NICOLE LAM

A Date with the Mafia Boss

 Copyright © 2022 by Nicole Lam

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 Contents
Also By The Author
Chapter 1–The Date
Chapter 2–The Kiss
Chapter 3–The Family
Chapter 4–The Delivery
Chapter 5–The Secret
Chapter 6–The Past
Chapter 7–The Escape
Chapter 8–The Ex
Chapter 9–The Parents
Chapter 10–The Confrontation
Chapter 11–The Information
Chapter 12–The Sisters
Chapter 13–The Revelations
Chapter 14–The Deal
Chapter 15–The Truth
Chapter 16–The Answers
Chapter 17–The Invitation
Chapter 18–The Dinner Party
Chapter 19–The Stripper
Chapter 20–The Abduction
Chapter 21–The Meeting
Chapter 22–The Lost Girl
Chapter 23–The Mission
Chapter 24— The Chance Meeting Pt. 1
Chapter 25— A Chance Meeting Pt. 2
Chapter 26— The Introductions
Chapter 27— The Two L’s
Chapter 28— The Will
Chapter 29— The Martell Sisters
Chapter 30— The Manhunt
Chapter 31— The Past
Chapter 32— The Other Woman
Chapter 33—The Puppy
Chapter 34–The Second Date
Chapter 35—The Best Friend
Chapter 36—The Investigation
Chapter 37—The Associate
Chapter 38—The Threat
Chapter 39—The Heartbreak
Chapter 40—The Betrayal
Chapter 41—The Kidnapping
Chapter 42—The Leak
Chapter 43—The Agent
Chapter 44—The Prayer
Chapter 45—The Departure
Chapter 46—The Flight
Chapter 47—The Arrest
Chapter 48–The Steeles
Chapter 49–The Eiffel Tower
Chapter 50–The Journey
Chapter 51–The Martells
Chapter 52–The Reunion
Chapter 53–The End
Want to read more about Katerina and Alexander?
Want to read about Abigail and her prince?
About the Author
 Also By The Author

For Love & Money Series

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The Mafia Boss & the Christian Girl
The Royal & the Rich Girl

Sweet Hollywood Romance Series

For The Record
On The Beat
 Chapter 1–The Date

Christina Martell
Red lips, curled lashes, and just a touch of mascara. Dark brown hair and
matching eyes from both my mom’s Chinese heritage and my dad’s European
ancestry. Pale skin from my mother’s constant warnings to wear sunscreen
that I can never really shake off. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, and for
the first time in weeks, all I feel is anticipation.
Not anxiety, not fear, not a gut-wrenching frisson of panic—just pure,
unadulterated excitement. I’m looking forward to my first date as a newly
single girl tonight. And I refuse to let anyone—not even Lucas, my cheating
ex-boyfriend who apparently can’t take a hint because he won’t stop calling
—take that away from me. As if on cue, my phone buzzes once and then goes
to silent, since I blocked his number.
I flip over the phone to check for any other notifications, and a text greets
me from my Tinder date. I’ve booked a table at Cavalli’s for two. 8 o’clock.
I’ll pick you up in half an hour. Yes, that dating app. A few months ago, I
was desperate, and my friends signed me up. I didn’t think I would get much
use out of it unless I wanted to garner a collection of unsavoury pictures from
strange men, but it turns out that there is life after a devastating breakup. It
comes in the form of finding possibly the only decent guy on a whole
plethora of weirdos, jerks, and perverts in the proverbial sea of men called a
dating app: Antonio Cavalli.
 From the internet-stalking that I have done on him, I found out that he
quite literally checks my (very few, to admit) boxes for a romantic partner,
which are: a guy who is financially secure, spiritually mature, and taller than
me when I wear heels. And I wear some pretty high heels.
After all, it isn’t like I have the best luck with men. Lucas, who I was
dating since senior year of freaking high school, brutally cut things off with
me by inviting me over to his house and forgetting to mention that he had
company. A very female, very naked kind of company, in his bed. Even
though he claimed to be Christian like me, and saving himself for marriage—
that was what really broke my trust. That was not my idea of a fun Friday
night.
“But this will be,” I say to myself, touching the cross-shaped pendant at
my throat. “It has to be.”
Great, Christina. Now, you’re talking to yourself.
Oh, well. If I can’t talk to myself, there is one person who I can always
talk to: God. And so I say a quick prayer before I gather my stuff to head out.
Heavenly Father, please let me have a good date tonight. I pray that You
would bless the conversations that we have and that You would help me to
trust my gut and see if this man is a good person or not, but more importantly
if he is Your disciple. I pray that we would get there safely and just have a
fun time. In Your Son’s precious name, Amen.
When I look up, I see the time. It’s already seven-thirty, so I quickly grab
my keys, phone, a tube of lipstick and packet of Kleenex, and shove them
into my black, glittery clutch. Then, I add a canister of pepper spray for good
measure, in case it goes sour and I get catfished. With one last once-over
towards the outfit that I was agonizing about for an hour, but finally settled
on (a black dress that was fitted but classy, and nude pumps), I make my way
to the door. Maybe it’s silly, but I feel like Cinderella, waiting for a carriage
to take her to the ball.
Yep. You’ve definitely been watching too many Disney movies, Christina.
There is no Prince Charming ready to sweep you off your feet.
The doorbell rings. I jump up to answer it and I almost trip in the
Louboutin heels that are necessary to make me a full five-foot-nine instead of
my average height of five-foot-five. A splurge, but worth it for this date.
“I’m coming!” I call out, taking hurried steps to the door. Opening it, a
rush of cold air sends a shiver down my spine… but not as much as the very
tall man holding a bouquet of roses and standing on my welcome mat does.
He’s insanely tall, definitely over six feet, with dark hair that curls slightly,
wearing an actual suit. I can’t help but compare him to Lucas’s five-foot-ten
frame, his rumpled jeans and tee shirts, maybe a sport jacket if he was feeling
fancy. He never dressed like this, not even for our first date.
“Hi, Christina,” he says, stepping inside my little apartment. His grey
gaze lights on the framed pictures, the neat stack of mail on the entry table,
and the row of hooks half-filled with jackets by my door, before finally
landing on me. My name has never sounded so good in anyone’s mouth. “It’s
good to see you in person. You look exquisite.”
“Antonio. I could say the same for you,” I reply, taking the flowers from
him and holding them to my nose, inhaling the sweet scent of the petals. My
heart thuds at the compliment. “These are beautiful! Thank you. I’ll just… go
put them in water.”
He follows me into my small kitchenette (pathetically consisting of one
sink, a microwave, hot plate, and minifridge) and leans against the counter
while I find a vase. “This is a nice place.”
I cringe in embarrassment at my less-than-stellar surroundings as I turn
on the tap and fill a ceramic vase that a friend made for me in a pottery class.
“You don’t need to lie and be polite. This apartment is really all I can afford,
because, you know, student loans…”
My voice trails off as I see him reach out and trace a finger over the
painting on the wall, making my heart lurch. The already-minuscule
apartment feels even smaller with him in it, all six-foot-something of him
taking up a heck of a lot more space than I do. I don’t think there’s enough
air in the room.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. We all have to start somewhere, right?”
He’s pivoted away from the artwork and now looks directly at me, grey eyes
piercing into mine.
I suppress a gulp and nod, before looking down and realizing that the
vase is now overflowing. Oops. “Mm-hmm. I’m just gonna… put this
somewhere.”
His eyes stay on me the whole time. I feel my hands tremble slightly, and
mentally I shake my head at myself. All this over one little look? It’s not as
though he touched me or anything. But there’s something raw and intense
and genuine about that expression, something that speaks of dropped guards
and authenticity and the painful, real truth. Then I shake my head for real. It
really has been too long since I’ve been on a date. It’s making me crazy.
“So.” He stands up straight, no longer leaning on my counter, and offers
me his arm. “Let’s go.”
I tuck my hand into the crook of his elbow, repressing a grin that
threatens to overtake my whole face. What a gentleman. “Let’s.”
We take the stairs down to the apartment building’s lobby because the
elevators are being repaired (they have been under repair since I moved in six
months ago, but I don’t tell him that) and step outside. From the appearance
of his expensive-looking suit that is no doubt a brand like Ted Baker or even
Armani, I expect him to have a nice car. An Audi or a Lexus, maybe.
Something that doesn’t fit into this working-class neighbourhood.
I sure as heck don’t expect the limo that pulls up to us—or the driver that
rolls down the tinted window and says, “Mr. Cavalli. Miss Martell.”
Biting my lip to keep a squeal from escaping my throat, I get into the
backseat through the door that Antonio opens for me before sitting next to
me. Dumb, maybe, but I really do feel like Cinderella.
“Holy crap…” I breathe. “You own this?”
His face is impassive. Unreadable. “No, I stole it. We’re going for a
joyride.”
I laugh awkwardly. “This is really nice. It must have cost a fortune.” I
pause, hoping I don’t sound like a gold-digger. “So, what do you do to afford
all this?”
“Most of it is inherited, but I do have a… rather lucrative side business
that keeps me busy.” He smiles at me, brilliantly charming and blindingly
attractive.
My heart squeezes. I think my body has reordered its insides itself, so that
it’s able to live off of one of his smiles alone. “Day-trading?” I guess out
loud.
Antonio shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. I stop
breathing. I don’t think I believed in actual physical chemistry until this very
moment. I think I have been settling for half-hearted, chaste kisses and
awkward handholds until right now, when one look from him leaves me
literally weak in the knees.
“Keep guessing what my job is, and we might leave this date having
talked about nothing else. Is that what you want?” There’s a subtle coldness,
a kind of brick wall that has gone up with those words.
I smooth my hands over the skirt of my dress and look down. Barely five
minutes into our date and I’m already messing up. “Apologies.” Maybe he’s
embarrassed. Maybe he’s a plumber. “So…”
“Apology accepted. Enough about me, then. What do you do?” He cuts in
swiftly.
“I just graduated, so I’m actually working part time at a grocery story
right now. If you want a discount on cereal or toilet paper, I’m your girl.” I
wince slightly at my words. He looks like he doesn’t shop for discounted
anything. And toilet paper? Really?
He smiles again, more subtle than the first. Like he knows my thoughts
and is reassuring me. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The rest of the conversation goes more smoothly until we get out of the
limousine and step out onto the sidewalk in front of Cavalli’s, the newest and
trendiest restaurant in New York City.
The name jumps out at me.
“You’re a restauranteur?” I wonder, turning from the brightly-lit sign to
him. I try to look him in the eye, but even in heels I have to look up and he
has to bend his neck slightly for it to happen.
“My brother owns this place,” he replies, not quite meeting my gaze. I try
to brush it off as the height difference. “Come on, Christina.”
He holds the door for me, and my heels click as I walk inside.
#
Velvet armchairs and mahogany booths are clustered around a central,
circular bar. The noises of people chatting and laughing filter towards me,
quiet strains of jazz music interwoven with their voices. My stomach growls
softly, and I realize I haven’t eaten since my lunch break at work, which was
noon—eight hours ago. Pasta is heaped on people’s china plates, the steam
rising and delicious aromas drifting over to us.
“Mr. Cavalli,” a pretty brunette hostess greets us. She’s clearly Italian,
with golden skin and glossy dark hair that rivals mine in length. “Table for
two, right?”
He nods, putting a hand on the small of my back. Something vital inside
my body starts to combust.
“Here are your menus, and your server will be with you shortly.” She
smiles and hands us two leather-bound menus.
“Thank you, Monica.” He takes both menus from her, setting them on the
table.
I freeze momentarily—he knows the hostess’s name? Then, as she walks
away, I realize she’s got a name-tag pinned to her black blouse, and my
shoulders fall in relaxation.
“So,” he says, turning to me. “What do you want to eat?”
“What do you recommend?” I throw back. First-date jitters are a real
thing, and they flutter in my stomach right now, wrecking my newfound
appetite.
“Everything here is good.”
He slides me a menu, and I take it, white-knuckling the embossed leather
to keep my hands from shaking again. Why am I so nervous? I have no
freaking idea. God, help me.
“Maybe you’re just saying that because your brother owns the place,” I
counter, a smile tugging at my lips.
“I would say it whether or not he did,” he replies, flipping open the menu.
“Do you like seafood?”
“I love seafood,” I say brightly, looking at the array of options and trying
to ignore the prices. Since he pulled up in a limo, I’m pretty sure he can
afford dinner for two here.
“Then, I recommend the shrimp risotto,” he says firmly. “Paired with a
white wine.”
I shake my head immediately, tendrils of my hair escaping from their
tight bun. “I don’t drink.”
He shrugs. “Then neither will I.”
Just like that. Is it so easy?
But sooner or later, the voice of doubt and insecurity reminds me, he’ll
get sick of it. He’ll look for a girl who’s more ‘fun’ and can let loose a little.
Just like Lucas…
I bite my lip, looking down at my menu. Unexpectedly, he reaches out
and tilts my chin up. “Christina, tell me what’s wrong.”
It’s a commanding tone. Stern. It puts me at ease, a wave of security
washing over me. “It’s…” Nothing, I should say. But I don’t. “I recently went
through a bad breakup. But I’m pretty sure it goes against the etiquette of a
first date to talk about it.”
“Who said anything about etiquette?” Something in those charcoal eyes
ensnares me, makes me think—no, know—that he’s not one for etiquette, for
social conventions, for playing by the rules.
“He cheated on me,” I blurt out, words in a tumble of breath and sighs.
“That’s all.”
“He betrayed your trust and hurt you immeasurably,” Antonio says
quietly, firmly. “That’s not all.”
“Can I take your orders?” The waiter comes at the worst possible time.
“The lady will have the shrimp risotto, and a lamb ragout for me please.”
He folds both menus shut and passes them to the waiter, never breaking eye
contact with me.
This feels like more than a first date. It feels like the beginning of a lot of
things.
I sip my water. “I—how can you know that?”
“I’ve been betrayed before,” he states simply. “It’s not a pleasant
sensation.”
“No,” I reply softly. “No, not at all.”
The food comes after we change the conversation to a more lighthearted
topic. I learn that he’s adopted and has multiple siblings. He still doesn’t give
me more than hints at what his career is. I share about my boring retail job
and the annoying customers that pass through the Co-op. Conversation flows
as freely as the wine I see others drinking, and by the time the waiter brings
us dessert menus it feels like I’ve known him forever.
“Chocolate cake or lemon meringue pie?” I put my hand on my chin
philosophically, like this is the hardest dilemma in the world.
“Get—” He’s interrupted by sudden shouts and a door slamming open.
“Hands where I can see them!” A suited man wielding a gun calls out. I
squint, my heart pounding so loud I can hear my pulse roaring in my ears,
and see a bulletproof vest that says… “DEA!”
DEA? I frown. What does that stand for?
“Drug Enforcement Administration,” Antonio murmurs to me, reaching
for my hand before pulling away. He stands up and motions for me to do the
same. “Come here.”
In my panicked, dazed state, I obey. “What are you doing?”
“Do you trust me, sweetheart?”
A thousand voices scream at each other in my mind. But God’s is the
loudest: I am in control. Go with him.
I nod, just once. He seizes my hand and we start running.
 Chapter 2–The Kiss

Antonio Cavalli
Sirens sound and lights flash, an all-too-familiar situation for me. But
definitely not a familiar one for the girl with glossy hair and milky skin, with
red lips and a look of determination mingled with fear on her face, the girl
whose hand is in mine.
“What now?” she asks softly.
The question startles me. By now, I’ve doubtless proven myself to be a
criminal or at least involved in some sketchy business since I just ran away
from the DEA, which no law-abiding citizen would do. Heck, I’m surprised
she even agreed to come with me instead of throwing her the contents of her
glass in my face and storming out—which is what my last date did when she
found out about my… lucrative side business.
“Hey, you two! What are you doing here? Don’t you know there are
authorities in that restaurant?”
I whip my head over, a scowl darkening my features. Of course, it’s
Hortensio Filipetto, the new ‘busboy’ we hired recently. I had a feeling the
Filipettos were on the verge of betraying us, but I didn’t know how deep that
treachery would run. Far enough to tip off every authority in the New York
area, by the looks of it.
I see a few members of those authorities hot on Hortensio’s heels right
now and think on my feet. Whispering two words I rarely say—I’m sorry—I
lean down and press my mouth to Christina’s.
She smells sweet, like some kind of flower, and her lips are soft. Her
body is pliant, yielding to me, fingers tentatively twining in my hair. Even in
four-inch stilettos, I’m still too tall and she has to tilt her head back at an
awkward angle to reciprocate, to go along with my dishonourable plan. It’s a
chaste, close-lipped, first-date type of kiss. But I doubt it would convince the
handful of officers watching us that we ducked out of the restaurant because
we were overcome by passion and lust and all manner of unholy feelings. So,
I reach down and slide my hands to cup the backs of her knees, easily lifting
her up to my height.
Someone wolf-whistles after a second and I set her down just as rapidly
as I picked her up. She staggers back slightly. A world of emotions swims in
those deep brown eyes: shock. Indignation. Anger. Desire? She lifts her hand
and for a moment I think she’s going to slap me, but she brushes her hair over
her face instead, hiding her expression. She doesn’t meet my gaze.
Before I can process what I just did, a voice jars us both from our daze.
“Excuse me, sir, but are you aware that a drug raid is being conducted inside
this restaurant?”
“Oh, is that what the commotion was about?” I remain nonchalant,
holding Christina to my side as a car whizzes by and splashes muddy water
into the sidewalk. “The lady and I were just finding a place to…” I grin
sheepishly, knowing that expression conveys more than any words ever
could.
“I see,” one of the officers says, distaste in his tone. His mustache bobs
up and down as he speaks. “Well, don’t let me keep you.”
He gestures to the other cop, and I tense. The other guy isn’t a policeman
after all, but according to his bulletproof vest, he’s FBI. And his eyes widen
at the sight of us.”Christina?”
Her mouth, now smeared with her previously perfect red lipstick, falls
open. “Lucas?”
“You’re… on a date.” He says the fact like he can’t quite believe it. I tuck
her slightly behind me, out of his line of sight.
“Well, I couldn’t have stayed single forever, no matter how much you
hurt me.” Her shoulders square, her spine straightening. I edge in front of her
protectively. She feels like mine even if she’s not.
“I—” he steps forward, about to say something
But I cut him off. “Christina, sweetheart. We need to get to that thing,
remember? Or else we’ll be late.”
She nods and walks with me, not even waving goodbye to the man I now
know to be her ex.
“Are you okay?” I turn to her, concerned.
She nods again, dark eyes now blank, and clutches the cross necklace at
her throat silently. Her voice is soft, gentle when she speaks. “Let’s go, right?
We have somewhere to be?”
The limo screeches to a halt in front of us before I can say anything more
to her and before I can sort through my thoughts. Who else betrayed us?
Hortensio is too foolish, too short-sighted—he couldn’t have done it alone.
Was it Monica, the new hostess we just ‘hired’ from the Espositos, that so-
called textile family with a much darker underbelly? My mind spins.
“Where to now?” Christina asks, staring warily at the car. I collect my
thoughts.
“You have a choice, sweetheart,” I say, low enough that only the two of
us can hear. I hold her brown stare with my grey one, and let the car idle. The
driver, Roberto, steps out and holds open the door for us. “You can leave, and
pretend that this never happened, that we never met. Or, you can get in, and
your life as you know it will never be the same.”
I hold my breath in spite of myself. She’s just a girl. Just a girl that I took
on a date, just a girl with more money than she knows, just a girl that I
kissed. She’s just a girl. So, really, I don’t care if she gets in or gets shot. She
steps into the car. I sigh and get in after her, hearing the door click shut.
“I guess I know your job description now,” she murmurs, still clutching
the necklace at her throat. “Drug dealer.”
Crossing one leg over the other, I laugh gruffly. “Sweetheart, you don’t
even know half of it.”
“Well, I suppose it’s my own fault,” she says with a chuckle that sounds
almost unhinged. “I should have specified in my bio, no drug dealers or any
other kinds of criminals.”
“I think drug dealers don’t usually peruse Tinder, browsing for dates.” I
point out, opening the mini fridge and taking out a sprite.
“Peruse?” A frown knits her dark brows together. “What kind of drug
dealer uses the word peruse?”
The kind like me, I want to say. “The interesting kind.”
She starts laughing and doesn’t stop.
#
Christina Martell
I literally cannot keep myself from laughing. The sound pours out of me,
panicked and half-hysterical. Of course, I have the worst taste in guys. First
Lucas and now this. Now him.
An actual drug dealer. An actual drug dealer just stole my first kiss on our
first date, which ended with us on the run from the actual police and God
knows who else. If I were the kind of person who cursed, this would be the
time to do it.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t God’s voice, telling me to trust
Him, telling me to go with this man. Maybe it was my own voice, wanting
danger, wanting excitement. Maybe it was someone else, the heat of the
moment getting into my head. Would God ask this of me?
My fingers curl into fists and unfold one by one, over and over. I feel my
mouth move silently, and realize I’ve stopped laughing. Just one phrase sits
on my tongue: trust Him. Not the man sitting across from me that is speeding
away from the restaurant, to an unknown destination. But the God who
watches over everything and everyone. I bite down on my lip when I sense
Antonio watching me and my slight mental breakdown.
“What?” I snap out, a little too harshly. He takes something out of his
pocket—a handkerchief?—and holds it to my face.
For a moment I think that it’s probably chloroformed and that I’m going
to pass out any moment now. Then, he gently wipes the messy lipstick off of
my face and sets the handkerchief in my lap. “There.”
His touch is soft, yet firm. But for all I know those same calloused hands
could just as easily hurt a man, fire a gun, hold a knife. For all I know, he
could kill me and make it look like an accident.
I try to figure out how I should respond, and go with politeness.
“Thanks.”
Antonio nods in response, opening his can of pop. It fizzes. He must
really be fine with not drinking because I see an array of alcoholic beverages
in there too that he could have picked. Which is kind of how I feel—there is
probably a veritable army of girls that he could have chosen to go on a date
with. A girl out there who would be better for him, than me.
 Someone okay with breaking the law, someone fun and spontaneous and
exciting… Someone who’s used to going on the run from the FBI, DEA, and
police. I picture this imaginary girl in my head for a moment: a leather jacket,
probably wearing black from head-to-toe, an edgy haircut more exciting than
my stick-straight, way-past-shoulder-length-and-should-probably-get-a-trim-
style. A bad girl. Not someone like me.
“We’re here.” He interrupts my interlude.
I uncross my ankles and try to look out the tinted window, not letting him
see the thoughts that are probably written on my face. “Okay.”
We get out of the car. My jaw immediately drops open at the sight before
me. It’s an actual house, in New York City, on the Upper East Side. Those
rarely exist, and this one… the word ‘house’ doesn’t do it justice. It’s a literal
mansion.
“Where are we?” I gaze at him. We can’t still be inside the city. There’s
too much green space, too many beautiful, sprawling houses dotted across
lush fields.
Antonio gestures a hand over the whole estate. “Welcome to Twin Peaks,
Southampton.”
“Wait… who owns the limo you picked me up in?” I immediately
question him.
“I do, sweetheart. I own all of this.”
 Chapter 3–The Family

