Page 51 of Love Unscripted
When Carlo asked to meet, Camille hesitated—not because she feared him, but because she feared her own heart. She knew how easily old wounds reopened. She had prayed about this very thing.Lord, show me how to forgive without being foolish.
“When?” she asked.
“Today. I’ll be in Malibu, so I thought it would be a good time to chat.”
“That’s a little sudden. I have an appointment today.” Her bi-monthly spa treatment.
“Oh.” His disappointment was audible.
“But maybe I can reschedule,” she said hurriedly.
“I won’t take long. Just a few things I wanted to discuss.”
Camille was seated on the patio by the pool, eating a large plate of spaghetti and meatballs, when her housekeeper, Luma, approached.
“Miss Carlucci, your father is here to see you.”
She lifted her glass of soda. “Let him come out here.”
She heard him before she saw him—his voice animated, charming, keeping up a running commentary that had Luma laughing helplessly. Then came the scent of his expensive cologne, moments before he appeared.
Carlo was dressed in a perfectly tailored three-piece dark blue suit in a luxurious wool-cashmere blend, finished with a statement watch that probably cost more than most people’s annual salary. He wasn’t conventionally handsome—average height, average build, unremarkable features—but what he lacked in movie-star looks, he made up for in sheer charisma.
Growing up, Camille had pieced together fragments of his story.
He was the son of Italian immigrants who never quite made it. His father had been a construction laborer and part-time hustler. His mother did laundry work, washing and ironing for others.
Carlo hated that life. He longed for something more. He learned early how to read people the way others read textbooks and he made a life out of smooth words.
He liked to say he had been born with a gilded tongue—and people believed him. He could charm suspicion into silence, glide past questions, and close a deal before anyone realized one had been made.
Then he met Rita Santos.
They crossed paths on the set of a jewelry commercial. Carlo played a minor role behind the counter; Rita was the luminous centerpiece—a young woman dazzled by engagement rings. Under the lights, her long dark hair caught the glow, and something in him sharpened.
He pursued her with intensity.
Rita, young and hopeful, was swept up in it. Before long, the life they had pretended to sell on camera began to take shape around them—rings, promises, a future imagined in bright, glittering strokes.
But Carlo’s charm was a veneer.
His money came from hustles. From half-truths polished into opportunity. Rita didn’t understand the extent of it until after they were married.
By then, the unraveling had already begun.
Two years later, Camille was born into a household under strain. Money was tight. Rita’s career had stalled.
But Camille—
Camille was extraordinary.
People stopped to look at her. Cameras loved her instinctively. Rita entered her into small competitions at first, and Camille won them all. That led to commercials. Then small roles. Then more. Doors began to open for Camille that had never opened for Rita and she pushed them wide.
At four, Camille was discovered at a recital by a talent scout who saw star potential in the tiny girl with the captivating brown eyes. Television followed quickly.
Camille would later say,what four-year-old wants to be working?And she hadn’t liked it—not really. Yes, she was tutored on set, but her life was never normal. It was lines to memorize. Agents to meet. Interviews to give. Appearances to make. She was groomed. Everything she did was preparation—for the big time. Acting. Singing. Dancing. Media training. Even how to smile.
The family reshaped itself around her. Rita became her manager and Carlo took control of the money.
