he reappeared. His ugly mood came from lack of sleep, booze, and the fact that he was tired all the way to his bones. It came from sweet, sad Karli’s death, and a general feeling that all the money and all the fame still weren’t enough-that no spotlight could ever shine bright enough. He was jaded, restless, and he wanted more. More fame. More money. More… something.

He reminded himself his next film would give it to him. Every actor in town wanted to play the villainous Kaspar Street, but only Ren had been offered the job. It was the role of a lifetime, the chance for top billing.

Slowly his muscles unwound. Making Night Kill would involve months of hard work. Until filming began, he intended to enjoy Italy. He’d relax, eat well, and do what he did best. Leaning back in his chair, he took a sip of wine and waited for life to entertain him.