Christina Martell
My phone rings in my clutch, and I scramble for it. I check the caller ID:
Mom. I swipe to answer it before I can think, and press the phone to my ear.
“Hello?” I say. “Mama?”
Behind me, Antonio towers over my smaller form, his body heat
wrapping around me better than any coat, as I take wobbly steps like a
newborn fawn, in stilettos that sink into the grass. I can still feel his lips on
mine, his palms securely gripping my legs and lifting me up around his
looming form.
“Aiyah, Christina, did you hear about the restaurant downtown? There’s a
drug raid going on.” My mother’s faint Cantonese accent washes over me
soothingly, the familiar sounds transporting me back to a simpler time that
was hours ago and yet felt a lifetime away. “It was at that expensive place.
What’s it called again? Something Italian…”
“Cavalli’s,” I say automatically, and sense Antonio’s gaze on me. “That’s
the restaurant.”
She gasps. “Weren’t you there on your… date?”
My mother is too dramatic. I sigh, not wanting to lie to her. “Yeah, it
wasn’t a big deal.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of boxes being unloaded from
the trunk of the limo. All of them are stamped with the words FRAGILE
AND FLAMMABLE—drugs, maybe?
“So, Lucas stopped by the house the other day. He was returning some of
your things. Did you know he got a new job?” My mother prattles on,
changing the subject, so I try to focus on the conversation once more.
I clear my throat, trying not to think of Lucas’s face when he saw me with
Antonio. He looked so shocked. Am I really that undesirable that no one else
would want to date me? “Yes, I actually, ah, just ran into him.”
I meander closer to the grand house as she speaks. “I don’t know why you
are going on a date when you know Lucas would take you back in a
heartbeat, lah.”
Antonio falls into step next to me as the men discreetly unload the last of
the parcels and bring them into a side entrance of the house.
“For the last time, Mama, I’m not going to take him back. He. Cheated.
On. Me.” I emphasize the words, not even bothering with being quiet.
Antonio might as well know the full, dirty truth since he knows half of it
already.
“You could take him back…” my cell reception starts to break up, and I
stop short in front of the entrance to the mansion’s grounds.
Not knowing if she can still hear me, I keep talking anyways. “I know in
Hong Kong polygamy and adultery were legal until the seventies, but it’s
definitely frowned upon in America.”
She sighs and says something I can’t hear before the static crackles and
becomes clearer. “Be safe, okay? I love you.”
I echo the sentiments and hang up.
All of a sudden, I hear an electronic beep. The gates to the gravel
pathway, which curves toward the mansion entrance, open and I flinch,
stumbling back in my high heels. My head hits something hard, and I wince
as a faint pain radiates through my skull. Suddenly, I feel a large hand rest on
the small of my back. Courtesy of Antonio Cavalli, drug dealer and
gentleman.
“Are you okay?” He asks, and I realize that we are way too close
together, because I can feel his voice vibrate through my body. “I know that
all of this is… a lot to take in.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” I comment, stepping quickly forward without
tripping this time and going to see more of the estate.
There’s no other word to describe this place except ‘estate’: beautifully
manicured green grounds, wrought-iron gates with neatly trimmed hedges,
and colourful flowerbeds lining the front of the house. Black slate roofs and
honey-coloured stone make up the house. A balcony with shining French
doors, which reflect the sunset, wraps around the top floor of the house,
parallel to the front porch below. It’s almost like something out of a fairytale
—except for the criminal underworld that no doubt awaits me inside.
“Christina, I—” Antonio’s voice comes from behind me but he cuts
himself off as the melodic sounds of feminine laughter drift towards me.
A young woman wearing jeans and a t-shirt, pale-skinned with bright
blue eyes and sleek black curls, runs out of the house. She looks to be around
my age and chasing after a cute, chubby toddler that looks around two or
three years old and is excitedly darting after a small, equally adorable
dachshund puppy. Maybe she just has a youthful face, but she looks too
young to have a child that age.
“Tony! Stop chasing after the dog. One of these days the dog will get hit
by a car and you with it. Is that what you want?” she scolds when she finally
catches up to the child, and scoops him up in her arms, ignoring the dog that
whines at her feet. She looks unfazed by my appearance, and I see a faint
resemblance between the toddler she carries—Tony?—and Antonio. They
have the same, faintly tanned skin imported straight from the Mediterranean
and the same dark hair.
Are they…?
“For the last time, Adelina Carina Cavalli, Tony will be fine. We all lived
whether we ran after dogs or not.” Antonio holds out his arms to the kid who
ignores him, squirming to be let down. “Ah, I see that you spend all day with
your zia Allie and she’s destroyed any manners you could have had, Tony.
This is how you greet your zio?”
I frown at the Italian words, half-trying to translate them from my meagre
knowledge of high school French and other Romance languages. Tio means
uncle in Spanish, so that must mean… they’re his aunt and uncle.
“Hey! He didn’t have any manners, to begin with. Bianca never taught
him any,” Adelina—Allie—points out, refusing to let the toddler out of her
grasp. She struggles for a free hand and finally rests him on her hip. “Hi, it’s
nice to meet you. I’m Adelina Cavalli, but you can call me Allie.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Christina Martell. You must be
Antonio’s…” I purposely trail off, waiting for one of them to fill in the gap.
They don’t look like siblings. Then again, Antonio did say they were adopted.
“Sister,” they both blurt out in unison. The tension in my shoulders
unwinds slightly, and I relax, able to make a face at the toddler that stares
intently at me.
“And this is Tony Cavalli, named after his uncle. He’s our nephew, I just
always get roped into looking after him when she’s working,” Allie
introduces me to the tyke, and before I can blink or do anything to recoil, the
little boy licks his tiny palm and smashes it in my face.
I laugh, staggering back a little. Antonio has moved instantly from his
sister’s side to steady me. Again. Maybe I should stop wearing heels.
Adelina looks between the two of us with interest. “Are the two of you on
a date? I have to say, Christina, you don’t look like the kind who’d be into
going to a guy’s place on the first date.”
“Oh, well…” I flail helplessly for the words, no one tossing me a lifeline.
“We’re kind of on the run from the cops, the FBI, the DEA, and maybe also
the CIA. And, also we ran into my ex-boyfriend and had to go.”
“What kind of dates are you going on, Antonio? That sounds like fun,”
yet another girl calls out. She appears almost out of nowhere, dressed in a
sleek, white dress, and looks older than Allie and I, around Antonio’s age.
“I’m Bianca, the mother of this little guy. He didn’t give you too much
trouble, did he, Adelina?”
She asks the question as if daring her to say yes. Allie rolls her eyes and
mutters, “Not at all.”
Antonio’s younger sister sounds utterly unconvincing. I can relate.
“Well, let’s get into the house before it rains, then,” Antonio says, his
hand still on my back. Still guiding me, still leading me. I’m still uncertain of
where exactly he’s leading me, and if it won’t be into certain death.
 Chapter 4–The Delivery

Antonio Cavalli
I usher Christina and the other girls into the house. Meanwhile, I remain
outside for a moment to check in with Roberto that everything went smoothly
at the restaurant—aside from the unfortunate tip-off, of course.
“Did the date run long enough for you to get everything I asked for from
the restaurant?” I ask him.
Cavalli’s is one of the many money-laundering sites that we operate
worldwide (in New York, Dubai, Hong Kong, Montreal, Paris, and Milan just
to name a few) as well as a place that makes actual money. We have hired the
best chefs paid them enough to be discreet, while all the servers are of course
actual members of the Cavalli family or our associates.
“Yes, signor. We’re unboxing them as we speak and I’ve ordered them to
be loaded into the freezer. Everything should be finished by one if it goes
according to plan,” Roberto explains.
I frown. “Why one AM? It’s not that big of a job.”
He sighs, not quite meeting my eye. I frown more, because in all the time
that we’ve known each other—since he started working for my father when I
was a young boy and he was my age—Roberto has been nothing but honest
with me and loyal to my family. “Your sister, signor. Signorita Cavalli
demanded that half of the staff be commandeered to help with her shopping
purchases.”
 Of course, she did. “Bianca would do that.”
He chuckles. Not quite family enough to criticize her, not quite employee
enough to deny it. “If that is all, signor?”
I nod and walk into the house.
Twisting the ring on my thumb, a plain metallic band with the letter C
engraved in calligraphy, I survey my surroundings. Outside of the mansion,
dark clouds brew and thunder rumbles, certain signs of the storm ahead. My
sisters, Christina, and I sit in the living room, and my date watches the storm
through the bay window, twirling a strand of dark hair around her finger. I
sense that she doesn’t want to talk to me, doesn’t want to be here: her back is
to me, her posture stiff and cold, her free hand white-knuckled in the fabric of
her black dress.
Meanwhile, Bianca and Allie chat excitedly about something that I have
no interest in, their dark heads bent close together while my nephew, Tony,
sleeps, worn-out, in the nursery upstairs. Allie is pale, with blue eyes and jet-
black hair—not graced with the golden complexion and rich brown hair of
everyone else in the family. Even though a lot of the Cavalli children are
adopted, they’re usually adopted from poor Italian families or rival gangs, but
Adelina is much paler and probably has some English or Irish heritage. She
and Bianca have always been my sisters, however, no matter how different
they look from each other.
All of a sudden, they turn to Christina in unison.
“So, how did you and Antonio meet?” Bianca asks. A cunning expression
comes into her brown eyes, one I am wary of. She’s always been too devious
for her own good. Bianca is twenty-eight and after our mother’s death, she
became the matriarch of the Cavalli family, taking her place by my father’s
side. I suppose that allows for a little shrewdness.
 Christina turns away from the window and stares down at her glossy
fingernails, painted blood-red and matching her lips. “We matched on
Tinder.”
“Really?” Allie gives me a look that is hopefully inscrutable to Christina.
My baby sister has always been able to read me better than anyone else has.
“I didn’t know you were on Tinder, Tony.”
My teeth grit at the childhood nickname. Ever since Bianca named her
child that (after her husband, whose name is Anthony) it has irritated me even
more. It feels childish, infantile. A reminder of the past—and Lord knows I
hate those.
“Well, now you know.” I spread my hands wide as if surrendering
weapons. It’s an ironic gesture to those who know me, to those who know
that I always carry at the very least a blade on my person. “Enough of this.
It’s getting late.” It’s barely ten o’clock and we all know it. “Why don’t one
of you show Christina to her room? I have some business to take care of.”
Christina gives me a blank stare. Numb, perhaps, with shock. Doubtless,
she is overwhelmed by all that has transpired this evening, and the night is
still young. Questions probably flow through her mind, but she asks none of
them in the seconds that pass. Finally, her lips move. “Good night, then,
Antonio.”
I repeat the words and stare back at her as she gets up and goes with
Allie, moving slowly. Languidly. Like she has all the time in the world and
like her life didn’t just turn upside down. Her black dress sways as she
moves, her bun coming undone down her back. If I let myself, if I give in, I
can still feel her soft locks of hair between my fingers, can still smell the
scent of her perfume, can still remember every millisecond of that too-brief
kiss. I turn on my phone and scroll through my notifications to avoid thinking
about it more.
In the end, my sisters squabble and fight each other for the role before
they both decide to bring her to one of the many guestrooms. The sound of
three pairs of stiletto heels clicks away on the marble floor, disappearing into
the depths of the cavernous house. I sigh but don’t allow myself to relax. In
reality, the night has barely begun.
Christina Martell
I pad downstairs in fuzzy slippers and a silky bathrobe that I borrowed
from Adelina. It’s too short on me, barely skimming my thighs, and a pale
bluish-purple colour that reminds me of hydrangeas. Doubts and fears flood
my mind despite the prayer I just uttered before intending to go to bed before
I realized that I was not getting any sleep tonight in the worst way possible.
Is my mother wondering where I am? She is, after all, the overprotective
kind of parent who got SnapChat just to stalk me on the SnapMap until I
turned my location onto ghost mode after breaking up with Lucas. We
usually talk at least twice a week, and I can’t imagine lying to her about this
sudden shift. How could one night change my life so drastically—one night
that hasn’t even ended yet? It feels like this night has gone on forever, and
according to the kitchen clock—which reads 11 PM—, it’s barely started.
“Can you put that box over there? To the left—no, your other left,”
Antonio’s voice drifts towards me from the kitchen. I’m surprised that he
would be supervising a food delivery; he seems wealthy enough to have
servants for that.
I keep going into the kitchen, looking for a drink of water or even warm
milk. Maybe it will help me with my insomnia. Instead, all I find is more
intriguing things that will no doubt keep me wide awake.
 “Is that… seafood?” I ask, staring at the multiple lobsters, crabs, and
prawns packed in ice that are visible through some half-open boxes, which
are being loaded into an enormous walk-in freezer that has a combination
lock on its vault-like metal door.
Antonio starts at my voice before pivoting to face me. “It is. Could you
not sleep?”
Straightforward lines. Nothing romantic or flowery or poetic—really,
what did I expect? I’ve just intruded on the man’s privacy while he’s
overseeing something in his kitchen. His home.
“No, I couldn’t.” A beat of silence. I try desperately to fill it. “Your, ah,
house is nice.”
“It’s not mine.” His words aren’t harsh, but they are simple. Stating a
fact. This house isn’t his. Then whose is it? “Do you want hot chocolate or
something? I can get someone to make you a cup.”
I relax slightly at the offer, shoulders relaxing in their slippery blue robe.
Tightening the belt at my waist, I stay behind the kitchen counter to keep him
from seeing my bare legs. “No, it’s fine. I think I should go to bed now. I
don’t… I don’t know why I came down here.”
“Christina,” he calls as I start to leave. “Come here for a second.”
I am pulled, tugged, beckoned by those words, by that command, by the
way that his tongue caresses my name, and I walk over to him. “Yes,
Antonio?”
“Are you… having second thoughts about… about all this?” His hands
float around the room like he’s trying to encompass everything into one tiny
word. The night. The fleeing-from-the-cops. The Tinder date to begin with.
The fact that he’s a very, very rich criminal. “You can leave if that’s the case.
I’d need you to sign an NDA, but… you can leave at any time if you are
uncomfortable. Okay?”
I sigh. I should leave. I should get out of this kitchen. I should get out of
this house. I should probably leave the country. Yet something inexplicably
anchors me here. “I’m not leaving. I just want to know… What’s really in
those boxes?”
A grin curves across his face. “Ah, Christina.” He steps closer, hands
falling to my waist and heating my body from that one touch. “Trust me. You
don’t want to know.”
 Chapter 5–The Secret

Christina Martell
I power on my phone the next morning, my unfamiliar surroundings and
last night’s events making me want to feel grounded, stabilized. So I open the
Bible app on my phone to read a few verses and pray. Heavenly Father, help
me. I may not be able to see the end of the path You are leading me down but
I know that You do. You are watching over me, Lord, so help me to have
faith. Help me to do Your will no matter where I am. I pray this in Jesus’
precious name, Amen.
Just as I am clicking out of the app, about to get ready for the day and
maybe take a shower, a message pings my phone. Can we talk? —Lucas. I
really ought to have deleted his number earlier.
I breathe deeply, trying to figure out how to respond. Why do you still
have this number? And, I hadn’t realized there was anything to talk about. —
Christina.
Instead of texting back, he calls me. I don’t want to be petty, but… he’s
FBI now. Maybe he can help me with the predicament I have found myself
in?
“Good morning,” he says when I pick up. “Sleep well?”
Really? He’s going to play this game?
“What do you want?” I answer him brusquely.
He sighs. “Don’t be like that, Christina.”
 I fight the urge to roll my eyes at the condescending line. Instead, I suck
in another deep breath, drumming my the fingers of my free hand on my
thigh. “Please tell me why you called, Lucas.”
“You used to call me Luke,” he recalls, not answering me. The memory
makes me want to cringe as I scoot closer to the edge of the bed, not quite
ready to get out from beneath the warm covers yet.
“I also used to think you were a loyal, faithful boyfriend,” I say through
the gritted teeth of my fake smile. “People can change.”
The light filtering through the window is sad and grey like it is close to
raining again. Last night, I tried desperately to fall asleep to the sounds of
thunder and watched the flashes of lightning through the sheer curtains.
Tossing and turning before finally shoving a pillow over my head, I am
surprised I didn’t suffocate in my slumber.
“Look, don’t be a hypocrite, Tina.” His voice turns whiny and critical,
and I almost drop my phone in shock. Me, hypocritical?
I pick up a hairbrush and jerked it savagely through my tangled hair.
Ouch.
“How am I being a hypocrite?” I struggle to keep my voice level. “And
who gave you permission to use that nickname?”
He ignores both of my questions. “That’s beside the point. Look, I don’t
know how you got involved with these… these criminals, but they’re no
good, Christina! That guy is a literal drug dealer!”
Pacing the room, I turn my conversation onto speakerphone. Then I pick
up my clutch and rifle through it, searching for a tube of lipstick or concealer
or anything
Pacing the room, I turn my conversation onto speakerphone. Then I pick
up my clutch and rifle through it, searching for a tube of lipstick or concealer
or anything that will be useful and make me look a little less like an extra in
The Walking Dead.
“And yet he somehow managed to treat me better on one date than you
ever have in our relationship, Lucas. Goodbye.” It’s more spiteful than I
intend to be. I go to press the END CALL button, but I miss and end up
knocking my phone off the table. “Crap.”
He keeps talking as I bend down to scoop it up. “Christina. Are you still
there?”
I bite back the word ‘unfortunately’ that springs to my lips and say
simply, “Yes, I am.”
“I know I’ve offended you. But frankly, I don’t think you can call
yourself a Christian, and be so…so rude and cold to me at the same time.
Don’t you think God requires you to forgive me?” That smarmy voice really
does worm its way into my heart, penetrates into my thoughts, without my
permission.
So this time I hang up. For real. And then I start thinking of ways to keep
from tearing my hair out, or driving back to New York and tearing his jugular
out. Because that would only prove him right: I didn’t forgive him, not really.
I am not behaving in the way that God asks of me. But did he when he
cheated on me? When he broke my heart and shattered my trust?
I dig my teeth into my lower lip, still taking long strides through the room
but feeling more caged, more trapped. I need to get out of here. My thoughts
begin to spiral down a dark cloud, rain metaphorically and literally pouring
down. What am I doing in a drug dealer’s house, wearing his clothes, eating
his food—well not quite—and fraternizing with his family? What am I doing
at all?
I fling open one of the closet doors before stepping back in shock. It’s full
of my clothes. I can hear my heartbeat roaring in my ears, still riled by the
phone call and the accusations thrown at me. I blink twice, staring into the
wardrobe: black Rag and Bone skinny jeans, white silk blouses, little black
dresses. It’s what I usually wear, but… classier. I finger one of the outfits and
look at the tag: a size 4, also what I usually wear.
If I was the kind of person to swear, now would be the time to do it.
#
I storm down the stairs, half-shaking with indignation and half-numb with
shock. One of the garments—a black, knee-length leather dress—is still
clutched in my trembling hand.
When my eyes alight on Antonio, I have to use every ounce of willpower
I possess not to let my face warp into that of a madwoman. Because I am mad
at him, for being way more than a Tinder date—for bringing me to his house,
for making me have to lie to my mother, for turning my life into a mess in
less than twenty-four hours.
“Good morning, Christina.” He’s leaning against a black marble counter
with leather barstools lined up beside it, a mug of what must be coffee in his
hand. “Sleep well?”
I smile at him; it’s a smile I’ve perfected over the years of listening to my
mother’s lectures and tirades as a child. A smile that says, I may appear to
agree with you but I’m already plotting your murder. Maybe I am a
hypocritical Christian like Lucas says.
“Can you explain this to me?” I hold up the dress, my smile slackening a
bit as his expression remains the same: blank, nonchalant, at ease.
“It’s a dress,” he stated flatly. “Is there some deeper meaning I am meant
to derive from it?”
I hear whispers from my left and it faintly registers in my mind—with the
help of my peripheral vision—that Adelina and Bianca are present, though
they quickly scatter. Antonio takes a step toward me. I hold out the dress
between us as if to ward him off.
“Why am I here? Why did you take me on a date last night?” I ask him.
My voice is softer than I would like, more gentle, like I’m speaking to a child
instead of a criminal.
He doesn’t really answer my question, just making yet another stride to
me instead. “Do you remember what I told you last night?”
The intoxicating scent of spices and musk fills my head and I struggle to
breathe, to think. I put out my free hand and wind up touching his chest. “I…
you told me that I didn’t want to know.”
“The same answer applies here,” he says, and then starts to back up, walk
over to the coffee pot to refill the cup in his hand, like this is just a casual
morning chat about the weather.
“No it doesn’t!” I shout, louder than I intended to. He doesn’t flinch or
wince. Why would he? I’m sure he’s encountered far scarier things and
people than me, the stuff of my nightmares barely scratching the surface of
his everyday life. “I want to know why you have a closet full of clothes that
are exactly to my taste and why you picked me, out of all the girls in the city
of New York, to be your date last night.”
His face is still guarded—stony, even—as those grey eyes pierce mine.
“Why not?”
“That’s not an answer,” I snap. Hot tears sting my eyes. This is why I
hate getting angry. I always end up crying. “Please, can’t you just be honest
with me?”
“Why didn’t you leave?” He says abruptly, emotion flashing across his
face all of a sudden. “Why didn’t you get the hell out the second you knew
who I was, what I do? You could have left. I would have let you go. But you
didn’t. Were you scared of what I might do to you?”
I suck in a breath, processing his words even as my mind scrambled for a
comeback. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Answer my question and I’ll answer yours.”
 Chapter 6–The Past

Antonio Cavalli
When I was a child, my mother would take me to Mass every Sunday.
I remember being fascinated by the priests in their solemn robes, the
beautiful stained-glass windows, the vaulted ceilings. I recall hard-backed
pews and squirming in them as I listened to the ancient Latin words wash
over me while my mother sat enraptured every week, understanding every
word of it since she had once been married to a classics professor before
meeting my father. She had been widowed, not divorced, which allowed her
to take the “Corpus Christi” or the body of Christ. If I close my eyes now, I
can still taste the Eucharist wafer, still smell the incense, see the wax of the
candles as they glow in a dark room full of hushed prayers.
If I close my eyes now, I am back in that magnificent cathedral, doing my
best not to let the whispered gossip drown out the priest’s intonations. The
nonni would murmur in Italian, saying phrases like she killed her first
husband to be with a criminal or that poor child, who knows how he will turn
out with parents like those? When I tried to talk to their bambini, their
parents would be dragged away as if I had a disease, something infectious
like chicken pox. Sometimes I wished I were sick, just because illnesses had
cures, vaccines. A soiled reputation and a set of criminal parents did not.
When I confronted my mother about the rumours, she neither denied nor
confirmed them, only folding me into her arms and saying, “Nos eos non
egemus, meus filius.”
We don’t need them, my son.
And I wanted so desperately and completely to believe her, did my best to
take her words as gospel, around the growing crack that had split open my
heart and kept on widening. That is exactly how I feel right now, with
Christina standing in front of me, with her brown eyes wide and expectant:
trying to patch up my heart with hollow words, fighting the judgment I know
is to come.
“Why did you stay, Christina?” I say lowly, evenly. “And why the hell
won’t you leave?”
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t cry, doesn’t break down. She barely blinks at
me as she maneuvers her body onto the counter, crossing one leg over the
other and I am momentarily distracted by the realization that her nails are
painted the same colour as her mouth was last night: a stark, blinding red.
Right before I kissed her and wiped it off.
Finally, she breaks into my recollection and speaks. “I think you need to
ask someone else that question, Antonio. I just follow orders.”
I suck in a breath like I’ve been shot. Maybe it would feel better if I had
been. This girl is nothing like I expected in all the best and worst ways
possible. “Sweetheart, who the hell are you working for?”
Is it the FBI? Is that why her ex was there last night—she texted him?
Maybe this is some long undercover sting for her to take down my
business…
Now she does blink, rapidly, her fluttering lashes hiding her brown eyes
from me. “What do you mean?”
“You only do as you’re told.” I take a step closer to her, watching her lips
part wordlessly. “But who is telling you what to do, Christina Martell?”
 “Notre père dans le ciel,” she answers without hesitation. The French
words, as well as their meaning, surprise me, but it is close enough to Italian
and Latin that I can understand it: Our Father in Heaven.
“Deo, me adiuva,” I mutter beneath my breath.
Though I have not thought of God in years, have not bothered to utter any
prayers until now… I need some kind of divine interference because I have a
feeling that I had highly underestimated Christina Martell. I have a feeling
that I had thought there was far more to her than the information I had
originally gleaned from a dating profile and a carefully curated dossier. I
almost wish she had told me she did take her orders from some higher-up at
Quantico. Because… God? How could I fight, how could I escape God?
“I see,” I say, my voice audible this time. “Do you still want to know why
I brought you here, Christina Martell?”
She cocks her head at me, glossy waves of dark hair falling onto one
shoulder. “Why do you keep saying my full name?”
“One question at a time, sweetheart.”
I had moved closer to her without realizing it. I should move back—it
would be the polite thing to do. But I am done being polite, done playing
games when the truth is about to come out. Reaching for the mug of coffee
next to her thigh without really meaning to drink it, I place my other hand on
the cold stone next to her. Just to see how she would react.
And her gaze drops momentarily to the placement of my hands, one of
them gripping the counter inches from her leg before she met my eyes again.
“Then please just tell me… why did you bring me here?”
I sigh, taking a sip of coffee. “You’re not who you think you are,
Christina. You are… Did your mother ever tell you who your father is?”
She freezes, her body paralyzing with fear. Somehow I don’t think she
would normally freeze, but I really have pushed her into a corner. She can’t
back up. She can’t move forward because it would mean touching me. I
should let her go…
“What does my father have to do with anything?” From the shrill tone of
her voice, I can tell it is a soft spot for her. Sadly, I can relate. “He is dead.”
“Yes.” I suck in a deep, ragged breath, then exhale. “But he made you the
heir to his—”
The window in the kitchen explodes into thousands of glass shards.
#
Christina Martell
I have no time to process anything that he’s said about my father or my
family when all of a sudden, broken glass is strewn across the floor and
Antonio has pulled me off of the kitchen counter and tackled me to the
ground, landing on top of me. Breathing heavily, I try to brush the hair from
my face but my arms are pinned to my sides by a six-foot-five Italian guy. I
shift, attempting to roll over on the hardwood so that my nose isn’t smashed
against the ground. The window was broken on the other side of the kitchen,
so all the broken glass is across from us, not near us. My breaths come in
shallow pants, all of it too much to take in. First, the conversation. Now…
now, this.
“Let me go,” I say quietly, my heart thudding against my rib cage with so
much force that it feels like it might shatter. For some reason, even though he
is right on top of me, I think that he might not have heard so I repeat myself
more loudly. “Antonio. Let. Me. Go.”
“No,” he says simply. “I don’t know if the danger has passed.”
“What was that? A brick or something?” I snap, wanting to turn over so
that I can see his face, feel less like a damsel in distress. In his arms, safer as
it might be, I feel really, really… small. Helpless. Weak, caged beneath his
much larger frame as I am. “Antonio?”
He is staring at the wall directly opposite the window. A red dot, like that
of a laser beam, is centred on it. Is that…
“A sniper,” he says calmly. How is he so calm? Of course, he’s calm.
Lucas’s words from this morning echo in my head: he’s a criminal! “I need
to get out of here.”
I need to get out of here. Not we need to get out of here.
“What—What about me?” My voice is muffled when he carefully eases
his weight off of me, accidentally putting his hand over my mouth with an
apologetic “excuse me.”
I can’t excuse him. We just got shot at, for Christ’s sake!
“Christina, you’re barely associated with me. I trust you, no one is trying
to kill you.” He pushes himself into a planking position, his body hovering
inches from mine. “What you need to do is go home, and pretend last night
never happened, and you’ll be just fine, okay? I promise you.”
Antonio looks down at me, his grey eyes boring into mine with an
intensity that forces me to trust him. His forearms are on either side of my
shoulders, the heat and scent of his skin cloaking me: cloves and some sort of
musk—masculine, oddly reassuring.
I swallow hard, my chest rising and falling against his. “Okay. But your
promises had better be unbreakable.”
That’s a foolish line to spout when I know that only God’s vows are
unbreakable. That people are the ones who keep damaging those covenants.
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
Somehow that line itself seems to be a double entendre and I shut my
eyes for a moment, trying to understand what is going on. When my eyes
open, Antonio’s body no longer covers mine and I feel naked, vulnerable, and
unprotected. He carefully avoids being in the line of sight of the sniper who
must be shooting from the window and backs slowly out of the kitchen. I
follow him, feeling awkward as we make it to the relative safety of the living
room and relax. Until a noise registers in my brain.
“This is the FBI! Open up!”
 Chapter 7–The Escape

