PARIS
Anton adjusted the cuffs of his black suit, staring at himself in the mirror.
Deja vu!
His preparation room felt exactly like the inside of the trailers he used in between sets during his acting days.
When life was good.
But this wasn't Hollywood, and he wasn't here for a movie, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that was the case to calm his nerves. He really was about to step into the most dangerous role of his life: Don Anton De Carlo.
He leaned in closer to check his reflection. "Alright, Anton," he muttered to himself. "You've got this. Just try not to trip on the stairs or something stupid like that."
Just then, Luna walked in, all ready for the event. Her gown was blood-red, with a slit so high it could've caused a scandal in a church. She smirked when she saw him talking to himself.
"Nervous, darling?" she teased, her Italian accent smooth and sharp.
Anton turned to face her, crossing his arms. "No I'm not," he lied.