Christina Martell
I run out the back entrance, the servants’ door, as directed by Antonio,
while I hear the clatter of high heels—either Allie or Bianca, no doubt, going
to answer the door. He is right behind me, his footsteps heavy as they crunch
against the gravel that forms a pathway to the enormous garage next to the
house. Wincing, I realize that in all the excitement I’ve forgotten to put on
my shoes and stumble to a stop. Crap.
At my back, Antonio sighs. “Come on.”
Before I realize what he’s doing, he’s already scooped me into his arms
and quickly runs toward the garage with me as if I weigh nothing. My fingers
twine behind his neck as if by instinct, not wanting to fall. One of his arms
supports my shoulders and the other is at the backs of my knees. His body is
warm, and I marvel at how I have been physically close to this man in
inappropriate situations for too many times in less than twenty-four hours. I
zero in on the garage door, not wanting to face him in such an intimate
position. We make it into the garage to the sounds of gunshots and I
wonder…
“What about your sisters?” I ask, leaning my head against his solid chest.
“They’ll be fine. This is not their first rodeo.” He deposits me in a
nondescript black sedan with a driver waiting and then shuts the door.
I roll down the tinted window, suddenly panicked. “Wait!”
 His impassive grey eyes stare back at me. “What is it, Christina?”
“What… what about you, Antonio?” I buckle my seatbelt and then fold
my arms across my chest. “Where will you go?”
“Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I’ll be fine. I’m sure I’ll see you
around.”
And just like that, the driver rolls the windows back up and the car begins
a steady journey back to New York. My phone suddenly begins to buzz with
dozens of notifications and I squint at the first one, turning the brightness
higher. It’s a news article: DRUG RAID AT NEW YORK RESTAURANT. I
click on it.
Cavalli’s, the hottest new eatery in New York, was subject to a raid last
night. At this time it is still unknown who the authorities were looking for and
why they thought the high-end restaurant would have illegal substances. One
witness, who prefers to remain anonymous but claims to have contacts in the
FBI, says they saw a tall, dark-haired man fleeing the scene with his
companion.
My heart sinks at the description but I keep reading.
The raid was conducted unsuccessfully and no drugs or criminals were
found. At this time, the authorities are not disclosing any more information.
The FBI, CIA, and the DEA were all present. Patrons of the restaurant were
generously compensated for their trouble.
I click out of the article and keep scrolling through my notifications. One
text from my best friend, Thyra: how did your date go? A series of messages
from my mother: Lucas says he saw you last night. Why does she talk to him
so much? Did you two get back together? He says he called you this morning
too. Where are you? You missed our brunch this morning. I check the time:
12:45 PM… Yep, I definitely missed it.
 Should I call 911?
Did you spend the night at some boy’s house?
I’m coming to your apartment.
Why has your apartment been ransacked?
Oh, crap. I stare at the accompanying pictures she has sent. My couch has
had the stuffing pulled out of it, springs sticking out. Overturned furniture is
everywhere. The hardwood floors are scratched up and papers have been
yanked out of their files and thrown all over the my woven rug. A few chairs
have had their legs broken and my vase of roses has been shattered, water
everywhere.
I’ve called the police. You had BETTER get home now.
My fingers drum against my bare knees. I realize that I’m still holding the
black leather dress somehow along with my phone, though I forgot to get
dressed. I left my clutch back in the room in my fit of rage. At least I keep the
important stuff, like my subway card and ID, in my phone case. Quickly, I
shut the partition in the car and change into the black dress, wishing I had
shoes. Just as the thought pops into my head, the driver rolls down the
partition and turns around at a red light.
“By the way,” he says in a raspy New York accent like he’s smoked one
too many packs of cigarettes. “The boss left this for you.”
He passes me a shoebox and I open it to find a brand new pair of Manolo
Blahnik’s. “Thank you!”
Glossy nude pumps that perfectly match the dress, with a three-inch heel,
short enough for me to walk in. I hug the box to my chest and feel silly for
getting so emotional about shoes. But they’re a gorgeous gift and I
immediately slip them out of the box and put them on
At least there’s a spot of light in this otherwise bleak day. My apartment
has been ransacked and I’m practically doing a happy dance over a pair of
shoes. Christina Martell, get a grip on yourself.
My mom texts me again. WHERE ARE YOU?
I text back: On my way home.
Then, she asks, Where were you last night?
I swallow thickly. She will not be happy to know that I spent the night at
Antonio’s place even though it was perfectly innocent. A snort escapes me. A
perfectly innocent night spent at a criminal’s house. Although he told me it
wasn’t his house, so there is that. My mind starts to spiral again and I have to
say a silent prayer.
In the end, I reply with: Date went badly. Stayed at a friend’s place.
It’s a half-truth.
The car reaches my apartment before I wonder how, exactly, the driver
knows my address. Then I recall that Antonio was probably spying on me.
By probably, I really mean most likely. By most likely I just mean definitely.
I hop out of the car, thank the driver, and begin a mad dash to my
apartment through what appears to be a small but steadily growing throng of
journalists. A lump forms in my throat at the sight but I keep moving until I
reach the elevator and punch in the button for my level, heart pounding
against my ribs.
What is going on?
 Chapter 8–The Ex

Christina Martell
“Honey, are you okay?” my mom asks me when I stand in front of the
door to my apartment. No yellow police tape or men with guns bar me from
entering, but my fear holds me back, afraid of what I might find. Or who I
might find.
“I’m fine,” I tell her, swallowing nervously. The hallway feels very cold
all of a sudden, even though it’s July and there’s no air conditioning my
apartment building. My mother hugs me, sensing my discomfort. She’s a few
inches shorter than me when I don’t wear heels and half a foot shorter when I
don the Manolo’s that Antonio got me.
I pat her on the back and fix my gaze on a yellowing spot in the popcorn
ceiling. I think it’s beer. Or at least, when I moved in I hoped it was. The
carpets are tattered and stained, the old-timey wallpaper peeling.This is a far
cry from the luxury of the Hamptons house I was in a few hours ago.
“Your shoes are too high,” my mother tsks, breaking the tender moment. I
don’t mind. “You’re going to sprain your ankle.”
Sadly this is very likely. My ankles are the kind that injure themselves at
the slightest provocation, I can twist them just walking down the stairs
without any heels at all. It’s a gift… or a curse?
“Yes, but they’re so pretty,” I interject, trying to cheer both of us up.
 “And expensive,” she tuts. “They look like they’re designer, lah. You
don’t work in an office building; you don’t need designer heels.”
“The shoes were a present.” I roll my eyes but try not to let her
disapproval ruin my day any further. Well, I think it’s already rock bottom
and half-over when my apartment has been ransacked and… Lucas is here?
Making his way towards us?
My mother either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about the imminent threat
of being in my ex-boyfriend’s presence because she keeps on going with her
tirade-slash-interrogation. “From whom?”
“From her new boyfriend. Isn’t that right, Tina?” Lucas approaches us
casually, not dressed in a bulletproof vest and all black like last night but clad
in jeans and a rumpled button-down with the sleeves rolled up.
My mother looks aghast. “Didn’t you just goa on a date with that guy?
Why is he already buying you expensive things? Does he think you’re a gai,
ah?” She uses the Cantonese word for prostitute—which sounds identical to
the word for chicken—so Lucas won’t understand the slight.
“No, lah. Let’s just go into my apartment,” I say in Chinese before
switching back to English and turning toward Lucas. “Why are you literally
stalking me?”
He holds up both hands. “I’m stalking you? That would be illegal and
unethical. I work for the government.”
I shove open the door to my apartment and stomp inside, only holding it
open for my mother and certainly not for my ex-boyfriend. Petty, I know, but
it makes me feel marginally better. When he opens the door and walks in
after us, I reply. “What else do you call showing up everywhere that I am
within the span of twenty-four hours? Do not say a coincidence. And while
we’re speaking about unethical things, how about me going to your
apartment and finding a naked girl in your bed?”
“Well, what were you doing in my bedroom?” He shoots back.
My mother physically separates us just as I’m about to takeoff my new
shoes and stab him with them. Well, not really. I wouldn’t actually dare
commit murder and even then fantasizing about the act still counts. I’ve
really let my temper get the best of me…
“Don’t act like children,” she snaps. “Christina, you’re staying with me
until your apartment is re-furnished.”
I bite my tongue to keep from disagreeing. Where else would I go, really?
But I don’t want to lose the independence I have worked so hard to gain since
graduating from university. “Okay.”
“And thank you, Lucas, for volunteering to help clean up Christina’s
apartment and find out who did this.”
I suppress the urge to smirk childishly at him or even stick out my tongue.
“Thanks.”
“Christina, I said he will be helping you, not doing it all by himself. You
two can work together like mature adults, can’t you?” I want to point out that
the human brain finishes developing by the age of twenty-five so technically
neither of us are mature adults. But she’ll just give me that look like she
knows what’s best for me, which she usually does.
“You’re not going to stay?” I ask hopefully when she pivots to the door.
If she goes I may go to prison for murder or assault.
She shakes her head. Darn. “I’m an old lady, I might hurt my back lifting
something. I’m going to the hair salon. See you!”
#
Lucas Black
 When the door closes, I’m in trouble.
I know I messed up with Christina. I should never have let a stripper stay
in my apartment, for starters. That was just asking for trouble. And I certainly
never should have forgotten about aforementioned stripper’s habit of sleeping
au naturel. Those were just foolish, rookie mistakes—not when it comes to
cheating on your girlfriend but life in general.
Still, I didn’t cheat on Christina. Of course, I made it very difficult for her
to believe that when I had a naked woman in my bed that morning. In my
defence, she was only in my bed, in my apartment, and in my life because of
my job. Before we could get her into a Witness Protection program she had to
go somewhere safe, and I volunteered for the job. Call it an old-fashioned,
out of date chivalric instinct, call it whatever you would like, but I wanted to
be the one to protect that girl.
Yet all it left me with was a broken heart.
“Look, I know you got those shoes from that drug dealer,” I say as I help
Christina move her ripped and shredded couch over to one of the walls.
She grunts like the couch is too heavy instead of answering me. Really,
with all the stuffing ripped out of it and strewn across the floor like snow, all
that’s left is the bare bones and the springs. It isn’t some tremendous weight,
so I know she’s avoiding conversation.
“I didn’t cheat on you.”
Her muscles tense like she’s considering shoving the couch at me so that
it hits me in the stomach, but she doesn’t.
“That girl was just a friend, okay? I was sleeping on the sofa the whole
time. I never touched her.” Well, except for all the times I helped her change
her bandage from the gunshot wound, but that doesn’t count. “She just
needed a place to stay.”
 Christina bites her lower lip so hard it turns white beneath the lipstick or
gloss or whatever.
“I know you hate me. But can’t you forgive me?”
I hate pleading like this. I hate it. It just reminds me of all the times my
dad would leave for “business trips” and I would beg to go with him, while
he would tell me to be the man of the house and stop crying like a baby.
Turns out he was cheating on my mom every time.
I would never be an adulterer.
We shove the couch against the wall and Christina starts sweeping. She
never takes off those sky-high heels even though they must be uncomfortable
to do housework in. I’m the same height as her, really, when she wears them.
I shouldn’t be begging her to forgive me. I should be cutting her a deal. I
should be doing my job.
“Look, I know you’ve gotten yourself tangled with some… unsavoury
characters. I’ll cut you a deal, alright? I’m FBI. If you give me information
about the guy you’re seeing, then I can help you. I can get you away from
him. I don’t know what kind of dirt he has on you…”
She sweeps more aggressively, bringing up clouds of dust. I start filling a
mop bucket for when she’s done, the water sounds drowning out any answer
she may or may not give me.
Finally, when the bucket is full, she speaks.
“I’ll help you. And I forgive you, Lucas.”
 Chapter 9–The Parents

Antonio Cavalli
I sit on the brown leather sectional, my feet propped up on the worn-out,
rustic cocktail table in their Ferragamo’s. In the kitchen a faucet is leaking,
the steady drip of water serving as ambient background music along with the
chirping of birds and rustling of pines. My father steeples his fingers beneath
his chin, watching me. This is a test that I rarely pass, because some criteria is
always out of reach to me.
Sometimes he picks on simple things: sit up straight. Don’t slouch. Make
eye contact. Other times it is things beyond my control, things that I never
seem able to ameliorate: this sector is performing badly. Sales are down. The
cops keep finding us. No matter how much I strive to improve in one area,
another problem pops up like some real life game of whack-a-mole. I stare
out the window at a small bird that pecks on the sill, brown and tan feathers
covering its minuscule body as it moves its head in tiny, jerky motions and
hops around. Some days I feel like that avian friend of mine, moving a lot but
never really getting anywhere. At least it can make it off the ground.
“Antonio. Eyes on me, per favore,” my father intones. “How did this
happen?”
I sit there, statue-still, wondering how a simple date went this badly. How
it managed to enthral me with this girl who probably wants nothing to do
with me and has just gone running back to her cheating, lying FBI ex. How it
made me think of things I haven’t let my mind wander over in years, how it
led me to wonder if praying and confessing were better than freezing over my
soul and doing my best not to let the cracks show. Christina Martell, how
you’ve ruined me…
“I don’t know,” I lie through gritted teeth.
I do know. I know too damn well what happened. She happened, her and
her nice girl ways and her uncovering of my buried secrets and her soft
brown eyes that drew me in and refused to let go. Her and her scent of roses
and her little black dress and the way she looked at me, like I was someone
who could still be saved.
“That’s not enough.” Roberto Cavalli doesn’t slam his fist on the table,
doesn’t even raise his voice. But the look he levels at me with his blue eyes—
the ones he has passed on to countless bastard children of his, but not to me
because I got my mother’s grey eyes and it made him project his own habit of
infidelity onto her—that look he gives me could murder. “You need to know.
You need to know how this went wrong, so you can keep it from happening
again.”
“Okay, pater meus.” I always speak in Latin, rather than Italian, to irritate
my father who never learned it. He himself was the illegitimate son of his
father, who had clawed his way up from ruin and poverty to become the head
of a multi-billion dollar illegal trade empire. His brothers and his wife spoke
the “dead language” and I know well enough that he is bitter over what he
views as his inferiority. “Quod vulsne? Vino, o la birra?”
I stand up and go into the kitchen as he growls out his request for a glass
of cold water. “You should really get a woman to do these things for you, not
to mention give your house a feminine touch.”
I roll my eyes. I don’t need a wife, much less a woman. And my house is
fine as a bachelor pad. I’m perfectly capable of pouring a drink or cooking a
meal or lighting a cigar, by myself. I don’t need… I don’t need her. I don’t
need to drag anyone else into this life of crime with me. Christina was a
mistake, no matter what her last name is.
“Whatever.” I set the tumbler in front of him. “Are we done here?”
His lip curls in disgust before he gulps down the water, standing and
brushing imaginary dust off of his thousand-dollar suit trousers. “We are
quite finished.”
When he walks out, I wait for relief to flood my body. It doesn’t. I just
feel… hollow. Empty. Utterly void of any emotion or sensation, simply
waiting to be filled up by the next rush, the next thrill, the next event.
I need to think, to breathe, to feel something. Fingers trembling, I grab
my keys, hop into my car and start driving.
#
Christina Martell
I can’t stay here any longer than I have. My mother keeps fussing over
me; when I woke up last night to get a drink in the middle of the night she
thought I’d been kidnapped from my bed. It was a little too dramatic, even
for her. She made me phone in sick to work—I mean, nobody would try and
attack me at a grocery store! I’m not even a cashier there, so it’s not like I’d
find myself at gunpoint any time soon.
I know she cares about me a lot. But this is excessive. I half-expect her to
start treating me like a teenager again, instating a curfew and making me text
her every time I leave the house. The sad thing is, the only time she’ll let me
leave is if I’m going out with Lucas. I don’t care if he’s FBI or if I’ve
forgiven him or asked for his help. The man—no, boy—has the personality
of a mosquito: annoying, blood-sucking, and evil simply by existing.
 So today I decide to go shopping. Maybe I can pick out new furniture to
replace the pieces that I lost in the… incident. It’s been a few days since I’ve
heard anything from Antonio so I try to pretend that the whole date and its
aftermath was a fluke in my typically boring life. The Manolo Blahnik’s in a
box under my bed, unworn since the day after my date. The black leather
dress hangs untouched at the back of my closet. I do my best to act like
Antonio Cavalli doesn’t exist—or if he does, that his life has never
intersected mine.
“What are your plans for today?” My mom asks me as I sit across from
her eating breakfast—peanut butter toast with sliced banana. She’s back from
her night shift at the hospital and dark circles shadow her eyes.
“I’m going to fill out more job applications and then go to the mall,” I tell
her. “I’m going to find some furniture for my apartment.”
She frowns. “You’re not moving back into that place, are you?”
“Why? Is the feng shui there horrible now?” I try to crack a joke. It falls
flat. “Look, it’s affordable and close to my job…”
“It’s in an unsafe neighbourhood,” she says, tsking as she takes a swallow
of milk.
But guilt still sinks into me. I don’t want to put her in danger by staying
with her and I certainly don’t want to be a burden to her. Already I know
she’s going to persuade me to quit my job at the grocery store, my last
remnant of normalcy, and stay with her while I look for an internship that
matches my degree.
“Okay, I’ll think about getting an apartment elsewhere,” I tell her calmly.
“Where do you recommend?”
I know what she recommends. She recommends that I resume my teenage
life and go back to dating Lucas, living in this house, and essentially… not
leaving her to be an empty-nester at the age of forty-five. It would be
different if my father were alive, I know. She wouldn’t have had to struggle
so much over the years as a single mother. I know she, like me, feels guilty.
She feels bad that she never got to see much of me when I was growing up
because she was always working hard to provide for us. So now she’s trying
to overcompensate for that.
She rattles off a bunch of affordable and safer neighbourhoods while I try
to pay attention. She keeps yawning though, so I know it’s my cue to leave so
she can take a nap.
“I need to leave soon. I told Lucas I would meet him at ten, and it’s ten-
thirty.” I glance at my watch.
She waves me off and I leave. When I unlock the door, though, it’s not
Lucas’s blue Honda Civic that greets me. It’s a sleek black sports car, and
when the driver rolls down the window all the memories I have tried to
repress come rushing back.
Antonio.
 Chapter 10–The Confrontation

Christina Martell
The moment he rolls down the window of his car and gestures for me to
come in, anger flares in the pit of my stomach, expensive shoes or not.
“You told me I would be fine! You told me I was barely associated with
you and no one would care about whether I was dead or alive!” My heart rate
reaches an alarming peak. I feel like I would break one of those blood
pressure cuffs right about now. “Well, guess what, my apartment has been
ransacked and I…”
In the midst of my tirade Antonio has gotten out of the car and now he
grabs my hand. I don’t want to be reassured by his solid grip and by the
tangible warmth of his fingers, because they aren’t real. He is a visceral
hallucination. The illusion that he is dependable or reliable is a complete and
utter lie, so why do I pretend he is going to be a shoulder to cry on when he is
more likely to make me cry than anything?
“I didn’t send anyone to ransack your apartment, sweetheart. I’m sorry.
That must have been terrifying.”
His grey eyes hold mine and I can’t look away. I tell myself it’s because
it would be weakness to back down, not because he has such an intense,
captivating gaze that I can do nothing but stare. The sympathy in his tone is
amplified in those eyes; I want to fall in and tell myself that it is genuine. But
that would be a foolish mistake, and I don’t want to be someone who makes
nothing but bad decisions.
“Please, Antonio, don’t act like you care.” Every muscle in my body is
stiff as he circles his thumb over my hand; I wish I could pull away. His
grasp is loose enough that I could. I could push him away, I could recoil and
shove him into oncoming traffic. So why don’t I do any of that? “Don’t
pretend you’re not a criminal, a liar, and someone who has done nothing but
cause trouble for me and my life.”
His gaze is still levelled on mine and he steps closer protectively, as a car
whizzes by. “I told you who I was and you followed me in. You followed me
along that path, Miss Martell.”
I flinch at the way he says those last two words. He has never called me
Miss Martell before. It’s always been Christina or sweetheart. Never been
something this professional, this coolly cordial, this civil, and I don’t like it. I
wish I did, I wish I preferred for him to treat me not like a date but like a
business rival. It might stop this pounding in my chest, this throbbing in my
head, this tingling that thrums along my skin as his fingers caress mine.
“Why does it matter so much to you what my last name is?” I jerk my
hand out of his. “Who am I to you? Why do I matter to you? Pick another
girl’s life to ruin, because you have utterly steamrolled mine.”
He scoffs, the sound harsh. We’re close enough that I feel his breath on
my forehead. “Christina, do you know what suffering is? Do you know what
it means to have your life ruined—to be left begging on your knees for some
piece of the routine that you used to have, to be left clutching your heart in
bloody hands after it was ripped out of your chest and tossed back at you like
so much garbage? Do you know how it feels to lose everything you have and
everything you love? If so, then you can tell me your life is ruined. Then you
can tell me I ruined your life.”
I blink rapidly, glad I’m not wearing mascara because I am on the verge
of dissolving into tears, my lower lip trembling. He notices, of course. Is
there anything this man doesn’t notice? I stare down at the scuffed toes of my
suede, thigh-high boots.
Tone and touch softer, Antonio gingerly touches my face. “Sweetheart.
Look at me.”
Why does his gentleness touch me, move me, more than any amount of
force would? “No.”
His voice is sterner, but his fingertips still graze across my skin. “Be a
good girl.”
I’m tired of being good. What has it ever gotten me? And yet that one line
undoes me anyways, and I look up.
“It was harsh of me to say that. I don’t know your past or what you might
have gone through. I didn’t mean to trivialize your experiences or what you
are feeling right now and I apologize. However, I do think you are being a
little bit dramatic.”
I have the tendency to overreact, I know. So do I like being called out on
it? Absolutely not. “Thank you for your apology.”
Antonio raises an eyebrow. “You look like I just ran over your puppy.”
“I believe the words you are looking for are ‘total and completely
devastated,’” I retort, the exhaustion of the past forty-eight hours flooding
over me. My entire life really has changed. I have to trust that with God, it is
for the better.
He just blinks slowly, as if I’ve proven his point. Which, really, I have.
“You should ask your mother about your father. I need to go.”
 Smoothly, he leans down and kisses my forehead. My body presses into
his almost involuntarily, warming with the pressure of his hand at my waist,
his mouth on my skin, stubble scraping against it. All too soon he pulls away.
“It was nice seeing you again, Christina. Do tell me what your mother says
about your father.”
And with that, he speeds off.
#
Lucas Black
The heart eyes emoji is Destiny’s most-used. I only know this because
I’ve had her iPhone in my possession for the past six months, while she
reluctantly uses a flip phone and tries to protest that nobody—not even her
ex, her ex-boss, or her ex-mafia contacts, all of whom are saved on her phone
—is going to find her if she uses a smartphone. I happen to disagree and for
good reason.
In the past six months, she’s received threatening texts, calls, and
attempts to trace her location using Find my iPhone. All of them have been
firmly rebuffed by the FBI, but they cause me to feel an even stronger sense
of protectiveness over her that I dislike. She shouldn’t mean anything to me
except a client that I’m protecting. She’s not even supposed to be my friend.
Yet somehow I’ve grown used to seeing her when I come home, on the
couch watching a history documentary or some trashy reality show (there is
no in-between with her), feet propped up on the coffee table as she eats
takeout. I’ve grown used to seeing a styrofoam box on the table next to her
fuzzy bunny slippers, with my usual order from the Chinese restaurant that
we both happen to have as our favourite. I’ve grown used to texting her funny
things during boring meetings throughout the day and seeing her texts riddled
with misspellings and annoyance because she’s using a flip phone. I’ve
grown used to her worrying about me when I stay too late at work and I’ve
grown used to worrying about her when the demons of her past give her
nightmares both real and imagined.
I’ve grown used to her. So used to her that I didn’t know I had feelings
for her until I was in the midst of them. So I had to run. I had to grow distant.
I had to pretend that Christina was still the one I wanted. I had to remind both
of us of our places in this relationship. Her, still in the witness protection
program. Me, just the guy who’s keeping her alive. Not her, the girl whose
smile I want to see too often. Not me, the guy who wishes he could hold her
in his arms on good days and bad.
Now that I think about it… Yes, I cheated on Christina, but it was
emotionally. And I think that might be even worse.
“Hey, Black.” My boss claps me on the shoulder, the smell of black
coffee emanating from him. “Get your head in the game. You’re a million
miles away and I need you focussed on the scene.”
We are back at Cavalli’s, the restaurant. Only, it’s no longer a fancy place
where rich people gather to have fun. It’s now a crime scene, yellow tape
stretched across it, broken glass in the windows, and the chandeliers dropping
wax onto tables covered with scattered crystals over the now-stained
tablecloths. The place has been thoroughly searched for drugs but not a single
gram of cocaine or an ounce of weed has been found. Every single member
of the staff has been questioned, from the busboys to the waitresses to the
chefs, and all of them have repeated similar answers of I don’t know what
drugs you’re talking about, now let me get back to work.
They were probably coached into giving such alike responses, but I even
asked the owner and he was sympathetic but firm. The owner being, of
course, quite close in appearance to the guy I saw Christina with the other
night. They might even be brothers.
“I’m on it, boss.”
 Chapter 11–The Information

Lucas Black
“No detail is too small to be ignored,” special agent Marks says.
Every trainee in the room is tense, but none so tense as me. I finger the
note in my pocket, written on crisp paper, in Sebastian Cavalli’s handwriting.
Sebastian. I frown. How many Cavalli’s are there? Antonio. Roberto. Now,
Sebastian?
“Very often, if you aren’t paying attention, you’ll overlook something
that could be crucial to your case,” Marks continues, his tone letting me know
that he’s noticed my flicker of distraction. I school my expression into a more
focused one, looking at the evidence in front of me. Trying to ignore the
piece of it burning a hole in my pocket. What should I do?
Every instinct I have, for some reason, is telling me not to tell my
superiors about this. Not because it’s a sketchy source, but because they
won’t listen. I’ll have to build an entire case before they’ll trust me with
anything.
Rafael Santos, a fellow agent trainee, turns to me with a scowl. “You
realize that we actually have to find out what evidence there is for proof of
this attack, right?”
Brunette, lean, and six-feet tall, my erstwhile best friend with a perpetual
grimace on his face applied for this job because he has a heart of gold. It’s
just buried somewhere beneath his gloomy demeanour and serious
expressions. He’s almost always concentrating on his work about ninety-nine
percent of the time, and the other one percent is just when he’s at church or
with his family. He takes his duties solemnly and generally makes me feel
bad for not doing the same. I didn’t sign up for the FBI with the same reasons
that he did. I wonder if I’ll ever have the same motivation that he does.
“Evidence is all around us, actually,” I respond. “It’s only that we have to
find the right pieces.”
Lover of snark and sarcasm that he is not, he remains silent before rooting
through the apartment set-up once more. After a beat, he pauses and says to
me, “Lucas, what’s on your mind?”
I roll my eyes, not wanting to talk about it. We’re buddies, yeah, but there
are lines of conversation we haven’t crossed and probably never will. “Aren’t
you the one always telling me to focus on work?”
Knives clatter as he stops rummaging through a kitchen drawer and turns
to face me. “Yes, and you obviously cannot focus until you tell me what is
going on.”
Every principle that I was brought up with tells me to resist. Tells me that
I can’t trust him, or anyone, really. It’s my father’s voice, ringing in my ears,
a remnant of the few times that he was home long enough from the bar or the
couch of one of his various girlfriends. Don’t ever tell anybody your secrets.
They are bullets that you are loading into the chamber of every person you
spill them to. And if you’re not careful, one day you’ll be shot. I never knew
how true that was until I took this job… and yet I know that it’s also part of
why my relationship with Christina fell apart. I couldn’t trust her with
anything. I nitpicked her to distract from my own feelings of inadequacy. I
wanted to let loose and go drinking and pretend that those were the ideal
things in life, that there was no real higher purpose than fulfilling whatever
base desires pressed on me at the time.
“You don’t look like you’re concentrating on the task,” O’Connor says,
making both of us jump. His hand is on his gun. “This isn’t kindergarten. I
shouldn’t have to tell you to focus.”
On edge, both of us mumble a yes, sir and go back to looking for the
truth, mine buried deep in my chest somewhere, never to be revealed.
Understanding my reticence, Rafael nods. He knows me. Just not well
enough. And I wonder if he ever will—if anyone can.
#
Christina Martell
“Who is my father?” I ask my mother over dinner.
Laden with shopping bags, I came home earlier today from the mall,
having spent a boring day doing nothing but wonder exactly what Antonio
Cavalli meant by our conversation this morning. I hadn’t wanted to heed his
advice immediately—hadn’t wanted to listen to him at all—but my curiosity
had won out. All the while I had been shopping, adding to my beauty
regimen in the way that I always did (with my mentality of it’s Korean
skincare so I must buy it that always leads to my acquisition of far too many
face masks). Considering the amount of stress I’ve been under lately and the
amount of stress I’m about to put myself under by asking my mother this
question… I might actually need some of them.
“Hmm?” She looks up from her bowl of rice as she picks up a strand of lo
mein with her chopsticks. “What did you say, Christina?”
I pause, about to chicken out. “I said… who is my father?”
She is silent, and for one moment I think she’s misheard me again. Then
she takes a sip of water and sighs. “Christina, I’ll tell you when you’re older.”
 I put down my chopsticks. “Mama, you’ve been saying that since I was
five and the kindergarten teacher asked me why I didn’t celebrate Father’s
Day.”
She doesn’t say a thing but simply keeps eating as though I haven’t
spoken.
“I’m twenty-one! I can legally drink, smoke, vote, and be considered an
adult. When am I going to be old enough for you to tell me about him?” I
spear a piece of beef angrily, staring at the red-tinged fluid that seeps from it
onto the porcelain plate. When I get mad, I also have the lovely addition of
tears. So I’m about two seconds from crying. My next word is a hoarse
whisper. “When, mama?”
She drops her food and rubs her temples with both hands, drawing
attention to the greying hair there. She had me young, yet the stress of the
years has given her grey hair before her time, though not wrinkles. But the
cheap box dye emblazoned with Biden Speedy that she gets from the Asian
supermarket doesn’t help her cause. I always tell her to get it professionally
coloured, but she insists it’s a waste of money. We tell each other a lot of
things, always, to cover the gaps that neither of us are willing to fill.
“Christina, I don’t want to talk about this right now.” Her tone is steel,
adamantine. This conversation is over, whether I like it or not. I clear my
plate from the table and begin doing the dishes in silence.
As I wash and rinse the pots, pans, and bowls before neatly stacking them
to dry in the dishwasher, I wonder what my life would be like with a father.
It’s a fantasy I’ve entertained many times since I was a child. Picturing the
shape of his eyes or the colour of his hair, wondering which of his physical
traits he might have passed on to me. Imagining if my mother would laugh
more, be more relaxed, if they would show affection to each other. Drawing
images of him teaching me to play sports or drive or whatever it was that
fathers did. Pretending he was somewhere in the crowd of proud parents,
clapping at my ballet recitals.
But they always ended. Like all fantasies, they weren’t real. And so I put
them away, tucked away the broken toys of childhood, locked them in the
attic of my mind to collect dust. Yet now, with a few sentences, Antonio
Cavalli has dredged those memories and questions up again, thrown light all
over them and tugged my heart out of my chest just a bit, just enough to leave
it vulnerable and raw and smarting.
“Your father is a dangerous man, Christina.” My mother enters the
kitchen, setting down her plate on the granite countertop. “That’s why I have
never wanted you to have any contact with him. He has many enemies, and if
they knew he had a daughter… you could get hurt.”
I speculate as to the meaning of her words before repeating my query.
“Mama, who was he?”
 Chapter 12–The Sisters

Joanna Martell
The chandeliers sparkle and flames flicker in their sconces lining the
hallways. Marble floors shine with a polished gleam, the Monet and Dali
paintings hanging proudly in their gilt frames. The aroma of smoke and
perfume mingle with a few dust motes in the air, dancing in the few shafts of
sunlight that have squeezed in through the narrow, arched windows. Floor-
length drapes in deep burgundy frame the panes of glass.
The scene is set.
The castle awaits its prince.
I sit on the chaise lounges at the end of the reception hall and smooth out
my gold dress, then cross my legs at the ankles. But I change my mind and
decide that the position is too demure, too ladylike. I don’t want my future
husband to view me as some simpering, shrinking violet. I want to look
strong, powerful, like the heiress to the Martell empire that I am.
“Your sister has yet to make an appearance,” Charles Martell notes.
His voice startles me, but I refuse to let it show. My father’s noiseless
steps and inconspicuous way of moving shouldn’t mark him as anyone
special—but he prefers it that way. Prefers for people to underestimate him,
not notice him, until he leaps, coiled from his hiding place, and pounces.
I rearrange my hair just for something to do. He places a hand on my
shoulder, stilling my movements. To an outsider the motion would look
comforting. I know better. “Do not fidget, ma fille,” he scolds. “It’s
unbecoming of you.”
My mother enters shortly after and smiles at me. It’s a warning smile.
Please him. Do not mess up. The place next to me is empty, cold, waiting for
Priscilla. My twin sister has been late from minute she was born; the fact that
she came into the world two minutes after me is mere proof of that. She made
me heiress, and not her. But now, Antonio Cavalli will be able to have his
pick of the two of us for a wife. Which Martell sister will he choose—I
wonder.
Footsteps, too light and frenzied to be Priscilla’s, echo through the great
hall. I don’t need to turn my head to know they belong to my youngest sister,
ten-year-old Augusta.
“Is he here?” she asks, her voice eager and anxious. One would think she
was the one being offered as a potential bride. I wouldn’t mind backing out of
a possible betrothal. I’d even let her take my place if she were old enough
and there were not ten years separating her from Priscilla and I. “I want to see
him!”
Her nanny runs into the room after her, panting but still possessing
enough breath to begin scolding her. “Apologies, Mr. Martell. I…”
He clicks his tongue, scooping up Augusta in his arms and swinging her
around like she’s five, not ten. My father is tall and still fit enough to do it, at
forty. “Excuses.”
Augusta squirms and he sets her back down. “Off you go, ma petite fille.
Back to the nursery with you.”
“I’ll fill you in later,” I say.
Finally, Priscilla enters, ten minutes late. “Sorry! The curling iron stopped
working and I had to…”
 Her voice trails off at the look on our father’s face. Her words are, just as
he dismissed earlier, mere excuses.
“Be quiet,” he murmurs. “Sit down.”
#
Antonio Cavalli
“Name?” The man in the tower asks me when my car rolls to a stop
outside the wrought iron gate of the Martell residence. The tinted window
rolls down, and I push my dark sunglasses up the bridge of my nose.
“Antonio Cavalli,” I reply.
He checks a list before waving me on through. “Go ahead.”
Pulling up by the fountain, I get out of the Jaguar and pass the keys to a
valet. “If I see one scratch on my car, you will pay for it.”
He nods and holds the keys gingerly. The manor rises up above me, a
looming mass of charcoal stone topped with shale roofs. I snort and walk into
the manor, two guards opening the doors for me. A butler appears, dressed in
a fine suit. “This way, sir.”
I walk behind him through finely decorated corridors until we reach the
reception chamber. At the end of it sit two girls in gold and silver dresses on
a chaise lounge—a matched set, with similar but not identical features. They
are fraternal twins, then. Charles Martell and his wife stand behind them.
“Welcome, Mr. Cavalli,” Charles says, stepping forward.
“Please, Mr. Martell,” I say. “Call me Antonio.”
He smiles, but it’s a silvery one, as quick and slippery as a snake.
“Antonio. Call me Charles, then.”
“Very well, Charles. Let’s get down to business, then.”
He folds his arms across his chest. “Which one of my daughters would
you prefer? Joanna, or Priscilla?”
 I shake my head. “Neither Joanna nor Priscilla, I’m afraid.”
He raises a brow. “Excuse me?”
“Did you not arrange for me to marry one of your daughters?” I ask,
casting a scornful look at the twins sitting on the couch. Joanna and Priscilla,
attired in their best, stare back at me with unreadable expressions, radiating
attitude and icy power. “Well, I found a better one.”
Joanna tosses her hair over her shoulder but says nothing. Her cold
glower says it all. She loathes me and despises being made inferior.
“What is this fool talking about?” Priscilla demands, standing up and
waving her hands. She’s more animated than her sister, the fire to her ice.
“Father?”
Charles Martell, like his eldest daughter, remains silent. And like his
daughter, his expression speaks for him. But unlike Joanna Martell, it is not
anger that keeps him silent. It is shock and horror. At having his secret,
illegitimate child revealed to his legitimate family? Next to him, at his side,
Marcella Martell is a higher-class Norman Rockwell portrait, her ruby gown
suiting the gold and silver hues of her daughters’ dresses, her aura warm and
matronly. She looks like a politician’s wife, the kind who stands by through
scandals with hookers and re-election campaigns.
Only, she could not have known that Christina Martell exists. A woman
like her may appear soft and cuddly but her backbone must be adamantine. If
she had known about Christina, she would have known that she was a threat
to her true family, to the true heir. Yet no trace of surprise lies on her Botox-
enhanced face.
“Get out,” Charles finally says. No—he growls. “Leave, and never
mention that to me again.”
Oh, what a mistake he has made. What a mess he has made of power.
Like my father always says, a rumour is not true until it is denied. And such a
vehement denial only confirms the veracity of my statement.
“Are you scared of the truth?”
 Chapter 13–The Revelations

Christina Martell
“Your father is… a bad man. A dangerous man.” My mother sighs. “His
name was—is—Martell. Charles Martell.”
Martell. The name strikes a distant chord in me not just because it’s my
last name, but I’m scared to find out more.
I squeeze my mother’s hands. The gesture feels empty, hollow. “I’m
going to bed.”
Yet I look into my father anyways. I search for hours online. I cling to
every scrap of information. I do everything short of printing off his pictures
and making a collage with red string on a corkboard. And it exhausts me.
What I find out is that he’s powerful. Wealthy. And definitely, certainly
dangerous.
Vague hints of news articles suggests his involvement in shady business
dealings. Nothing concrete ties him to anything nor anyone. But my father…
He’s not just a deadbeat dad. He’s not just another guy who abandons his
wife and child. He’s a morally bankrupt criminal.
What does that make me?
I spend the rest of the week in a daze.
I barely find the energy to get out of bed. I open my Bible and feel
nothing, comprehend nothing, begging for something to leap off the page at
me but find that I have not even the energy to plead with God. I don’t know
who to turn to or what to do. I go through the motions of talking to my
mother, stilted as our conversations are now. Because otherwise, she might
see the despair in my eyes, and think that telling me the truth was wrong. She
might say, I told you so.
The truth is a sword, cutting to the bone, but I played with it like a toy
and got hurt.
#
Antonio Cavalli
Guns have been drawn but I pull mine out of its holster first, levelling it
at Charles’ head.
“If you’re not scared…” I say slowly, circling him. “Why are your hands
shaking?”
“Stop!” It’s Priscilla, pulling a blade from a sheath at her thigh, beneath
her dress, and holding it in front of her. “I will not allow you to hurt my
father.”
Charles makes a dismissive, guttural sound. “Ma fille, assieds-toi.”
“I will not sit down,” she hisses before her sister yanks her back onto the
chaise.
“Allons-y,” Joanna suggests. Let’s go. Marcella’s eyes dart between her
two daughters, between gold and silver, calm and fury. “Ici nous ne sommes
pas en sécurité.” We are not safe here.
I blink at the knife as it sails past my face, and step aside moments before
it grazes me. Charles Martell takes advantage of this distraction and fires,
hitting me in the shoulder. I clench my jaw and fire back a few rounds,
footsteps pounding as I hear his guards run in. Finally. One of the bullets hits
him in the arm, another in the chest, and he stumbles back, alone, onto the
chaise. His wife and daughters are long gone.
 “Thanks for joining us, boys,” I say. “Took you long enough.”
One of Charles’ guards, and his closest friend, Tomas, pins him to the
ground, a knee pressed to his back between his shoulder blades, where a red
stain is beginning to soil his navy suit jacket. A pool of blood forms beneath
him and I grin through gritted teeth. “Et tu, Brute?”
Charles spits blood and French at me. “Tu vas regretter ça.” You will
regret this.
“Non, je ne regrette rien,” I quote back at him. No, I regret nothing. “It
turns out, your most loyal followers would prefer to follow your bloodline
and the true heir of Martell, not your so-called heiresses.”
His face is white with shock. I continue. “Didn’t you know your wife was
cheating on you with your best friend?”
Tomas digs his knee so hard into Charles’ spine, I half-expect him to go
limp. I clap my hands, the ache in my shoulder burning more than I would
like to admit with the movement.
“That’s quite enough for today, Monsieur Cartier.” I shudder with pain
but hold myself upright. “I would hate to get my own blood on this carpet.”
He nods, snaps his fingers, and the Martell’s men follow me out of his
own house. They’re a motley group, but tight-knit, the four that I’ve been
meeting for the past few months. There’s the wolfish Tomas Cartier, the little
ringleader of their pack, who speaks for the group. Then the dainty-looking
blonde, Marie Allard, his sister, is the glue that keeps them all together. Her
husband, Dominic Allard is shifty, the one who is constantly casting an eye
over everything and everyone. Dominic’s sister, Anne, seems to be the one to
really look out for because she is tough as nails and still somehow appears
syrup-sweet. Then, there’s the silent and stoic type: Pierre, Anne’s identical
twin and her complete opposite.
 “You need a lift back to your place?” Tomas asks me. “You’re bleeding a
lot.”
I wave him off. “Just let me know when you want to meet next. I have my
driver waiting outside.”
He looks skeptical but gives me a time and place. I nod before hobbling
out of the mansion, feeling like I should be more victorious than I actually
am. I just accomplished a major settlement. Shouldn’t I be happy? Shouldn’t
I feel fulfilled? Yet something is still missing; a part of me craves more.
More of what, however, I do not know.
I see the black stretch limousine and slide into the backseat. “Take me to
the medical unit.”
“Not until you tell me what you were doing, rejecting his offer like that.”
My father’s voice. I am paralyzed, every muscle in my body seizing up.
“That was an incredibly important deal that you just bungled—”
“Father, do you want me to bleed out in the back of a limousine?” I ask,
trying to remain cool and composed while my white shirt becomes more red
than white.
“I thought I had made my wants perfectly clear. Explain yourself.”
I start, not bothering to put on my seatbelt as the car pulls into motion.
“Christina Martell—”
“She is a stranger to these people. To these new friends that you have
made. Do you think they will follow her, or these girls that they have known
all their lives, no matter their bloodline?” His voice freezes me over, wraps
me in a block of ice. “You should have simply chosen one of those girls to
marry and been done with it.”
I shift, trying to get into a more comfortable position for my arm. “Father,
I know what I am doing.”
 “Still, you do not answer me. Why did I raise such an impudent,
disrespectful son?” He snorts. I smell cigar smoke.
“Why do I have such a bullheaded, stubborn father?” I dare to ask.
“I’m going to act as if I didn’t hear that.” An interesting thing for him to
say, when he once told me I was a grown man and grown men do not play
pretend or be in denial. “But what makes you think this girl, this nice girl,
this average girl from an average family, is going to want to be dragged into
your world of trouble?”
That’s what I’ve asked myself.
“Because she already has been drawn in.” And I think, for reasons
beyond me, she’s going to keep coming back.
 Chapter 14–The Deal

Lucas Black
“Let me buy you a drink,” says the gorgeous brunette who slides onto the
barstool next to me. Usually my type, but I’m surprised to find myself not
interested.
Rafael and I came to this bar to decompress after a long day of work but
he left at ten to go home to his wife. Now, I’m here alone. Drinking. So yes,
some company might typically be welcome, but it’s beautiful enough that it
makes me think of the girl waiting for me in my apartment. when will u be
home? she texted me five minutes ago. I haven’t known how to answer. It
was her choice of words that struck me. She called my apartment home. And
I barely even felt like it was home until she moved in, leaving her things
lying around and never throwing out the styrofoam takeout containers but
sweeping the floor because that was the only chore she liked.
“No strings attached,” I say. “I’ve got a girl at home.”
Her expression doesn’t change, no disappointment visible amidst those
high cheekbones and brown eyes. Upon closer inspection, she looks less icy
and perfect, more dishevelled and unkempt. Her long hair is in a messy bun,
her outfit a silver gown that has been slightly rumpled with a hem flecked
with dots of dark brown fluid.
“I’m not looking for a man either. I just got jilted at the altar,” she replies,
twirling a strand of chestnut hair around her finger. “I’m trying to make a
friend.”
“And you thought I was a good candidate?” I say, downing my drink. “I
don’t really have much time for—”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” she says, and something about
the way she drums those blood-red nails on the bar counter makes me think
better than to underestimate her. “The name’s Martell. Priscilla Martell.”
I smile in spite of myself, staring past her shoulder at the people laughing
and having a good time in their booths. “Is this a Bond movie?”
“And you’re Black. Lucas Black.” She doesn’t hold out a hand; I guess
because she already knows me. “Christina Martell’s ex-boyfriend. I bet you
don’t like Antonio Cavalli much, do you?”
I drop my glass on the counter, barely keeping it from shattering, and
shove my phone in my pocket. “Look, I don’t know who you are—”
“I just told you who I am.” She gives me a grin now, though it is devoid
of any warmth. It is all pearly white teeth, a pageant queen smile, dazzling
and cold yet not at all charming. “Priscilla Martell.”
“What do you want from me?” I fish money out to pay for my drink, then
fold my arms across my chest.
“I don’t want you to cut any deals for me. I want to make a deal with you.
I’ll give you everything I know about Antonio Cavalli because I hate him.
And you’ll give my family every protection we need against the Cavalli’s.”
She now looks like she’s completely content and expectant of a satisfying
answer, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs at the ankles.
“I…” I frown, then stop. Thinking of the drug raid, everything that went
wrong, how we were left empty-handed and looking like fools. “How much
do you know about him? I’ll need you to prove yourself. I can’t just make a
deal with you if you can’t benefit me at all and you’re just talking a big
game.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “Trust me, Black. I know what I’m doing.”
“Martell, who are you and who is your family?” I feel like I should be
recording this conversation, but I also feel like if I make the wrong move she
might slit my throat with those long nails.
Priscilla takes a swig of red wine. “Well, if I told you, I would have to kill
you. And, I really wouldn’t hesitate because this dress already has blood on
it.”
“Jilted at the altar?” I repeat, looking at the hem of her gown and
determining that the substance there is, in fact, blood. “Did you murder the
groom?”
“Something like that,” she says, and an icy determination hardens her
features. “But I didn’t come here for small talk. I came here—”
“Yes, yes, to cut a deal. But we should draw a contract, then. Give me
your terms, I’ll give you mine, and we’ll negotiate until we reach a
compromise,” I suggest, swallowing quickly.
She smiles like she thinks I’m cute in the way that grown-ups smile when
children get the answers wrong to simple questions. Patronizing. “I don’t
make compromises. I make promises. Expect them to be fulfilled.”
With that, she slides off the barstool. “Thanks for your time. I’ll be seeing
you.”
#
Christina Martell
Rain pours down around me as I hold the broken umbrella over my head,
my stockings soaked to the knee. I should have worn rain boots, not heels.
But I didn’t know the weather would turn into an absolute monsoon when I
left the house this morning. I feel like a rom-com archetype, a ridiculous girl
standing in the rain begging to be loved by a man who doesn’t deserve her
pleas, Only that’s not who I am. I am not pleading for love. I am pleading for
answers.
Maybe love would break my heart a little less.
I ring the doorbell again, the fifth time in as many minutes, and shiver,
pulling my sodden fleece and windbreaker combination more tightly around
me. Maybe he’s not here. Maybe I came to the wrong…
“Christina?” The door swings wide, almost hitting me, and Antonio
Cavalli stands there, his mouth open for a moment before he snaps it shut
again. His grey eyes trace over my features momentarily, as if absorbing that
I am really there. That steely gaze softens as it scans my form, all the way
from my hair, which is pulled back into a once-sleek ponytail, to my pumps,
the Manolo Blahniks he gave me, which I hope are definitely not ruined from
the rain. I stand on his doorstep like a stray kitten. Though, a kitten would
probably be cuter. I have waterproof mascara on and it’s definitely being
tested. “Sweetheart, come in.”
The endearment makes my heart clench. I won’t be his sweetheart. I
refuse to be anything to him, to be anything of his.
“I came here to t-talk to you,” I say with a shudder even as he opens the
door wider. I stare at him, the easy movements of his body, his torso covered
by a dark, forest-green sweater, his legs clad in dark jeans. I’ve never seen
him dressed so casually and I can’t decide if he looks better in a suit. “N-not
to come into your house.”
“If you don’t come in, you’ll freeze and catch hypothermia, or trench
foot, and how could I have that on my conscience?” His voice is playful, but
the current of levity seems false, forced.
 “I don’t doubt that you have much worse on your conscience,” I say, but I
step over the threshold and into his house anyways. It looks about the same as
the last time I came. The broken window has been swept up and replaced by
stained glass, but that’s the only change that has been made. I still see the
couch I sat on. The staircase I came down in that joy-stealing, life-changing
moment when I discovered who he was, what he had drawn me into.
Antonio pauses and catches me by the arm, gripping my elbow. “Do not
come to my house asking for information from me and then insult me,
Christina. I will not have it.”
I gulp, nerves making my hands shake and heart stutter. “I-I apologize,
Mr. Cavalli.”
He frowns, his grip still firm on me, and pivots me so that my back is
against the counter, him in front of me, blocking any chance of escape.
Maybe, just maybe, annoying a mob boss was a bad idea. “Antonio,” he
corrects.
“Mr. Cavalli,” says my mouth, which must want to get killed… Or worse.
“I was unaware there was any sort of relationship between us that would
imply we are on a first-name basis—”
“I’ve kissed you,” he says softly, but it’s the sort of soft intensity of a
tiptoe over a tightwire, at any moment poised to fall with a heart-pounding,
adrenaline-rush of speed. “Do not pretend there is nothing between us.”
I lift my chin in defiance. “I will do whatever I want.”
“Then so will I.” He moves away from me now, the intensity of his gaze
never dampening. My body is cold. My elbow is frozen solid not just because
of my damp clothes but because his touch was warming me like nothing else
and now it’s gone. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Tea would be nice, please.” I fold my arms over my chest.
 Antonio, with his back facing me, fumbles around with the mugs in his
kitchen cabinet. “How did you get here?”
“Taxi,” I respond, wincing at the amount it took out of my meagre
savings. “Why?”
“Because at this rate of rain, it looks as if my house will be open to you
for at least the night,” he says, spinning around with two mugs in hand and
gesturing to a selection of teabags on the counter. “The roads will be
blocked.”
I grip the counter. Why did I think that coming to see him was a good
idea? Why didn’t I pray over this decision with thought and deliberation?
“Oh,” is the only sound I can force my stiff lips to make.
He crosses the room after putting the kettle on. “I’ll call someone to get
you a blanket and a change of clothes, sweetheart. You’re drenched.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, though water is pooling at my feet.
He sets down the mugs, the clunk of them against the granite countertop
sounding like punctuation for his commands. “That was not a request.”
It’s an order. And, having no choice, I take it like it’s a lifeline.
 Chapter 15–The Truth

Christina Martell
I stand in the spray of the hot shower, my sodden clothes–a black dress
and matching cardigan–thrown into the dryer. There’s no saving my
stockings, after my hastily tearing them off and poking holes in them with my
nails in my haste to get warm. I lather on soap and shampoo, breathing in the
scent of the products. I thought he would have given me something of his
sisters’, something bland and inoffensively feminine, but instead, the
toiletries smell like… him. Spices, musk, something earthy.
Quickly finishing my shower, I rinse off my hair and shut off the tap.
When I step out of the glass-encased shower, then realize… there are no
towels in Antonio Cavalli’s bathroom. Is this supposed to be some kind of
joke? Because it is the furthest thing from funny to be naked in his bathroom,
in his house, with absolutely nothing to cover myself. Does he just enjoy
putting me in vulnerable positions? All I can think is that coming here was
definitely a mistake.
I scan the bathroom and carefully wipe my hand dry with a section of
toilet paper before picking up my phone. Tapping out a text, why are there no
towels in your bathroom I hit send. Then I set my phone down by the toilet
and step back into the shower, which is thankfully fogged-up and made of
frosted glass so that nothing is too visible. As I wait for him to come to my
rescue, my annoyance grows, both with him and myself. If he did the no-
towel thing on purpose, I will be extremely upset that he’s trying to take
advantage of me. On the other hand, why did I decide to put myself in such a
dangerous situation?
A knock sounds at the door. Taking a quick peek in the clouded mirror
with the shower door slightly ajar to ensure that everything essential is
hidden from view, I call, “Come in!”
Though I try to keep my voice level and firm, I hear a slight quiver in it
and curse myself. If there was ever a time to sound confident, it’s right now.
“I brought you some towels,” Antonio says, his eyes only fixed on my
face as I stick my head out of the shower, extending a hand.
He’s carrying a stack of three under one arm. I reach out to take them,
aware of the power imbalance between us. Not only because I’m in his house,
not only because I have no clothes on in his shower and he’s fully dressed.
Not only because he’s over a head taller than me or because he has a body
that looks like it’s built to snap me in half without lifting a finger. But mostly
because… I’m afraid. I’m not afraid of what he might do to me or what I
might let him do. I’m afraid of the truths that I see buried in his eyes that I
came here to dig up.
“Thank you,” I say, taking one and wrapping it around my torso. Pristine
white Egyptian cotton slides against my skin, not imbued with his scent but
with that of simple, clean, laundry detergent. As I take another towel for my
hair, my elbow knocks my phone into the toilet with a splash. I push the
shower door open the rest of the way and get out. If I were the type to swear,
now would be the time to do it. “Darn.”
In my hurried panic to reach my phone, I ignore that I’m not wearing
anything except a towel, my arms and legs bare. I nearly slip and fall on the
tiled floor before Antonio catches my arm. Again. His grip on my forearm is
firm enough that even if I wanted to go crashing to the floor, I know he
would hold me still. My breath hitches in my throat as I stare up at him, his
grey eyes meeting mine. Heat radiates from his body onto my chilled,
clammy skin, and a shiver wracks my body. My teeth dig into my lower lip to
keep from chattering. To my surprise, he lets go of my arm, unfolds the
remaining towel, and wraps it around my shoulders. His touch gentle, like
he’s taking care of a small child.
He actually rolls up his sleeves and fishes out my phone for me before
shutting the toilet lid. I have to bite down on my lip to keep my jaw from
dropping. “I’ll take care of this. There are clothes laid out for you in the room
down the hall.”
With that, he’s gone.
#
Antonio Cavalli
She smells like me. The housekeeper left my toiletries in the bathroom
instead of fetching one of my sisters’ things, and Christina Martell… smells
like me. The scent emanating from her soft skin matches mine instead of her
usual scent of roses. She feels like mine. She’s not. I have to keep reminding
myself that she isn’t mine. She’s not my girl, she’s not my possession, she’s
sure as heck, not my property. But I am damned if she doesn’t feel like it.
Why does she seem so special? What makes her any different from the
dozens of girls I’ve been with, in the past? Is it only that she isn’t from my
world, only that she appears untainted, unspoiled, pure? She seems innocent,
refreshing, a gasp of air amidst the crashing waves threatening to pull me
under. But that’s not even true, because she is a part of my world whether she
likes it or not and whether she knows it or not, simply by blood. She’s a
Martell.
 I press the power button on her phone to see if it still works. It does, and
messages pop up on the lit screen, the sight of the names filling me with a
sort of quiet fury.
Lucas Black: I found something important.
Lucas Black: Can you come over? I need to talk to you.
Lucas Black: Where are you? I asked your mom where you are and
she said that you told her you were going to stay with a friend.
Lucas Black: Christina, can you please answer me? This isn’t about
our relationship, I promise.
I power her phone off in case Lucas Black decides to use it to track her
down. Then, I build a fire in the fireplace, heaping coals and logs on top of
each other and lighting a match. The fragrance of woodsmoke fills the room
just as Christina enters in a black, ankle-length, lacy nightgown that Allie left
in the closet on her hasty departure. It’s shorter on her than on Allie, the hem
falling to mid-calf, but it covers everything that needs to be covered, unlike
the towel from earlier. I’m glad the woodsmoke aroma chokes out the scent
of her—my own scent on her.
I pass her a cup of tea. She accepts it with a nod, face lowered to the
black and white marble tiles. Is it fear or apprehension in her gaze that keeps
her from not meeting mine? I lean my hip against the counter, watching her
as she sips the steaming liquid.
“You have questions for me,” I say. Not a suggestion, but a statement.
Why else would she be here?
She drains half the mug’s contents before setting it on the counter. Her
wet hair clings to her shoulders, dampening the black fabric. “Yes.”
“Ask them, then.” I try to sound bored, but in reality, I want to hear her
queries. I want to spark her curiosity, to know what thoughts course through
her mind behind those lovely brown eyes. “We have all night.”
She shudders at the reminder of that. The reminder that she isn’t leaving
this house for at least a night. Christina’s gaze is on her nails, studying her
olive green manicure like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “I… I
don’t know where to start.”
“Your father.” I finish my tea and leave the mug in the sink. “Your
mother. The nature of our relationship. All the topics you could ask me
about.”
“What about you?” she asks me, looking up from her fingers. “Can I ask
you about yourself?”
I cock my head, her question surprising me. “Did you come here to ask
about me? Or did you come here for more important things?”
“Everything is important in the grand scheme of things,” she says quietly.
Her answer gnaws at me. I want to hear a different one, but what sort of
different? “Very few things are important in the grand scheme of things. But
you are not here to philosophize, Christina. Ask me a question.”
“I did,” she said, and I was so perplexed by her.
If she had come here to talk about her father I would have answered her. I
would have told her who he was, who her sisters were, how messed-up her
real family was. I would have scared her far away or I would have dragged
her even deeper into my world and enmeshed her even more firmly into my
life. If she wanted to ask what I was to her, or why I had asked her out, I
could have answered that too. I could have told her that I had asked her out
only to annoy her father and mine, but that there was something I saw in her
now that made me unable to let her go.
But a personal question? Sad as it was, that was beyond me.
“Ask me, then.” I look away as she reaches up to put her damp hair into a
twist, shifting the sheer panels of the dress. “Isn’t that what you came here
for? Ask me a question.”
“What do you want with me, Antonio?”
 Chapter 16–The Answers

Christina Martell
If I am grateful for anything, it’s that the nightgown I have on is black
and completely opaque. I wish I could say the same for my emotions, which
are transparently, even flagrantly, displaying themselves on my face.
Antonio yanks a drape shut with a clatter of curtain rings against the rod,
his gaze unreadable. “Are you sure you want to know the truth, Miss
Martell?”
I straighten up, my hair making a damp imprint on the small of my back.
“At any cost, Mr. Cavalli.”
“Some prices,” he says slowly, “are too high to pay.”
That, I won’t argue with. But the truth has already been revealed to me in
a dozen painful ways. I can take another hit. Even if I feel lacerated by his
eyes, torn to ribbons then sewn back together again, during the moment that
he takes to gaze at me. “I can handle it.”
He almost smiles, something like pride in his expression. Approval. It
almost warms my chilled body better than the tea. “Of course you can. Sit
down, Christina.”
Antonio doesn’t call me sweetheart. But it’s more intimate than Miss
Martell. Legs feeling slightly weak, I lower myself onto the couch and sink
into it. The leather cocoons me like an embrace, like a funeral shroud. Tilting
my head back, I look up at him while he leans against the wall, staring at a
spot somewhere behind my head. Like he almost can’t admit the truth to me,
like only my requests are reluctantly wrenching it from him.
“You were right. I picked you, out of every girl in New York City, to go
on a date with me, not just because I thought you were beautiful, or
interesting, or something about you caught my eye. I chose you because of
who you are—who your father is. I chose you because of your last name.
Your father is a crime lord—which you should know if your mother told you
—and your mother escaped from him because he was married. She wanted to
lead an honest, hardworking life with you, away from the glitz and glamour
and blood that stained Charles Martell’s hands.
“So she took you, and she left. Martell didn’t chase her, because he was
already married then and he had his third daughter on the way.” He pauses as
if giving me a breath to absorb what he’s said. I have sisters. Somewhere out
in this world, I have sisters. “Or so he thought. Actually, his wife was having
an affair with his best friend, and his oldest daughters weren’t his.”
I frown and ask a question, one my sinking stomach and tense ribcage tell
me I’ll definitely regret. “But what does that have to do with you?”
He sighs. “My father wanted me to marry one of Charles Martell’s
daughters, to solidify the business deals between the Martells and the
Cavalli’s. We don’t have the best relationship, so to be completely honest
with you, I thought you would be a fun way to tick him off.”
Standing up, I fold my arms across my chest. “Take me home.”
“Christina,” Antonio says, blocking my path immediately.
I can see the shine of a gun at his hip, the leather of a holster in his belt.
This man has the word danger written all over him but all I can think, while I
smell like him and have tasted his lips and worn his family’s clothing, is that
I have fool written all over me. I got played. I was worried about playboys
and players, but not this kind. I was worried about a guy who would use me
for sex. I wasn’t thinking about a guy would drag me into his family drama,
into his dangerous life, and into his catastrophically enticing grey eyes.
“Get out of my way,” I say, more loudly now. “I don’t care if it’s raining.
I don’t care if it’s the middle of the night. I want to go home.”
Tears stinging my eyes, I push against his chest. He grabs my hands and
stops me from moving. “You wanted this, sweetheart. You told me you could
handle it.”
“I thought you would be telling me some long-buried family secret,” I
say, my voice turning from a whisper into a shout. “I thought you would be
telling me about business or family or… anything but the way that you used
me, just like you’re a spoiled brat, to get back at your father!”
Antonio holds both of my hands in one of his, long fingers encircling
both my wrists. “Christina, sweetheart, I like you a lot.”
I struggle to get away, struggle to keep my distance. “Tell me another lie.
I’ve heard them all, from you and from him. And don’t you dare call me
sweetheart one more time.”
“I am not your ex-boyfriend, Christina,” he says lowly, an edge coming
into his voice.
My head snaps up before he uses his other hand to move my chin
upwards. “I didn’t say you were Lucas.”
“Then don’t treat me like him,” Antonio says, his tone gritty, his teeth
clenched. “Don’t expect the worst of me.”
I struggle to free my hands from his grasp. “You have shown me nothing
but the worst, Antonio.”
With that, he releases me and I dart into the hall, not caring where I end
up as long as it’s away from him.
 Chapter 17–The Invitation

Antonio Cavalli
Heat sears through me, but not from the roaring fireplace. From her
words. They clang through my mind like alarm bells, like sirens, calling my
attention. But to what? What problem needs my attention right now?
Christina Martell is the only one on my mind. Though, is she really an issue
to be resolved? My father would say so. I’m not sure I can agree with him.
I make to track her through the house, not knowing which turns she took.
However, luckily enough a trail of water droplets from her wet hair creates a
breadcrumb trail for me to follow. As I pass through the darkened hallways,
the sconces flickering with flames as though I’m in some sort of Gothic
novel, I think about the conversation with Christina. It all went wrong so
quickly.
What I said to her is technically true. I did use her But it’s not how I feel
about her now. She’s not just a pawn to me anymore or a weapon in the battle
against my father and our complex relationship. She’s a real person, with
feelings and plans and dreams, who I am genuinely attracted to. She’s not just
another pretty face in a long line of them. Christina Martell is… something
else.
She’s genuine. Vulnerable. Seemingly irrational. Reckless. Kind. Too
curious for her own good. A combination of attributes that draws me to her,
drowning me in her brown eyes. I can hear her footsteps, bare feet sinking
into the plush carpet, and see her legs, uncovered by the nightgown, like pale
flashes in the night-dark house. Velvet wallpaper lines the walls, above teak
wainscoting and behind painted family oil portraits like this is the Victorian
era. This house is a maze of tradition collapsing in on itself. Finally, I pause
outside the door to my father’s study and freeze at what I hear.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here? Did you get lost, Miss
Martell?” My father says over the sound of a crackling fire and clinking ice.
No. The moment I hear his voice, my blood runs cold. I might as well be
standing in Antarctica or an Australian forest fire for all the good it does me,
as frozen as I feel.
“I-I’m sorry.” Her voice is soft. I’d almost think of her as timid; almost
categorize her as some shy, meek, shrinking violet, if I didn’t know better. “I
didn’t mean to intrude on your personal space, Mr….?”
“Cavalli. Roberto Cavalli.” With that, I push open the door, letting it bang
against the wall. I don’t care about the lack of decorum. All I care about is
getting her away from my father and away from that dangerous situation. She
doesn’t belong here, in my life, any more than a kitten belongs drenched in a
rain puddle. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Ah, Antonio. So good of you to join
us.”
My blood returns to normal temperature before boiling when I see him
kiss the back of her hand.
“Are you Antonio’s father?” Christina asks, removing her hand from his
grasp. Her back is stiff, ramrod-straight, steeled. “I would introduce myself,
but it seems you already know who I am.” She doesn’t turn to face me, but I
see her shoulders tense.
“I make it a habit of knowing who my son associates himself with,” my
father responds, sitting back down. Now, he’s lounging behind his desk with
his feet upon it, the soles of his expensive Italian leather loafers facing both
of us. Rude, but what else is to be expected? “Why don’t the two of you join
me for supper tomorrow night?”
All of his questions aren’t optional suggestions. They’re mandatory.
They’re commands on the hidden threat of death or mutilation or exile. Still, I
don’t expect her to agree.
“I… I would love to, Mr. Cavalli,” Christina says, and my eyes must bug
out of my head.
Why would she knowingly ingratiate herself further into this life of
mobsters and criminals? Then, I realize why. She must be getting back at me.
I used her to irritate my father. Now she’s using my father’s invitation to
annoy me.
But I can’t abandon her to this shark tank. One whiff of blood and they’ll
tear her to shreds. I brought her into this mess. Now, I have to protect her
until we wade out of it. “I’ll be there.”
My father nods, his hands behind his head. The pose makes the tails of
his suit jacket fall back, revealing his belt and exposing the glint of metal—a
firearm—in his holster. It’s a practiced, deliberate motion. Nothing is ever
accidental with him. “Good, good. Buonanotte, then, to both of you. Enjoy
the rest of your night together.”
Before I can correct him, he makes a gesture for us to leave.
I stare at Christina. What have I gotten her—gotten us—into?
“Christina,” I hiss under my breath. “What are you thinking? You can’t
possibly want to have dinner with my father.”
She raises an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest. “Why not? I
had dinner with you, didn’t I?”
I roll my eyes. “This is completely different and you know it. Don’t sass
me.”
“Don’t try to control me, and I won’t.” With that, she turns on her heel
and starts to walk away.
I sigh, catching up to her easily. “I’ll take you to your room.”
“No.” She starts speed-walking now, dropping her arms to her sides and
moving them quickly as though she’s ready to sprint down the hall. Her voice
breaks. “I don’t want to talk to you, Antonio. Please just leave me alone.”
“I don’t want you alone with my father, alright? At least wait until I have
someone bring you to your room before you start wandering around here
again.”
I’ve given away my cards, shown her my hand. She knows I don’t want
her near my father. The question is, is she willing to risk her safety in the
hopes of getting back at me?
I hope not.
Finally, she stops walking, shoulders slumping. “Fine.”
“Thank you. Good night, sweetheart.”
#
Christina Martell
At six o’clock the next day, I stare into the cavernous depths of the walk-
in closet and search for something to wear.
I’ve been holed up in the same room that I stayed in last time I was here,
after the first date that Antonio and I had. That seems like a lifetime ago. I
feel like I was a different girl then. Only, not much has really changed since
then. I’m still wringing my hands asking him for answers while he stubbornly
refuses to give them to me—or, even worse, gives me the ones that hurt me
the most.
“Christina, dinner is in half an hour,” says Antonio’s muffled voice from
outside the closed wooden door. “Are you ready?”
I fidget with the tie of the fluffy bathrobe I wear, knotted tightly around
my waist.
“In a minute!” I pull out a pair of olive block heels and a black, ruffled
dress. I don’t want to feel too exposed in front of a gang of criminals and
Antonio’s father, so I grab a wrap. I’ve just untied the robe to get dressed just
as the door opens. “Get out!”
I’m in my underwear, but this is still an incredibly compromising position
for him to catch me in. Fingers trembling, I unzip the dress and tug it over my
head, not bothering to make sure he’s not watching. My vision is obscured by
the black silk, anyways. When I have the dress over my head, tugging strands
of my hair out of my collar, I see him sitting on the bench in front of the bed,
one ankle balanced on his opposite knee, staring at his phone. Come to think
of it, I still don’t have my phone back from him yet.
“Would you like me to zip you up?” he asks, not bothering to look up as
he scrolls through something.
I walk over to the bed with shoes in hand and carefully buckle them on,
wanting to ignore his question. But, the zipper is actually too low for me to
comfortably zip it up myself. “That would be nice. Thank you.”
After I stand up and he follows suit, brushing my hair aside to get to the
metal teeth of the zipper, I swallow nervously. His breath is hot on my nape,
his fingers moving in firm and precise motions, no movement wasted. I only
agreed to have dinner with Antonio and his father for two reasons. First of
all, selfishly, I wanted to annoy Antonio after he’d just revealed his
motivations for going on a date with me. Second of all, less selfishly, I did
promise Lucas that I would garner as much information as possible, even if it
means putting myself in a dangerous situation so that I could help him and
the FBI crack this case.
“Are you all set?” he asks me when he finishes.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply, sensing the ice between us thawing a
bit. I’m not foolish enough, however, to forget that beneath all the ice is a
vast lake ready to swallow me whole if I make one wrong move. “By the
way, can I have my phone back, please?”
His response is immediate, not even needing to glance in my direction as
he opens the door for me. “No.”
“Why not?” I stop in the doorway, unmoving except for the heaving of
my chest. “Are you trying to kidnap me?”
“First of all, I wouldn’t have to try, I would just do it.” Antonio turns to
look at me, grey eyes boring into mine. “Second of all, I don’t want your ex
to find us. He keeps texting you.”
I remember that Antonio thinks we’re estranged. Is this the time to be coy
and flirtatious or to play it off as innocent? “Why does it matter to you if
Lucas texts me?”
“For one thing, he’s an FBI agent. For another, he’s your ex.” He puts a
hand on my back, guiding me up a flight of marble stairs. I rest my fingertips
on the banister, moving away from his touch and wincing as one of my
ankles wrenches beneath me, twisting to one side. I grimace and keep
walking, not giving him the opportunity to catch me.
“Are you jealous?” I tease. As awful as it may be, I hope he is. I hope he
feels terrible about himself because that’s how I feel. I hope he questions
every word I’ve said and every moment we spent together because that’s
what I spent all night doing. I am a horrible person for wishing the same pain
he inflicted on me would be returned, I know. But I can’t help it. Lord, give
me strength. Help me to forgive all these men who just keep hurting me.
“We’re here.” I notice his deliberate avoidance of the question, but I’m
too nervous about what I might see in the dining room to push the matter.
The dining room has a vaulted ceiling that reminds me of a cathedral,
ironically enough. A long table fit to seat twelve is smack dab in the middle
of it, with ornately carved chairs on either side of it and two at the heads. The
air is redolent with the scent of pasta, cheese, and bread. I notice that nine of
the seats are already filled by men and women who talk to each other in
fluent Italian, the foreign words washing over me, a blend of staccato
syllables and exaggerated peaks and falls. Antonio guides me to a place
where my name is engraved on heavy cardstock in swirly letters. He sits on
my right side, just as his father enters the room. Shadows from the flickering
candles frame his face, casting him in semi-darkness.
“Bienvenuto,” Roberto Cavalli says.
 Chapter 18–The Dinner Party

Antonio Cavalli
“Benvenuto. Shall we say grace?” My father prompts. I hold my breath,
not scanning the table’s occupants. The only person
To my surprise, Christina stood. “If you all don’t mind, I would like to.”
My father beams like a teacher who was proud of his student. Something
clenches in my gut: a warning. Like the flashing light of a car’s dashboard,
telling me of some danger, but what? “Very well, Signorina Martell.”
A soft gasp rises in the room at the sound of her last name. Martell. Will
they tear her to pieces or accept her with open arms?
“Our Father in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy
will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and
forgive us our debts as we have forgiven our debtors. Lead us not into
temptation but deliver us from the evil one.” She recites the Lord’s Prayer.
Of course, I have heard it before, countless times in Mass and from my
mother’s own mouth as she prayed the Rosary. But it sounds different falling
from Christina Martell’s lips. Maybe it is more genuine that way; maybe she
actually believes. A chorus of amen echoes around the table as we dig into
the food. An antipasto is the first course served in this dining room that
reminds me of the Addams Family set, all flickering candles and dark walls.
The aromas of pickled vegetables, cured meats, and various cheeses wafts
toward me from the platters of food being laid down by the silent, black-
attired servers.
I pick at some salami and roasted red pepper, watching as Christina pries
an olive off of a toothpick. Her expression is relieved but uncertain, her
shoulders tensing with discomfort. Whispers of conversation start up again
around the room, my father presiding over them all with his steely gaze.
“So, Signorina Martell, tell me about yourself.” And there it is. There is
more than mere innocent curiosity present in my father’s voice as he slices
into a piece of smoked salmon. “What was your life like growing up? I can’t
imagine life with a single mother was easy.”
“I’m not sure that I’m the most interesting person to talk to here,” she
says, the sheepish smile she wears strained. “My life has been pretty simple.”
Roberto Cavalli cocks his head to one side, studying her like a scientist.
“No one who ends up in my house has a ‘pretty simple’ life. Or at least, they
might think it’s simple, but I assure you… the truth is far more complicated.”
I pop a chunk of provolone in my mouth, watching the two of them as
one would a tennis match. But any confrontation with my father, I know, is
far deadlier than any sports game, which is why I lean forward, nudging
Christina’s ankle with mine. She looks up from her plate and toward me, a
question in her eyes. I jerk my head toward my father, trying to get her to
abort this conversation.
She smiles politely, her expression becoming more cordial and less
uncomfortable. “What sorts of people wind up in your house, Mr. Cavalli?”
That was definitely the wrong question to ask, as I see the gleam in my
father’s eyes, the hungry look of a predator who was spotted a straggling
gazelle with a limp, lost and gone astray from the herd. He takes a sip of his
whiskey, dabbing at his mouth with a linen napkin. “All sorts of people,
Signorina. Everyone from college students to expectant mothers and even a
handful of long-lost, missing children.”
Sirens go off in my mind. Expectant mothers? Who did he take this time?
I rack my brain, thinking about the catalogue of our enemies. The Filipetto
family? Maria was recently married, but I’m’ not sure that she is pregnant.
None of the Martell girls are pregnant, as far as I know. Could it be one of the
Steeles? I have not kept up with their family tree lately, so it could be one of
them.
Christina laughs awkwardly into her glass of ginger ale while searching
for a rebuttal. “How… interesting.”
“Ah, here’s the second course,” my father says, waving a hand as though
he didn’t just confess to multiple kidnappings and contributions to missing
persons cases. “I hope you like pasta, Signorina Martell.”
“I do.” Christina’s smile remains fixed in place as she surveys the dishes
that the servers are bringing out now. “Thank you again for inviting me to
dine with you.”
“Prego. Of course, of course. Oh, that reminds me. How rude I have
been, Signorina. I should have introduced you to everyone,” he says, still
wearing that shark-like grin that makes me want to grab Christina and run out
of the room as fast as I can. “This is my oldest friend, Tomas Esposito.”
Too fixated on Christina’s safety, I didn’t take my usual precautions in
scanning the room. Now that I’m tearing myself away from their
conversation, I notice that no women except for Christina are present at the
table. It’s not atypical for one of my father’s dinners. We’re wealthy enough
that the women aren’t in the kitchens cooking—though some of the nonne
prefer to prepare the food themselves—but they’re not privy to business
dealings. They eat separately. Women in the mafia are relegated to either
being the upstanding wives and mothers of the dons and capos or being the
men’s ‘entertainment’. I wonder what Christina thinks of that.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Christina says, not standing up to shake his
hand. The ache in my stiff neck subsides somewhat as I keep an eye on her
interactions. This is worse than a den of vipers. Somewhere in the
background, Sinatra is playing, all bluesy clarinets and buttery tones.
“Likewise, signorina bella,” he says, having the gall to wink at her. He’s
forty-five, for Christ’s sake. And he has a wife. Why is he flirting with her?
Tomas notices my glare and says, “Don’t look so jealous, Tony. I’m just
being nice.”
I roll my eyes and take a gulp of ice water. “I wasn’t being jealous.”
Christina’s smile softens, becoming more genuine when it’s directed
toward me. “There’s no reason for Antonio to be jealous. We aren’t
together.”
I finish the water and feel the ice slide down my throat, leaving a chill in
my chest that matches the icy glower covering my face. Chewing on the dry
bread that I plucked from the basket without olio di oliva, I wait to be served.
A heap of linguine with shrimp and tomatoes is scooped onto my plate, steam
rising toward my face from the blue-tinged porcelain plate.
At least the food is good, because I have the feeling this is going to be a
long dinner.
 Chapter 19–The Stripper

Lucia “Destiny” Esposito

“How was work?” I say as soon as Lucas gets home, hearing the jingle of
his keys in the apartment door and the rattle of the lock as well as the clicking
of five different deadbolts.
The sense of domesticity that comes with the simple question is unsettling
to me. Strange, yet alarmingly familiar but now. This is our routine. Yet he
isn’t my husband or even a boyfriend. Heck, he’s never even laid a hand on
me. This isn’t a relationship. Yet it somehow is.
“Hello?” I say when he doesn’t reply, getting up from the bed and
throwing on a robe. I do not want a repeat of the time that his ex-girlfriend
had gotten an eyeful. That was painfully awkward not to mention
unnecessarily dramatic. “Luke?”
It might not have been him, I realize, reaching into the drawer next to the
bed where he keeps his Glock as well as a 9mm. I grip the Glock the way
Lucas taught me to and, holding it in a ready position in front of me with both
hands, I walk slowly out of the bedroom and toward the apartment’s foyer.
Halfway out of the bedroom, I remember to turn off the trigger safety,
carefully flicking the small switch.
Heavy footsteps make my heart pound and I inch out of the bedroom. You
can do this, Destiny. The air conditioning makes the thin material of my
waffle robe whip against my bare legs, the fabric billowing in the cool,
artificial breeze. I swallow thickly. The weight of the gun is heavy in my
hands, and I keep my index finger extended against the length of the gun, not
touching the trigger until I’m ready to shoot.
“Who is there?” I try to make my voice sound stern and commanding, but
it falls flat. Probably, I sound like a scared little girl. “I have a gun, and I
know how to use it.”
“What a coincidence, Miss Esposito. So do I,” came a cool, serpentine
voice from the foyer. I freeze, glad my finger is off the trigger, my thumbs
stacked on top of each other as they cradle the weapon. “As for your other
question, well, you could call me an old friend.”
A burglary, I could handle. Heck, I’d even shoo the guy out the door with
the TV or a wad of cash. But an old friend? That, I cannot handle. Because I
don’t have old friends. I have family members who became enemies years
ago when I tried to leave them. Not for a better life, not really—stripping
isn’t exactly miles away on the morality scale, but it paid the bills when I had
them. Now I feel like a mooch, but I can’t go back to my old apartment,
either.
“I have quite a few… old friends,” I say, hoping I don’t get blood on the
carpet, either his or mine. That would be difficult to explain to Lucas when he
gets home. “You’ll have to specify which one you are. I was just a regular ole
social butterfly back in high school.”
“We both know you didn’t go to high school, Lucia,” the voice continues.
I tiptoe around the corner and into the kitchen where he can’t see me. After
carefully setting down the gun, I grab a knife from the knife block on the
counter and tuck it into the belt of my robe, then empty the rest of the knives
into a drawer just in case. “There’s no need for lies among old friends.”
“I don’t go by Lucia anymore,” I say. That name died three years ago,
along with the rest of my life when it went up in flames. If I close my eyes, I
can still smell the smoke and feel the heat of the fire.
“Then what do you go by?” he asks.
“Destiny,” I say, spinning around and stepping out of the kitchen, my
bare feet landing on the soft rug instead of cold linoleum.
Beneath a dark hood, a man leans against Lucas’s furniture, his arm
resting on the back of the couch. I spy a gun holstered in his belt, probably
alongside several more weapons tucked into it. “Il fato. It suits you, Lucia.”
“Why are you here?” I don’t say, how did you find me? I know the mafia
have their ways. I know this man especially well, but I don’t want to see his
face. I don’t want him to lift that hood and confirm that he is who I think he
is. “Did you leave something behind all those years ago?”
“Yes.” He steps closer, and I keep my gun extended in front of me, one
finger on the trigger. The man doesn’t even flinch as he touches my face,
tucking my dyed-brown hair behind one ear, cupping my jaw. My breathing
shallows, my eyes widening in panic. “Tu. You looked better as a blonde, by
the way.”
“Did I ask for your opinion? Either tell me why you’re here or leave.” I
jerk my chin away from him, stepping back and leaning against the kitchen
counter. This is a bad position. I feel trapped and scoot by the cold quartz of
the table until I’m in a more open space, my back to the door. “Pick one, or
get shot.”
“That’s no way to talk to an amico, Lucia.” He tilts his head back,
removing his hood. I suck in a deep breath as the crappy fluorescent lights
illuminate his face. It’s one I know all too well… One I thought I would
never see again.
“Just tell me what you want.” I keep my finger on the trigger, trying to
steady my breathing. “Or else.”
He smiles, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants. “You couldn’t
kill a fly, Lucia.”
“People can change, Marco.” Whether it’s for the worse or the better
remains to be seen. I smell his expensive cologne, with an undertone of
something metallic, like blood or gunpowder. Knowing him, it’s probably
both. “What. Are. You. Doing. Here?”
Marco holds up both hands like he’s saying, calm down. My heart still
pounds in my ears, blood roaring. “I just came here to deliver something.” He
pulls an envelope out of his jacket pocket and lets it thud onto the kitchen
counter. “Deliver that to your boyfriend for me, why don’t you?”
As he exits, walking past me hurriedly with a slam of the door, I yell,
“He’s not my boyfriend!”
#
Christina Martell
Tonight definitely tops the list of the worst dinners of my life. Maybe it
even makes it to number one, after the Christmas party last year where my
drunken uncle threw up on my lap and my aunts spent all night pestering me
about why Lucas wasn’t there. That definitely wasn’t fun, and neither was the
exorbitant dry-cleaning bill I had to pay.
We’ve moved from the dining room to an even grander ballroom. For a
house in New York, the vast amount of space in this place is obscene.
Chandeliers and candelabras glitter around the room, lit with real flames. A
few French, leaden-glass windows are cracked open, draped in amber velvet
curtains that lead to small balconies outside with marble banisters. Bouquets
of lilies and orchids in vases are scattered around the room. Gentle chatter in
Italian and French as well as heavily accented English reaches my ears. I can
smell the candles, faintly scented with sandalwood, and Antonio’s cologne
cloaking him as I enter on his arm.
“Nervous?” Antonio leans down and asks me, his lips brushing my ear. I
hold in a gasp. His expression is unreadable, as it has been all night. Well,
except for when his father’s friend kissed my hand. Then, I could definitely
read jealousy on it.
“No,” I say, too quickly not to be a lie. My pulse is too fast and my hands
are too shaky for him to accept the denial as plausible, but he doesn’t say
anything. I feel underdressed for this mansion, unprepared for this life. Yet
I’m in it anyways. “Why would I be?”
Music begins to play in the corner before he can answer. He changes the
subject anyways, facing me. “Dance with me, Miss Martell.”
“I…” I swallow thickly. Dancing ranks very low on my list of marketable
skills, mostly because I have two left feet and actually find it easier to punch
someone than to dance with them. Wrestling was my favourite module in
gym class, not dancing. But I notice the stares around us, the eyes of these
Mafiosi like those of hungry wolves, bent on devouring us. “Of course, Mr.
Cavalli.”
“Thank you.” He pulls me into his body, one of his hands sliding to my
waist and settling there, just above my hip, while his other hand grips mine
firmly. My fingers feel dwarfed by his. I’ve never considered myself
particularly short—I’ve always been tall for an Asian girl—but even in heels,
he makes me feel small. Not insignificant, but… overwhelmed. Dominated.
“I must say, you look lovely tonight.”
I look up at him, craning my neck to do so. I can predict a crick in it by
the end of the night. Biting my lip to keep from smiling, I resolve that I’m not
about to forgive him so easily. “I know I do, Mr. Cavalli.”
 A smirk plays on his lips as he gazes down at me. The contrast between
the dark curls at his nape and the starched white collar of his shirt is startling.
He reminds me of Dracula, raised in a creepy mansion by bloodsuckers. Did
Dracula have a father? I’m suddenly not so sure. “That’s very humble of
you,” Antonio says, raising an eyebrow.
My mother, in fact, raised me in her Asian way never to accept a
compliment, ever. She taught me that the Western way was to say thank you
for compliments. The Chinese way was to say, no, you are (insert the same
compliment here).
“I never claimed to be some shrinking wallflower,” I say. Or is wilting
violet the right word? Everything I say gets called into question when I’m
around him, though not always in a bad way. He spins me away from him
before catching me again, dipping me low so that my hair falls from my
shoulders, hanging from my head in a long rope and baring my neck to him.
Maybe he is Dracula.
“No, that would be too boring,” he says, bringing me back into an upright
position.
“And God forbid the girl you are using to anger your father be boring,” I
say, my words biting.
He sighs. “Christina…”
But he never gets the chance to finish his sentence as a noise startles us
both. We turn toward the door and Antonio’s mouth drops open in shock.
“Lucia?”
 Chapter 20–The Abduction

Lucia “Destiny” Esposito

“You said you only wanted to deliver a package,” I say to Marco as he
drags me by the elbow, out the door, with the gun pressed to my side. Lucas’s
gun. In all honesty, I should have learned to use firearms way before I
reached any supposed high school age. But every time we had training
lessons that involved guns or gun safety, I would skip them. I figured I would
escape the mafia life soon enough. Clearly, I was wrong. “To Lucas. You’re
going the wrong way if you want to leave him a package.”
“I left him a package. Now you’re the package that I’m delivering to
someone else.” I roll my eyes at the corniness of his message as he keeps his
hand on my elbow, the cold press of the firearm making me shudder.
As he leads me through the hall, I see people wandering along the
corridor with its faded carpets and peeling wallpaper, and I think about
shouting for help. Then, he would probably shoot me and then all the other
people, so I smile and pretend that nothing bad is happening at all. “I’m a
person, not an Amazon delivery.”
“You can be a UPS package,” Marco says, as though that’s any better.
He never did have the ability to come up with a snappy comeback, even
when we were growing up. I remember playing tag with him as children and
all he could do was turn the tables back on me so that I was ‘it’. The memory
almost makes me nostalgic for those times. Marco and I essentially grew up
as cousins, since our mothers were best friends who were close enough to be
sisters. But we never fell for each other in the way that everyone in the
famiglia expected of us. For one thing, Marco’s type is willowy, blonde,
Victoria’s Secret types, while I’m five-three, strawberry-blonde and curvy.
For another, he annoys me to no end.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, then, change my tone when a man
passing by gives us a suspicious look. Sounding like a whiny girlfriend, I
amp up the drama. “I mean, this is our second anniversary! Can you at least
take me some place nicer than Boston Pizza?”
Now it’s Marco’s turn to roll his eyes. “Lucia, please.”
A random passerby chimes in, the blonde woman’s eyes disdainful as she
glances at Marco with her mouth hanging open. Her cheap blonde extensions
hang down her back, her long pink nails looking ready to gouge my fake
boyfriend’s eyes out. “You only took her to Boston Pizza? I bet you’re the
kind of cheap guy who says presents don’t matter on birthdays and Christmas
too!”
“How did you know?” I say, playing along for dramatic effect. Taking a
risk, I pretend to wrench myself out of Marco’s grasp. “He even asked me to
pay the bill on our last date!”
The woman gasps, and for a moment, I think there’s some sort of
feminine code that universally condemns cheapskates. “No!”
“Yes.” Marco sternly yanks me back against his body, the aggravation
pouring off of him in waves as we leave, passing by the blonde woman. Too
bad. She seemed nice. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, we have to go. I made a
reservation at Cavalli’s, honey.”
At the sound of that surname, my heart clenches tightly. This isn’t a game
any more. The Cavalli’s are dangerous. Deadly, even. I escaped them this
long for a reason, and I’m none too eager to return.
“I don’t want to eat at Cavalli’s,” I say, a lump forming in my throat. My
feet slow to a halt, each step louder than the next against the thinly carpeted
floor. “Their food is practically poisoned.”
“One. More. Word. Lucia.” Marco’s patience is clearly thinning, much
like his dark hair. He’s only twenty-five, why is his hair thinning? I guess a
life of crime causes more stress than being an accountant or something.
Remembering the time I saw him disembowel a man with his bare hands—
back when we both worked under the command of the capo, Antonio’s
father, Roberto Cavalli—I decide it’s a good idea to listen and not snark back
at him. For once. “And I swear to Dio, I will not hesitate.”
I plaster a cheerful smile on my face and pantomime locking up my lips
and throwing away the key as he guides us toward the elevator, each step
feeling like another one toward my execution. The bells are tolling already.
#
Lucas Black
She’s gone. Destiny is gone.
My eyes comb over the small apartment with familiar movements,
checking for broken glass, a smashed door, a droplet of blood. Nothing. No
signs of a struggle. Not even a scuffed floorboard or a dead houseplant
askew.
The only thing that snags my gaze is the manila envelope sitting on the
counter. I snatch it, barely able to stop the haze of rage from consuming me.
My hands shake as I tear the packet open, the yellow paper shredding. It’s
a glossy photograph and a slip of paper that falls to the floor. I scramble to
pick it up, fingers brushing the carpet. As I pinch the paper between my
fingers, the rug shifts between my feet and reveals a loose floorboard. Huh.
 I pry open the small space, expecting dust bunnies or maybe even a
colony of them to meet me. However, despite the small cloud that makes me
cough, once I’ve waved it away it’s gone to reveal something far less
innocuous than dirt. It’s another envelope. Manila. Thick, and padded.
My fingers have stopped trembling, but as I slit it open, I see the bubble
wrap surrounding several things. All of them incriminating as I stand up,
sliding them out of the envelope onto the counter. I pause before touching
them, pulling on a pair of sterile rubber gloves from my work bag.
A necklace with a red stone that winks up at me—not just a ruby, but a
red diamond. Thick wads of cash, rubber-banded, and with enough hundreds
for me to swipe my thumb over the corner and hear the ruffling noise. And a
gun, fully loaded. When I empty its chamber, I find bullets carved with the
letter C. C for Cavalli.
Is Destiny really the witness to a murder? Or is she possibly the murderer
herself? I stare at each of the items before deciding to focus on the piece of
jewelry. The links of its chain are impossibly delicate yet well-made. Despite
the possible betrayal that this discovery just revealed to me, I can’t help but
picture it around Destiny’s neck. Its red diamond is princess-cut. The chain is
either platinum or white gold. I know these things unwillingly, forced on me
as the son of a jeweller who had far too many affairs with his customers.
A name is carved onto the back of the stone’s setting in tiny letters: Lucia
Anne Esposito. I curse under my breath as I think of the tattoo on her hip, the
single work of ink staining her otherwise flawless skin: LAE. I thought it was
the initials of a lover, maybe. I thought it was none of my business.
But none of that matter now. All that matters is figuring out this situation.
If Destiny—Lucia—whoever she is, is in danger, wouldn’t it make sense for
me to go rescue her? Yet, if she isn’t… if she left willingly… if this has been
a months-long con…
I feel that like a punch to my gut. The betrayal. Like I literally pulled the
rug out from beneath my own feet. And for the first time, I understand how
Christina must have felt.
What do I do?
 Chapter 21–The Meeting

Christina Martell
Something painful flashes through me at the sight of Antonio walking
briskly toward another girl. I tell myself it isn’t betrayal or a sense of
jealousy. It’s only confirmation of a belief that I should have recognized a
long time ago: this life will never be mine. He will never be mine. And I’m
perfectly happy to let it stay that way, even if people try to convince me
otherwise.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I turn away, plastering a smile on my
face as I walk toward the dessert table. All the labels are in looping, scrolling
Italian calligraphy and I have nut allergies. Maybe, I think, I can poison
myself and be airlifted to the hospital, getting me out of the hellhole that I
have so willingly, so blindly, mired myself in. Finally, I spot the gelato
section and scoop some salted caramel into a bowl, facing the room.
Clutching the cold metal goblet, I watch as Antonio talks to the girl, a
strange expression on his face. Anger, I realize. I’ve never seen him truly
angry. He doesn’t speak with larger gestures or a louder tone of voice. No,
his anger doesn’t show any obvious physical signs. All I see is the tightness
in his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes.
Eating my ice cream, which is perhaps the only upside of my night, I
watch them. The musicians have started playing again, but they stopped when
she walked in. Who is this girl—this Lucia? And what makes her so
important? Violin music plays, filtering through my mind and providing a
mournful backdrop for my thoughts.
“You look far too curious for your own good.” A golden-skinned woman
with dark eyes, her chestnut hair falling to her shoulders in soft barrel curls,
greets me in a lilting Italian accent. She extends a hand, studying me like an
insect she’s deciding whether or not to crush. “I’m Monica. Monica
Esposito.”
“Christina Martell. How do you do?” I say.
I’m not going to say, nice to meet you when that would be a lie. Perplexed
by her first statement, a twinge of annoyance tics in my jaw at the way she so
easily found me out. It’s just another reminder that I’m out of my element, a
fish flopping on dry land and desperately trying to get back into the ocean. Or
even a fishbowl. I’m not picky. But no one’s going to so much as dump a
bucket of water on me. Okay, maybe I took that metaphor a little too far.
“I’m fine, but I’m not here to talk about myself.” The smile on her lips is
painted red but slightly smeared, making her appear as though she’d eaten
something bloody. From the look on her face, she might have well torn out a
man’s heart with her teeth. “Oh, there’s my friend! Here, Christina, I’d like
for you to meet my friend, Marcia Orsini.”
Monica waves over a petite brunette, their combined statures making me
feel as though I tower over both of them in my heels. I shake her hand. It was
small and cold, fingers trembling. Though her features resembled Monica’s
more closely than mine, I thought that… She looks like me, like a girl caught
in a trap, in over her head. Scared. Overwhelmed. I squeeze her hand once.
I try to smile in some polite facsimile of etiquette, still holding my ice
cream cup awkwardly. “It’s nice to meet you, Marcia.”
There’s something skittish in the way she quickly releases my hand, not
meeting my gaze. “Same for you, Christina.”
“So, how did you meet Antonio?” Monica asks, quickly steering the
conversation toward a topic that suits her liking. Something prickles at the
back of my neck, and I suck in a quick breath. God, let me rely on Your
strength and wisdom to get through this…
“On Tinder, actually,” I say, the fake grin still plastered on my face.
“How did you meet him?”
She laughs, as though I’ve told a hilarious joke. My hackles rise,
goosebumps forming on my bare arms. “Oh, you’re so funny. No wonder he
kept you around this long. That’s unusual for Antonio, isn’t it, Marcia?”
Well, that’s another strike against her in my book. My teeth grit
unintentionally, the smile dropping from my face. “What, exactly, are you
talking about?”
“You know…” Marcia toes the parquet floor with her Louboutin.
Viciously, I hope it scuffs before I stop myself. It’s petty. Love your enemies,
and bless those who curse you… “He’s kind of a playboy.”
“Are you gossiping about my brother?” I look up with relief, trying not to
let my shoulders slump. It’s one of Antonio’s sisters. Average height, black
hair, blue eyes, and a gleam in her eyes that speaks of mischief, lighting her
pale skin from within. What’s her name again? All I can remember is that it
starts with an A… “I know that’s your favourite pastime, Monica, but surely
you can find a more productive one? Maybe be more creative and take up, I
don’t know, knitting, or painting or something. Something you can be proud
of.”
I remember her name now. Allie.
“Come with me, Christina.” Allie slings an arm around my shoulders
despite being a few inches shorter than me, her smile more genuine than my
saccharine one. “Let’s go get something to drink. You look parched.”
When we’ve situated ourselves at a safe distance from the girls who are
doubtless still harping on about what just happened, Allie smiles at me. “I
had to save you from them. They’re the worst… just a pair of harpies.”
“Thank you, Allie. I appreciate it.” And I do, but part of me, despite the
cruelty with which they behaved, wonders what else they might have told me.
I wonder what secrets they might have spilled from poisoned tongues, things
that no one else seems willing to share with me. Then again, maybe I’ve had
enough of the truth to sustain me for a while now.
“Come on, let’s go see if my brother is free now.” She loops her slender,
pale arm through mine, accentuated by the gold gown she wears. It’s fringed,
worn with a string of pearls and a feather headband that makes me think of
the flappers back in the twenties.
I stutter, wanting to form a protest, but it dies on my lips when we run
directly into Antonio, who looks… worried? His brows are furrowed, fists
tight at his side as he walks briskly. No, not walks—runs. Like he’s being
chased. Lucia is nowhere in sight. Did they get into an argument? He
certainly didn’t look happy to talk to her, despite how quickly he beelined
toward her when she first entered the room.
The last time I saw him look like this, a window had just been broken.
Glass was all over the floor. And he was on top of me, protecting me from
imminent danger. Something clenches low in my gut at the sight of him, not
in control as he typically is. Not as in command, not as steely and composed.
It feels wrong. It feels positively awful.
“What’s wrong?” I ask before I can summon any bitter invectives to hurl
at him. I don’t have the heart for it, anyway, not after dealing with those
bullies. And I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. He comes to an abrupt stop before
us, as though he hadn’t seen me or his sister at all. The stop is too abrupt
because he’s too close now, his height and strength suddenly dwarfing mine.
“You seem… off.”
I rest my hand on his forearm, trying to get him to realize that we’re
standing right in front of him. He jerks awake, his gaze meeting mine as one
of his hands relaxes to cup my face. His voice is hoarse, but his tone is
tender, somehow. Soft. “Christina.”
“Mr. Cavalli.” I catch myself, though his body heat makes me want to fall
into his arms and quit pretending to be angry with him. I should step back, let
his hand fall away, but I don’t. “Did something happen?”
“Lucia has a way of upsetting me, that’s all.” He nods toward Allie with
an expression that’s half-grimace, half-grin. His thumb brushes my lower lip
almost absently, his gaze not even on me, yet the gesture as intimate as ever.
Is this how he always is? Doling out affection with one hand and building a
wall of frozen distance with the other? “You know how she is.”
Allie makes sympathetic noises. “We were just headed toward the bar.
Come get a drink with us.”
He frowns. “Christina doesn’t drink.”
“They have sodas, right?” I say slowly, touched that he remembered that
from our first date. Something inside of me unthaws, warming up. No! I need
the ice to preserve me, to keep my heart safe from a man who will doubtless
break it, at least once.
He nods a bit, but his eyes are still far away. Yet another reason I
shouldn’t care about him. Yet when his hand moves from my face, I feel
cold. And when he holds mine with it, making me feel small and protected, I
let him.
 Chapter 22–The Lost Girl

Christina Martell
I drink an Italian soda with the straw between my teeth, the bubbles
tickling my nose. It tastes like grapes, like a summer afternoon in Sicily, with
my head tilted back and my eyes shut and the sun warming my face, like
eating fruit right off the vine and going for a swim in the deep, blue
Mediterranean. It tastes like a dreamlike illusion. To distract me from these
fanciful thoughts threatening to consume my mind, I survey the room. I spy
heavy, masculine furniture; wallpaper in a deep forest green; carved
mahogany bookshelves towering around the room with thick tomes in rust
and sienna. It gives me the sensation of being in a very exclusive gentlemen’s
club, or maybe a very old library. Tired as I am by the events of the night, I
have to take care not to spill my drink.
Please, God. I can’t do this without You. You are all that I have, all that
sustains me. The words filter through my mind like a reflex, like clinging to a
handrail to keep from tripping. Have mercy on me, Father, in the time of my
need… Don’t let me fall into this trap… Don’t let me fall into danger… Don’t
let me fall into wickedness… Lead me not into temptation, but deliver me
from evil. Deliver me from sin.
Sin has never dressed so well. Never spoken to me so gently. Never
poured me a soda and told me to enjoy it while he took care of some business
in the back, leaving me under the watchful eye of his sister. Sin never looked
at me like he wanted me; like I was the most precious treasure in the world to
him.
Antonio Cavalli is a liar and a thief. But he’s worked his way into my life,
or maybe dragged me by the hair into his life, and I need to keep my sanity.
“So, how are you liking your soda?” Allie asks me as she sips on a
cocktail. “I’ve just never had one of those, so I’m curious.”
“It’s not bad,” I say, trying to relax in the small study that Antonio
directed me and Allie into with instructions not to leave until he called for us.
Suspicious, perhaps, but I wasn’t about to question a man who could
dismember me five ways to Sunday. “Do you know why Antonio is locking
us in this room like prisoners?”
Something painful flashes through Allie’s eyes as she leans back on the
leather settee and props her booted feet onto the ottoman. She sets her drink
down and folds her arms across her chest. Clearly, I’ve hit a nerve,
apparently. “My brother is a good man, Christina. I know he may seem rough
on the surface, but I assure you. Antonio wouldn’t treat anyone like a
prisoner.”
“You’re awfully defensive of your brother,” I say after taking a sip of
soda. Is there more to him beneath the surface than I’ve previously assumed?
“I don’t take kindly to people who hurt my family.” She straightens up,
her blue eyes sharp and alight with a fierce love for the Cavalli’s.
I smile. Deep down, the promise I made to Lucas stings, like a paper cut
when you add too much hand sanitizer. I told him I would help him take
down the Cavalli’s. Just because Adelina loves them, doesn’t make them
good people. “I didn’t mean to attack your brother or anyone else, Allie. I
was just curious.”
Her shoulders relax slightly, her posture softening. “It’s alright. I only…
They’re the only family I’ve ever known. I was adopted by the Cavalli’s at a
young age. Antonio is the best brother a girl could ask for, Bianca is my
favourite sister, and Tony is the cutest nephew. If I didn’t have them, I don’t
know where I would be.”
“Well, I hope we can move past this,” I say, swallowing thickly. “They
really… They sound like a loving family.”
A loving family who traffics in crime, drug deals, and murder?
Allie squeezes my hand with her small, blue-nailed one. “I’m glad you
understand.”
I wish I could. How many times have I wished for a sibling? For a big
family? I never resented that it was only my mom and I, but sometimes, I
wanted more than that. “Yeah, of course.”
Our conversation moves onto a different topic, something more
superficial and easier to discuss. She gives me a run-down of the Cavalli
family tree and tells me why Lucia’s return would cause such a big stir.
Still, something sticks in my mind and I have no choice but to ask the
question, as rude as it may be. It feels like God is prompting me to pose it. “If
you don’t mind my asking… what were the circumstances of your adoption?”
“I don’t mind at all.” Allie downs the rest of her cocktail and sets the
martini glass on the crystal-topped coffee table, her eyes as bright as the
sparkling surface. “I was six or seven when I came to the Cavalli’s, but they
never really told me who my biological parents were… Sometimes I wonder
who they were, but most of the time I don’t really care.”
“Do you remember anything about them?” I say before wishing I had
never said anything about it. Even though she looks fine with talking about it,
there’s a difference between fine and eager. And, this is a sore subject for
many people. My mom would be scolding me for such a faux pas. “I mean,
you don’t have to answer…”
“No, no, it’s fine.” She waves a hand as though to bat away my concern.
“I don’t remember much. I think I had an older brother, who had blue eyes.
And an older sister. She had red hair. I was the baby of the family… That’s
the only thing I remember. I’ve never seen pictures of them or anything.
Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like, if I was still with them. But I
already have a brother and a sister.”
“Huh,” I say, filing away the information. She mentions her siblings, but
not her parents? Roberto Cavalli doesn’t seem like a very loving father, at
least not to my eye. “Thanks for sharing.”
The conversation takes a more casual turn. I tell her about growing up as
an only child and she quips that she is jealous of me for it, although the love
in her eyes belies that joke. We keep talking until the door opens again, my
soda bottle empty. I turn toward the door, half-expecting a waiter, and have
to stop myself from asking for more soda when I see that it’s Antonio
standing in the doorway. He looks between the two of us, his face impassive.
Unreadable.
Then, for a moment that makes my heart squeeze and stutter, his gaze
lands on me and he breaks into a smile, relief sagging his shoulders. Like he
thought I would have escaped out the window or something while he wasn’t
looking. The idea makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. On one
hand, what choice do I have but to stay? On the other… I almost can’t
imagine leaving. I can, I can imagine leaving him and going back to my
ordinary life, but too much has changed.
“Hi,” he says, hands stuffed deep in his pockets as his grey eyes remain
fixed on me.
 “Very eloquent of you, mio fratello,” Allie teases him, her eyes darting
between the two of us like someone watching a tennis match. Her chandelier
earrings sway with each movement of her head.
He rolls his eyes, one of the first times I’ve seen him crack his shell of
cold, untouchable mafia boss and Capo. “Don’t you have somewhere to be,
Allie?”
She pats him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, lovebirds. I’ll see myself
out.”
With that, the door to the study closes behind her, leaving the two of us
alone.
#
Antonio Cavalli
The door closes with a click that seems to thud in my ears, resounding
through the room. Or maybe it’s just me, thinking that my sister leaving the
room is more important than it actually is. I’m always shaken up when I see
my younger brother, Sebastian, show up in my life again, and every time I
wish things could be different between us. But they can’t, and there’s no
point in dwelling on it.
“So,” Christina says, her gaze fixed on her soda bottle. It’s glass, fluted,
with condensation beading on the sides, and the way she looks at it instead of
glancing at me makes me wonder if letting Allie leave us alone was the right
decision. Her voice trails off, the single word hanging in the air like an olive
branch. Waiting for me to take it or leave it.
“So,” I echo, sitting down next to her. “What did you and Adelina talk
about?”
She shrugs, leaning forward. I take the moment to put my arm over the
couch, letting it drape over her shoulders. Christina doesn’t speak for a
moment, just resting her head on my chest. My body freezes for a moment as
her face is pressed against my shirt, her eyes shutting softly. “She told me
about how she was adopted.”
I can scarcely pay attention to her words. I’m not some blushing
schoolboy who has never been in a compromising situation with a woman
before. So why does Christina Martell have this effect on me? Is it the scent
that surrounds her, floral and delicately sweet? Is it because she’s not part of
my world, supposedly innocent and untainted by this life of blood and crime?
Is it the fact that she seems to actually care, about me, not what I am, but who
I am?
“Really?” I say, lifting a hand to stroke her hair. It feels like silk between
my fingers, and she lifts her head slightly, tilting it back to look up at me. I
wish I knew what she was thinking. Then again, it’s probably better that I
don’t. “I’m surprised that she would share that with you. Allie must really
like you.”
Adelina doesn’t trust strangers easily. She hardly ever bonds with people
outside our immediate family. Yet maybe there’s something about Christina
that causes the Cavalli’s to open up more than usual around her. Even my
father begrudgingly seems to approve of her. Although there is that other
Martell problem to be solved… My mind drifts into complex plots of mafia
bosses and murder and territory disputes before Christina’s voice startles me.
“Something about what she said was really interesting,” she says as I card
my fingers through her hair. Her voice is a low murmur, slurred with
tiredness. “Allie said that you would never treat anyone like a prisoner.”
“Why was it interesting?” I say, cupping her cheek with my hand.
Christina feels small next to my six-foot-five frame, but of course, it’s only
that I’m taller than her by a foot. “Have I treated you like a prisoner?”
 She looks up at me briefly before shaking her head. “Not at all. I just
wondered if you… or your family… I mean, do you ever kidnap people?”
Her voice breaks into a squeak as she rushes out the last few words.
I want to tell her the truth, but I can’t. She already knows too much yet I
can’t help but give her more. Still, I make my voice cold, matter-of-fact, as I
inform her. “I’ve never kidnapped anybody. It breaks up too many families.
And we aren’t involved in the human trafficking business either, if that’s
what you meant.”
“Oh.” With that word, she moves so that her head is against my shoulder,
her body curling up against my side. I pull her close and hear her breathing
even into the deep, slow pace of slumber.
 Chapter 23–The Mission

Lucas Black
It feels strange to be back at work after everything that’s happened.
Wrong, even. Still, I have to pay my rent somehow. As I pull into the parking
lot of the FBI facilities, my jaw drops.
“Damn, dude, what the heck happened to your car?” I hear Rafael say as I
get out of my Camry, the keys jangling as I shove them into my pocket.
Curiosity piqued, I wander over to the crowd of men surrounding one of
the guys’ black pickup truck. It’s Richard’s, the windshield smashed in, the
sides dented and the tires slashed. Just the sight of it makes me want to
cringe.
“Did you cheat on your girlfriend or something?” Rafael says to Richard.
The accusation makes me wince a little at how it hits too close to home
before I realize he’s referring to the cliched and overplayed country song
Before He Cheats. “Why would someone do this to your car?”
Richard’s brown eyes narrow as he stuffs his hands into his jacket
pockets. “I don’t know, Santos, but when I get my hands on them, they’re not
going to like the results.”
“Do you think this could be work-related?” I wonder aloud. This is an
inauspicious start to an already bad day. The smell of gasoline perfumes the
air, as pervasive as the sound of rumours spreading around the FBI agents in
training. “Is there at least a note on the windshield… or anything?”
 As soon as the words leave my mouth I realize how stupid they sound. Of
course there’s no note on the windshield. The windshield is a pile of broken
glass strewn around the parking lot. If there’s a note, somebody would have
seen it by now.
“Yeah.” Garrett, one of the other guys in our class, asks, crossing his
arms over his chest. He’s all brawn and no brains, and having him agree with
me doesn’t make me feel any better. “Where’s the note?”
Just then, a piece of paper flutters to the ground, a breeze whipping it
toward Richard. He snatches it up and reads it quickly, then just as quickly,
he crumples it into a crinkled ball. I feel mild vindication. “Crap.”
All eyes, if they weren’t already fixed on the scene, immediately dart
toward him. A chorus of questions rises up around the group crowding
around the damaged truck. “What did it say? Who did it? Was it really your
girlfriend?”
Richard stretches out both arms as if to say, back up. Then he points at
me and Rafael. “Can you two come here? Everyone else, go do your jobs or
something.”
The others disperse into the building; the novelty having worn off and
Richard’s charisma having rubbed off on them. I’m surprised by his singling
us out. It isn’t as if we’re particularly close buddies, so this must have
something to do with the note. Still, I sidle over, taking my hands out of my
pocket. Richard Chen stands at six-foot-three, an intimidating four inches
taller than me, and a good deal bulkier, but he’s not one of those guys like
Garrett, who’s just a meathead.
“What’s this about?” Rafael says, toeing at the broken glass with his
scuffed sneakers. The man has some kind of death wish, I swear. Mingling
with the ashes of several cigarette butts, the shards of glass shine like crystals
in the sun.
“The note was from the Cavalli’s. Somehow, I blew my cover and they
know who I am,” Richard explains as he shrugs his leather jacket off his
shoulders. He was working undercover as a drug supplier among the gang.
I’m surprised he’s still alive. “I need someone to replace me. One of you.”
“Why one of us?” I say. My second look-like-an-idiot statement of the
day, even if I can blame it on strung-out nerves from Destiny’s betrayal piled
on top of all the other things going on in my life. “I mean, wait, don’t answer
that.”
Rafael and I were assigned to work the Cavalli case a few weeks back
when the restaurant was raided for suspicion of drug trafficking. Was that
only a few weeks ago? Looking back, it feels like a lifetime, so much has
happened.
Richard laughs; it’s a dry, cynical noise. “So, which one of you can take
over for me?”
In our heads, both Rafael and I are pointing fingers at each other. I just
spit out his name faster. “Rafael, I’m sure you’d love to do it, wouldn’t you
buddy?”
“No, no. This is really your case, I’m just assisting on it. Your time to
shine, amigo.” He even claps me on the back.
Richard looks between the two of us in tired exasperation. “Santos,
you’re on it, and Black, you can be back-up.”
Then he walks into the building with the rest of the guys, leaving the two
of us to go on a mission to what will most likely be our deaths.
#
Christina Martell
 Dear Heavenly Father, help me…
My pen falters over the page, leaving a black streak of meaninglessness
on the yellow legal pad. Usually, I journal my prayers when I’m at home
because it keeps my mind from wandering off. Today I need it more than
ever. I got my phone back from Antonio, mercifully free of toilet water, and I
had three missed calls from Lucas… but nothing from my mother. The
silence from her end hurts. I know walking out on her the way I did wasn’t
the right thing to do, but it doesn’t make the wall between us any less painful.
I start again, the words flowing more easily this time as I write them in a
mixture of Chinese (Mandarin pinyin) and French. I didn’t trust anyone not to
look at my things and I didn’t want them to root through my trash, God
forbid, and find my prayers.
Lord of the universe, You alone are God. You have overcome the world
and everything in it. You are the one to whom I process my allegiance.
Without You, I have nothing. Without You, I am nothing more than a lost
sinner. You are my Father, my Saviour, my Lord and Master. Train my hands
to do Your work, and guide my feet to walk on Your paths. Let me be Your
daughter and Your servant.
Help me to love and forgive Lucas despite all the pain that he has caused
me. Let me not be bitter toward him or have a resentful spirit. Please cast out
these dark thoughts in my heart and replace them with thoughts of Your
goodness, mercy, and the grace that You have granted to me undeservingly.
Let me not try to wrest anything from Your hands. Let me not believe that
You owe me anything when if I received what I deserved, I would be wretched
indeed. God, please let this turn out as You have ordained and do not let me
try to create anything that is not Your will. God, please protect me, keep me
under the shadow of Your wings.
 Guide me and keep me from sin and harm today, Father. In Jesus’s
Name, I pray, Amen.
I set down the pen and tuck the legal pad into the drawer of my desk. It’s
in the Cavalli’s guestroom, which I guess I’ve commandeered now. This
room is the same one that I slept in last time and the layout is somewhat
comforting to me, reminding me of a very prestigious hotel. A four-poster
canopy bed, the princess bed that I dreamed of having when I was a child, sits
in the centre of the room. In one corner lies an armoire; in the opposite
corner, a window with long, billowing drapes in a light pink colour. My desk
is across from the bed, a pretty white vanity that’s been repurposed, though a
gilt-framed oval mirror still reflects my face back at me and makes me feel as
though I’m in Snow White. The room feels like it was taken straight from the
pages of a fairytale.
If only this wasn’t beginning to feel like a nightmare, and my prince
wasn’t actually the villain…
A knock startles me from my thoughts, thankfully, and I jump up, dusting
off the knees of my jeans. “Come in!”
Antonio strides in, no questions asked, no apologies made. He’s in more
causal wear than the dinner party last night… which turned into a ball…
which turned into me falling asleep on his shoulder. I hope I didn’t drool on
him… The thought makes a blush rise to my cheeks. “Good morning,
Christina. What were you writing?”
I realize I never closed the desk drawer, the legal pad out for anyone to
see. If I close it now, he’ll think I’m hiding something. And if he thinks I’m
hiding something, well, it probably won’t turn out well for me. The thought
of Daniel praying three times a day flutters through my mind, praying
fervently even when it was outlawed. If he can do that, how can I lie now? “I
was writing down my prayers.”
Something flashes across Antonio’s face, but as always, his gaze is an
impassive wall of ice to me, blank as far as the eye can see. “I’ve never met
someone who wrote down their prayers before.”
“But you have met people who prayed before?” I tease, sliding the drawer
shut.
“Of course, my mother always prayed the rosary,” he says calmly before
launching into a recitation as though the rosary beads are in his hands right
now. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among
women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”
I smile, amused by his prayer. “A good Catholic schoolboy, I see. Your
mother sounds like a fascinating woman.”
“She was.” Any hint of amusement falls from his face. Oh. “Anyways, I
came to ask you to come to a meeting with me today after breakfast.”
The tone of his voice suggests it’s less of an invitation and more of a
summoning. I survey myself in the mirror, glancing at my jeans and red
sweater. “Should I be wearing anything special for that?”
“Not really.” Then, as if a lightbulb has just gone off in his head, he
straightens up, his grey eyes meeting mine with a twinkle in them that piques
my curiosity. “Meet me after breakfast. I have something to give you.”
Chapter 24— The Chance Meeting Pt.
1

Christina Martell
In dark-wash jeans and a burgundy sweater, I follow Antonio toward the
dining room. This one is more formal than the one we dined in last night,
which now feels like a lifetime ago, but all the twists and turns that we take
throughout the house makes me want to make note of possible exits. I feel
like I’m in a fairytale castle with the sheer colossal size of the house, and not
in a good way. After all, I get lost easily enough as it is.
“So, what is it that you want to give me?” I say as I scramble to keep up
with Antonio’s quick, long-legged strides. He’s almost a blur of grey in his
dark charcoal suit, far too formally dressed for this early in the morning.
Although my feet still ache from last night, I wish for a pair of Louboutins
just so I could look him in the eye. But I left the high heels he gave me back
home in the closet of my childhood bedroom, sitting there to gather dust.
“It’s a surprise,” he says, tilting his head down to look at me. A hint of a
mischievous smile dances across his face and he seems a lot more relaxed
today than he was last night. Did something happen to trigger this change in
him, or am I just getting to know him better? “Trust me, I think you’ll like
it.”
 “Okay,” I say, taken aback by the almost childlike glee that seems to
wrap around him as we enter the smaller dining room. White curtains are
held back with gold tassels, to reveal a view of the deep blue lake, framed by
rolling hills. In the sunlight, its surface glimmers and sparkles, as though
winking at me. “Wow, what a view.”
“My father said it reminded him of Lake Como,” Antonio says, though
the scoff that follows suggests some hidden meaning. “Of course, it’s not like
he grew up by there.”
“Doesn’t George Clooney live there?” I say, finding the only scrap of
information I know about the place. Wow. So cultured, Christina. “I mean…”
“You would be correct.” Antonio nods, a smile tugging at the edges of his
mouth and making him look amused by my question as he pulls out a wooden
chair for me. I sit down and thank him, trying to ignore the brush of his hands
against my neck as he pulls them away.
Glancing around to ignore the slight touch, I notice that the design of this
dining room is more rustic than the one from last night, boho-chic with
sunlight pouring through the windows and seashell art on the walls. It makes
me wonder if they have a different decorator for every room or something.
Who knows what rich people do, regardless of whether they earned their
money legitimately or not?
A dish underneath a silver dome is already on the round table, which is
draped with a white cloth. Antonio lifts the lid, reminding me of a magician
about to release doves from a top hat or something, and beneath it is a platter
of pain au chocolat, making my eyes light up. I haven’t had one of these in
years. “I love those!”
His smile is almost boyish, bashful as he takes one of the pastries with a
pair of tongs and sets it on my plate. The small bouquet of daisies on the table
reminds me of the roses he brought me on our very first date, making me feel
like we’re on a repeat of that. “Good to know. What’s your favourite colour?”
I tilt my head to the side and pick up the pastry, trying to understand his
sudden change of subject. “It’s black. Why?”
“Unusual choice. And, to answer your question, I’m just trying to get to
know you better,” Antonio says, taking a bite of the flaky pain au chocolat.
“Hmm. I can see why you like these.”
We eat in silence for a few moments, watching as the sun rises fully over
the lake, casting warm rays onto the glittering water. Why does he want to
know my favourite colour? A snide remark comes to mind. Don’t you know
already, considering you were stalking me before we ever met?
Footsteps echo down the hall and I swallow a golden, buttery piece of
pastry as I snap my head around to see Allie and Bianca walking side by side,
laughing. Bianca’s son, Tony, is swinging between them, hanging onto his
aunt and mother’s hands. His mom hauls him into a high chair and straps him
snugly in so he can’t fall out and hurt himself.
“So, you’re Christina, right?” Bianca says with a warm smile as she
comes back from the kitchen with a bib that she fits around Tony’s neck.
“How have you been since we last met?”
Considering we last met when we were escaping this house and windows
were being broken left, right, and centre, I think I’m better. Or maybe worse,
when I consider my ransacked apartment. Who knows, at this point. “I’ve
been alright. Getting by.”
“Glad to hear it. This life isn’t the easiest.” A shadow covers her face, as
a cloud drifts over the sun outside, slightly dimming her smile. Then Tony
does something to catch her attention and she pivots to tend to him.
Allie and Antonio launch into a lively conversation that leaves me feeling
like a third wheel. Or, in this case, a fifth wheel. I finish my food quickly and
excuse myself to go to the restroom. It’s all marble floors, gold faucets and
spigots topped with crystals, another display of wealth and opulence. Even
their bathroom feels cold. I wash my hands and stare at my reflection. Puffy
eyes from sleeping too late—from falling asleep on Antonio’s shoulder, I
remember and correct myself with a wince—and slightly frizzy hair. I pinch
my cheeks to add some colour and find a tube of red lipstick in my pocket
that I swipe on. That’s better.
Just as I turn to leave, I bump into someone coming in. My breath catches
in my throat as panic surges through me. It’s the belle of the ball last night:
Lucia. I quickly duck my head, trying to sidestep her but she catches my arm.
“Excuse me,” I say, a hint of an edge coming into my tone. Why is she
touching me, a complete stranger to her? Is she going to kill me? Panic
spirals through my thoughts and I bite down on my lower lip to stop the
anxiety from going further. “I’ll let you pass.”
“Not so fast. You’re Christina Martell, right?” She’s intimidatingly pretty
and vaguely familiar to me, with strawberry-blonde hair tied in a perky
ponytail. “I’m Lucia Esposito.”
“I know,” I say as she drops her hand, before realizing it makes me sound
like a stalker. “I mean, you’re kind of a big deal around here.”
“I’m not interested in Antonio if that’s what’s causing your hostility,” she
says quickly, her words coming out in a rush. “Just to get that out of the way.
He’s not my type.”
He’s not her type? I have difficulty wrapping my mind around that, but I
try to accept it as true anyway. “Okay, so was there something you wanted to
say to me, in this bathroom?”
“You’re Lucas Black’s girlfriend,” she blurts out. Then, when I don’t say
anything, she adds, “Or am I wrong…?”
“He’s actually my ex-boyfriend because I found a naked stripper in his
bed,” I clarify. Then, my mouth drops open when I give her a once-over.
“Wait a second, you were the—”
“Stripper?” she says, a too-sunny, sickly saccharine smile and a toss of
her ponytail. “Yep, that’s me.”
I don’t know what to feel, with her staring back at me. All this time, I’ve
clung to my bitterness and hatred and sense of righteous revenge that was
never really righteous at all. I wanted to make Lucas suffer. I wanted her to
suffer. But now, looking at this blonde, petite girl who barely looks old
enough to drink, let alone work as a stripper, I don’t feel any of those things.
All I feel is… I don’t know. But it’s not anger. I guess I just stopped caring
about Lucas Black. It is a liberating thought.
“Nice to meet you properly, I guess.” I extend a hand for her to shake.
She takes it and looks down at my fingers like I might be holding a knife,
or a gun, or a bomb. “Nice… to… meet you… too?”
I notice that her fingernails are painted pink but chipping. Barbie-pink,
hot-pink, the colour I always hated as a child and now begrudgingly like.
Then, Lucia places her hands on her hips, surveying me. “You know, you’re
pretty different from the other girls I usually meet around here.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I purse my lips, dabbing at any smears
of lipstick with a Kleenex.
“It’s a good thing, Christina. Most girls would probably be, I don’t know,
thinking of ways to kill me and bury my body if they found me in their
boyfriends’ beds, let alone naked.” Lucia laughs. “I really am sorry about
that, by the way. Lucas never laid a hand on me, before or after you guys
broke up. I was staying in his apartment because I was on the run from the
Cavalli’s.”
I nod, trying to absorb the knowledge she’s just imparted onto me. How
strange it is when something you hold true for so long turns out to be false.
It’s not just having the rug pulled out from under you. It’s like getting glasses
when for so long, you thought the world was just supposed to be that blurry.
“Thank you for telling me that. You really didn’t have to… I guess I
forgave the two of you a long time ago,” I say, throwing the Kleenex in the
trash.
A pounding sounds at the door accompanied by a loud female voice,
alerting us both to look up. It sounds like Allie. “Christina, my brother says to
get your butt out here or he’ll be leaving without you to the meeting!”
I chuckle. “Would he really use those exact words?”
Lucia grins back at me. “Probably not.” Then she flings the bathroom
door open, knocking back a startled Adelina. “But don’t let me keep you!”
Chapter 25— A Chance Meeting Pt. 2

Rafael Santos
Lucas’s girlfriend shows up at the meeting. I don’t know what to make of
her—I only recognize her from a photo that Luke showed me once or twice.
A pretty enough girl, half-Asian, but it’s less her looks and more her
demeanour that really makes her stick out like a sore thumb at this gathering
of buff, Armani-suited men with tattoos up to their eyeballs. She’s quiet, but
not in a timid way. More… graceful, reserved, composed. She sits with her
back straight and her chin lifted, which is more than one can say about any
girl who didn’t grow up on the streets or in a gang sitting in this room of
thugs. That, and the sparkling diamond necklace that hangs around her neck.
She keeps touching it like she’s scared of being robbed, so it must be new.
Or, at the very least, she’s not used to wearing expensive jewelry.
“Now that you are all here…” Antonio Cavalli begins, his gaze pausing
on me. My breath catches in my throat and I stiffen. I try to keep breathing
evenly as I narrowly avoid choking on my own spit. Smooth, Santos. I cross
my fingers that he doesn’t notice me, or at th every least, that he doesn’t
suspect me. He nods and his gaze keeps moving around the room. “I would
like for the meeting to finally begin. Does anyone have any objections to
that?”
 The icy edge to his tone suggests that anyone who does speak up soon
won’t have a tongue to object with. My suspicions are correct as the room
falls silent, so that all I can hear is my heartbeat.
“No? Very well, then. Let us begin.” He claps his hands together, the
sound echoing throughout the meeting room as though it was necessary to
interrupt some conversation that we were all having. In our heads, maybe.
I glance around the room while he talks. Antonio Cavalli stands at the
head of a long conference table, as imposing as his father and nearly half a
head taller. On his left side, Christina Martell is perched on a tufted armchair,
her wrists on the oak table and her fingers interlaced. I check for a ring and
see nothing. That’s one thing to report back to Lucas, at least. Though,
considering his ties with the girl who was living in his apartment for six
months, I’m not sure that he’d care. Then again, who knows what kind of
relationship they have? One too complicated for me to follow, that’s for sure.
It’s even more complex than the relationships in the telenovelas my mom
always makes me watch with her, tangled with a dash of crime as it is.
“So, to conclude, we’ve taken over new territory from the Martells. Now
is the time to strike while the iron is hot and Charles Martell is still
recovering from his… injuries. I have important contacts with their famiglia
that I would hate to go to waste.” Antonio steeples his fingers under his chin
after he takes his seat at the head of the table.
Under the table, I give a surreptitious glance at my phone to make sure
it’s still recording the conversation. When I look up, I accidentally lock gazes
with Christina Martell and she looks at me. If I didn’t know better, I’d say
that she’s trying to place where she knows me from, her brown eyes boring
into mine like she can see into my soul. I shift in my seat, uncomfortable.
The movement must catch Antonio’s attention because he speaks like a
teacher pouncing on their next victim—I mean, student. Though, I wasn’t the
best student in elementary, so this sensation seems similar enough. “Is there
something you’d care to share with us? Something important?”
“I heard rumours that the feds are investigating your brother.” It’s a lie,
but it’s a rumour. Anyone could be spreading it and no one would be the
wiser. At the very least, it probably won’t end with me being shanked in
prison. You hope. “Sebastian Cavalli.”
Murmurs and gasps rise around the room as hardened criminals begin
gossipping like old ladies. Antonio picks up his water glass, takes a slow,
deliberate sip, and then sets it back down. Just like that, the men are silent
again.
“Very interesting. Thank you for your contributions, Mr…?” he says, and
now I do feel like a kid back in the classroom.
“Mr. Cortez,” I say, pulling a random name out of my Rolodex.
He nods and the meeting continues, my pulse slowly returning to normal.
Good. This is all good. Nothing’s going wrong… yet.
Then my phone dings with a text and I look down furtively. Crap. This is
so not good.
#
Christina Martell
After the meeting ends, Antonio turns to me as the room empties out.
“Did you get a bad feeling about that new guy?”
My eyebrows shoot up. I’m surprised he’s asking me for my opinion at
all, that he trusts me enough to do so. The diamond around my neck, a gift
from him after breakfast and engraved with his initials, ASC, on the back of
the gemstone, made me think I was only here to be eye candy. Which I
certainly wouldn’t mind, because I don’t even know what I would say to one
of the hulking men, most likely Mafia enforcers, sitting around the table who
made their chairs look like children’s toys.
Still, I have to point out the obvious. “I’ve never seen any of those men
before, Antonio… they’re all new to me.”
“Cortez. The one with no tattoos,” he clarified. “He looked kind of
skittish.”
Now that he brings it up, I rewind the last hour in my head. When I
wasn’t bored out of my mind and mildly terrified listening to him talk about
drug shipments and “taking care” of people (in a way that probably meant
giving them a hug that ended in a chokehold), I did make eye contact with
this so-called new guy. He looked at me like he was trying to figure out
where he knew me from, so I did the same. Cortez, whoever he is, did look
pretty familiar. But I can’t place where I know him from. And if I knew him
as one of the few guys populating my old life—the one I will return to when
all of this is over—then I don’t want to get a civilian in trouble.
“No, I didn’t get any bad vibes from him.” I mean, I got weird vibes, but
that’s not what he asked, so it’s technically not a lie, right?
“Good.” His gaze is distant even as he pulls me close, kissing the top of
my head. Now that we’re alone, I should be able to relax more. But all I can
think of is Lucas. He sent me a text this morning, and though I tried to ignore
it, I couldn’t. It felt different. More urgent. Sending a contact who may meet
you. So vague yet so intriguing. Was Cortez the contact? “Do you like your
present?”
“Is it mine? I thought you were just lending it to me,” I say, trying to
inject some levity into my tone. “On loan from a jewelry store.”
Antonio pulls away, his large hands gripping my shoulders, and he stares
down at me like I’ve just asked him to check my teeth for spinach. Too
closely scrutinizing for my taste. “I would never give you a stolen gift,
Christina.”
“I-I know… I was only joking…” I’m suddenly aware—I’m always
aware, but right now more so—that if he wanted, he could make it so that my
body floats in the Hudson River in a week for my mother to find. “It’s really
lovely. I’ve never owned anything this nice.” It’s more than pretty, but I
don’t have the words to describe it.
“No, no, of course, I know you were. I only wanted to make sure that you
know, Christina. Even though we started off on rocky footing, to say the
least…” A rueful smile crosses his handsome face. “Despite that, I don’t have
any nefarious intentions toward you.”
“I know that.” I nod, swallowing the lump that suddenly rises in my
throat, threatening to drown out my words. Do I? “Thank you for the
necklace, again.”
“You’re welcome, again.” He doesn’t say anything horrifically cheesy, at
least, about a pretty gift for a pretty girl. Antonio steps back, reaching for my
hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
 Chapter 26— The Introductions

Christina Martell
“Antonio, where are you taking me?” I say, half-joking and half-scared. I
woke up this morning and he tossed me a suitcase and told me we were going
to France. One airplane ride later, here we are. It’s not like he dragged me
here by the hair or anything, but I’d really like to know our final destination. I
chew on my lower lip, staring out the window of the small convertible he
rented. Sunshine, blue skies, and a view of the ocean rush by the car as he
makes a hairpin turn along the edge of a cliff. I am getting far too many
James Bond vibes to feel safe in this scenario.
“You’ll find out,” he says. His cheeriness is alarming. Is he… whistling?
If so, what tune? I try for a moment to catch a hint, then realize it’s a Disney
song.
“Are you whistling Can You Feel The Love Tonight from Lion King?” I
ask as he steers the sleek black Porsche along a sharp curve, making me hang
onto the dashboard for dear life. “Also, are you driving like you want us to
die because you’ve decided I know too much and you want to kill me, or…?”
“This is a perfectly reasonable speed,” he says, only driving with one
hand on the wheel. “And, yes. That was a great movie, but the song was first
sung by Elton John.”
“My life is flashing before my eyes.” I cling to my seatbelt, the fabric
digging into my palms. I try to imagine Antonio listening to Elton John and I
have to bite back a laugh. “So many regrets.”
“Am I one of them?” he says it like it’s a joke, but something in his eyes
tells me he’s more serious than laughing.
My heart pounds. I’ve talked myself into a corner, it seems, and I can’t
find a way out. All the dating guides I’ve read come to mind and tell me to be
mysterious. “You know what? I haven’t figured that one out yet.”
“Fair enough.” He places his other hand on the wheel, causing my
stomach to relax a little bit and unfurl from its tightly clenched knot of
intestinal pain. “And it’s niece, by the way.”
“What?” Why is he talking about someone’s niece? And now?
“We’re in Nice, France,” he says, shading his eyes with one hand rather
than just putting on the pair of aviators that are tucked into the collar of his
linen shirt. Men. Is he just wearing the sunglasses there to look cool? It’s
working, but he’s also risking both of our lives. “To answer your question.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I knew that, I just thought it was pronounced nice. French
immersion has failed me now.
“You didn’t know that, did you?” he says, casting a teasing glance my
way.
I roll my eyes. “Shut up.”
The rest of the car ride lapses into peaceful silence, only broken by the
wind rushing past and the faint strains of classical music playing on the radio.
I hum along, staring out the window. When he told me were going to France
this morning, I dug out my floppy black sunhat and a white linen dress,
forgoing my usual all-black outfits. Sometimes, a pang of longing hits me
when I hover over my mother’s name in my contact list, wishing she would
call me or even just drop a text. But now, I try to savour the moment. We’re
in France. Shouldn’t I be happy?
 “What are you thinking about?” he says, his gaze fixed on the road as we
move from the French countryside into a more populated area of Nice.
Buildings and shops start cropping up on the side of the road, small market
stalls and cobblestone paths winding through.
“Just my mother,” I say, not sure why I bother to tell him the truth. Is it to
get him to trust me? Because I’m tired of feeling like I have to walk on
eggshells with him, and maybe I’d just like to break them just for the sake of
making an omelette? Actually, that might not be the correct idiom, but who
cares? “I miss her.”
“What’s she like?” he probes. Antonio pulls up next to what looks like a
bakery. Getting out of the black convertible, he opens my door for me,
looking like he stepped straight out of an Armani cologne commercial.
I swallow thickly as he offers me his hand to help me out of the car, my
ankle-strap, pointed-toe flats clattering against the cobblestones. The sunhat
thankfully hides my expression from him, but it also makes his face invisible
to me. I tilt my head back to look at him, grateful for the ribbon tied beneath
my chin that keeps the hat in place as a strong gust of wind threatens to blow
it away.
“She’s, um… she’s…” Nice doesn’t quite cover it. Nor does loving. Like
all people, she’s too complicated to be properly described. “She really loves
me. And I really love her. She’s all the family that I’ve ever had, and she’s
always worked incredibly hard to ensure that I never missed out on anything
growing up. She can be overprotective, but I know it’s because she cares.”
A small bell jangles as the bakery door opens and shuts, a satisfied
customer exiting and getting on their bicycle, placing a cardboard box of
almond croissants into the basket. Her long, blonde hair streams behind her
as she rides down the street, like a fleeting figure in a dream.
 “I’d like to meet her,” Antonio says, and the suggestion causes me to
raise my eyebrows beneath the broad brim of my hat.
“Really?” I untie my hat and tuck it under my arm as we enter the bakery.
He opens the door for me to go first, and I take the moment to rearrange my
face into something more collected than the open-mouthed look of shock. I
try to picture Antonio and my mother in the same room together, but I can’t.
“Do you… do you mean that?”
“Of course,” he says, sounding like he’s the one who’s shocked that I
would question his suggestion. “She’s obviously very important to you.”
Am I important to you? I tuck away the question for a better time and
stare up at the chalkboard menus behind the counter. Words in French run
across the board and I can translate them with ease. Inside the bakery, it’s
small, cozy, and homey, but also a tiny bit too stuffy for my taste. The
weather seems too nice to be cooped up, or maybe it’s only the restlessness
threading through my bones that makes me want to get out and go for another
drive all day, to feel free.
I fiddle with the silk ribbons on my hat. “Can we eat on the patio?”
He nods and then leans over the counter, ordering for us in Italian though
I know French. To my surprise, the baker replies in fluent Italian before
gesturing toward the tables outside. We walk outside, and I retie my hat, a
feeling of apprehension blooming like a toxic plant inside of my chest. “I
brought you here to meet some people, some friends of mine. They used to
work with Charles—I mean, with your father.”
Nerves flutter in my stomach. “And you didn’t think it was a good idea to
tell me until now?”
“I…” He rocks back and forth on his feet, rubbing the nape of his neck.
“Surprise?”
 I huff in annoyance just as another bell rings, telling us that our order is
ready. The waitress carries a tray out to the patio and sets it down on the
table. “Bon appetit.”
“Merci,” I say because Antonio seems distracted, his gaze fixed on
something, or someone, in the distance. Just then, a beautiful, petite blonde
walks—no, floats—up to our table, a handbag tucked in the crook of her arm
and her nude Louboutins tapping against the ground.
“Bonjour, Madame Allard,” he says, double-kissing her cheeks Euro-
style. She’s married. Something in me sinks and I keep reminding myself that
my jealousy is sinful, useless, and pointless. “Ou est votre mari?”
“He’s parking the Lambo,” she responds in French-accented English.
“Who is the girl?”
“I’m Christina Martell,” I say, my shoulders relaxing slightly as I rise to
shake her hand.
Marie smiles, pulling out her own chair and sitting down daintily,
crossing her slender legs at the ankles. “Enchantee. Anne, Pierre, and Tomas
should be on their way soon.”
She directs the last line at Antonio, piquing my curiosity. I sit back down,
leaning forward with my elbows on the table. I help myself to a beignet,
enjoying the taste of the fried dough dusted with powdered sugar. It melts in
my mouth, leaving a sweet aftertaste behind. As promised, the guests arrive
slowly, trickling in one by one. First, a tall, dark-haired and bearded man who
dwarfs Marie and plants a kiss on her mouth must be her husband, Dominic.
Then, Tomas, a lone wolf who is roughly the same height as his sister, with
springy blond curls. Finally, Anne and Pierre, the twins, arrive side by side.
My mind swims as the names and faces blur together. It may only be a
gang of five, but the introvert in me is overwhelmed by meeting so many new
people at once. Still, gratitude and maybe something else warms my chest.
He didn’t have to introduce me to these people. To his friends. But he did.
The only question is, what does it mean?
#
Antonio Cavalli
“So, she’s Charles’s daughter,” Marie says when Christina gets up to go
to the bathroom. A cigarette rests between her index and forefinger before
she brings it to her lips, the posture making her look like a blonde Audrey
Hepburn. “She’s very… very unlike her father. Yet there is something of her,
a little je ne sais quoi that reminds me of him.”
“Really?” Having only met the man once or twice, I lean forward, curious
to hear what she has to say. Maybe I am too wrapped up in my own
conception of Christina to know who she really is. Marie blows out a puff of
smoke, making me push away the impulse to cough in her face. “In what
way?”
Marie pauses, leaning back in her chair and gazing up at the bright blue
sky. Clouds of noxious cigarette smoke drift around us, matching the fluffy
white ones in the sky. “She’s very quiet, but Charles has always been that
way, too. He is always watching people, you know, to calculate their next
move. Or find his next move, I suppose, in relation to them.”
I give a noncommital, “Hmm.”
I never thought of Christina as particularly Machiavellian and I don’t
believe that family is dictated by blood. But she is quiet. And she is
surprising. And I grew up suspecting anyone and everyone of not being who
they said they were and not doing what they promised to do. Why should
Christina Martell be any different, just because she’s beautiful and not from
this life, draped in a veneer of innocence?
 “I hated Charles at times, but…” Marie gives a Gallic shrug as she sips
her espresso. Behind the cigarette smoke, she smells sweet, like candy.
Cloying. “You cannot deny that he is a very powerful man.”
A bird flutters by. As I finish the last bite of my madeleine, the buttery
crumbs melting on my tongue, all I can think is that I know far too much
about powerful men. And I know all about the damage they can cause.
“Yes,” I say. Sebastian floats into my mind and leaves again, just as
Christina returns to the wrought-iron table and greets me with a smile. I
return it, brushing away thoughts of my older brother. “I’m sure he is.”
 Chapter 27— The Two L’s

Lucia “Destiny” Esposito

I pace in the hotel lobby, chewing on my lower lip. What if he doesn’t
show up?
Nervous thoughts swarm my mind like a pack of pigeons begging for
crumbs in St. Peter’s Square. The thought of Italy makes me smile before the
thought of Lucas makes the corners of my mouth sink again. My Louboutins
click on the marble flooring, sounding too much like gunshots for my own
taste. I should sit down. I don’t want to look like I’m waiting for a guy to
come along and solve my problems… which I am…
Calm down, Destiny. What’s wrong with you?
The name I chose for myself cools me a little bit, at least. It reminds me
of the confidence I always struggled to find growing up— unable to have
faith that my mom would stick around for longer than a few weeks at a time.
Always being dumped at Marco’s place to play video games until the wee
hours of the morning. Seeing bloodstains on the apartment walls. No, I
always told myself that I was destined for something more. Something
greater.
But now, I’m back at square one. Is this what I’m destined for? To return
to this life of crime, over and over?
I take a seat in one of the comfy club chairs in the hotel lounge. The
leather seat engulfs my petite frame, my feet barely touching the ground. It
makes me feel like a child, which is not the image I want to portray when I
meet my… What? What is Lucas to me? A friend? That is what you call
someone when they do you the favour of letting you stay with them rent-free
for six months in exchange for doing nothing more than ordering takeout and
doing a few chores. Right?
Except, I left. Well, I was kidnapped, but still, I left him. After Christina
left him over me. Then I left him, for my family. I open my purse and slide
out a compact mirror, checking my lipstick. It’s still perfect. In the reflection,
I can make out Lucas’s familiar stride, his black shoes, and I snap the mirror
shut, standing up and turning around to face him. A wave of dizziness washes
over me.
I stood up too fast. In heels. Damn, but this will not end well. I can make
out the worry in his face as he rushes toward me, gripping my arm. “Are you
okay?”
“You mean, women don’t all swoon when they see you?” I say, trying to
joke around. It doesn’t seem to alleviate his concern.
“Only the really beautiful ones,” he says. Is he… flirting with me? That’s
new. “You look… different.”
I glance down at my outfit. I suppose he’s used to seeing me wear
hoodies and sweatpants around his house, or nothing at all. The black blazer
and slacks combined with high heels probably make me look like a totally
different person. “Thanks, Lucas. At least, I think.”
My stomach curls up at the sight of his face. He’s not smiling. And
something behind his brown eyes is hard, cold. “Have a seat, Lucia.”
A lump rises in my throat. He’s mad at me. Of course, he’s mad. Why
wouldn’t he be? I lied to him about who I was… about everything… “Lucas,
come on.”
 “That’s Agent Black to you,” he says, his voice taking on a sharp edge. It
pierces my heart and all my armour like a skillfully wielded dagger. “I can’t
believe I was stupid enough to trust you.”
“Lucas, please.” I feel pathetic. Like someone who cheated and is
begging for a second chance. “I know I’m not who you thought I was. But I
don’t think you’re the kind of person to point fingers when it comes to that.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve made a huge mistake.
His eyes narrow. I’ve struck him where it hurts men the most: his pride.
“That was a low blow, Destiny. Even for you.” Lucas’s face hardens, his lips
pursing.
“Even for me?” I repeat, crossing one leg over the other, the pointed tip
of my pump almost kicking him in the shin as I do so. Looking away from
him and over one of his hunched shoulders, I smooth out imaginary wrinkles
in my black satin slacks. “What’s that supposed to mean, Agent Black?”
“You know that saying, some girls see a low bar and use it as a stripper
pole?” he says. There’s this self-satisfied smug smirk on his face, as though
he’s just won some argument in court. Like he’s a flashy, hotshot defence
attorney who’s gloating about his win to whoever the other lawyer is.
I wish I had ordered a drink right now, just so I could toss the glass in his
face. My fists clench in my lap. “How dare you, Agent Black? How dare you
throw that in my face? You have no idea what I’ve done to survive the
Cavallis. You haven’t got one iota of an idea. While you were sitting safe and
sound in your fancy house eating good food and training for the FBI, I was
struggling to survive. I have been through more than you could ever
understand, so before you presume to lecture me on morality when you have
made questionable decisions too… Before you judge me, look at the plank in
your own eye.”
 The anger on his face suggests that now he’s thinking one of those
questionable decisions was me. Wait. That sounded wrong. I mean, one of his
questionable decisions was letting me into his life. I’ve been going about this
whole conversation the completely wrong way, but I have no idea how to
steer this train back onto its proper course. I don’t even know if it’s possible.
For some reason, my words hit their mark. And instead of inflaming him
more, they seem to soften him, his shoulders slumping and the crinkles at the
corners of his eyes smoothing out. “You’re right, Destiny. I’m sorry.”
“You… you are?” I grew up around stubborn, bull-headed men who
would never dream of even thinking about apologizing to anyone, even if
they’re wrong, and least of all a woman who’s just insulted them. It feels
impossible to believe that Lucas would be saying the words, I’m sorry, now,
after I’ve lied to him. “Really?”
“I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did. It was wrong of me and it
was hurtful,” he says, leaning forward and putting his elbows on his knees. “I
overreacted.”
“I… I suppose I accept your apology.” The words flounder around in my
mind, unable to surface and form a coherent sentence in my shock. “Thank
you.”
“You’re welcome,” Lucas says, his brown eyes wide and sincere. It feels
like he’s gesturing me to walk across a bridge to the other side of a ravine,
but it’s unstable and creaky, held together by ropes and flimsy, splintery
boards of wood. Can I really trust him? Can he ever trust me? “And, I forgot
to say, thanks for meeting me.”
“I was surprised that you agreed,” I say, tilting my head to one side so
that my blonde waves fall over one shoulder. “In fact, I’m still surprised.
What did you want to talk about?”
 “Well, you mentioned the Cavalli’s,” he said. “But I guess the thing I
really want to know is, what were you really doing when we met?”
I shut my eyes, trying to drown out the memories of that cold, dark night.
When I do speak, tears spring to my eyes and my voice is hoarse, as though
I’ve been crying for hours. “I told you and the police the truth about that
night.”
Concern rises in his face at the sight of my tears. “You don’t have to…”
I shake my head. “But I didn’t tell you the whole truth. And I guess you
deserve that much from me.”
Or that little…
#
Lucia Esposito
It all started when I left the Cavalli’s. Or rather, when I left my family. I
packed my bags in the dead of the night and snuck out of the small apartment
I shared with my mother. She wasn’t home that night—she wasn’t home a lot
of nights, really—but it felt more fun, more dangerous, to sneak out.
Especially with all the gossip surrounding me and my cousin, Monica… I
took five hundred dollars from the piggy bank where I had been stashing
allowances for the past decade, packed my favourite skinny jeans, a
toothbrush, and a change of underwear.
With my backpack firmly on my back, at eighteen years old, I destroyed
my cheap flip phone in the kitchen’s garbage disposal and ran away from
home. The only person I left a note for was Marco when I stuck a neon green
Post-it to his door telling him that I was running away. My first mistake,
because he found me at the bus depot the next day: scared, determined, and
unkempt, looking for the quickest way out of New Jersey. He tried to convince
me to come with him back home. “The city will eat you up and spit you out,
Lucia,” Marco had warned me. He hadn’t been wrong. When he couldn’t
convince me, he passed me a can of Coors light, twenty bucks, and a pack of
cigarettes.
I never smoked the cigarettes, and I knocked out a homeless guy with the
beer when he tried to steal my money, but I did spend the twenty bucks at a
youth hostel while I was getting on my feet. Eventually, I realized there
weren’t many jobs that could sustain a teenager with a high school education
while also letting her pay rent in one of America’s most expensive cities. One
of the girls I crashed within a five-person living situation told me about her
stripping job, and I fell into that life.
When I first met Lucas Black, I thought he was a cop. I’d been taking a
break, my first short one of what would most certainly be a very long night,
and he’d caught my eye. He had seemed uncomfortable, stiff, likely to be a
cheapskate, so I hadn’t bothered with him. His spine was too ramrod straight
for him to pull out his wallet, at least. One of the other girls had tried to
entice him with a lap dance, but for some reason, he’d been fixated on me.
When it turned out that the manager of the strip club—a total jerk who
felt up all the girls when he gave them their checks and helped himself to a
hefty portion of our money too—was also running a drug cartel out the back
of his club, I had contacted Marco. At that point, it was five years later and
he’d risen the ranks to be just below capo, while I was stripping in a seedy
club to get the bills paid. However, the strip club’s drug business did infringe
on Cavalli territory, so he had promised to tell Antonio about it. Whether or
not he did, I had no idea, because the next day that I went to work, the
manager was on the floor in a pool of blood.
The police were called in and so was the FBI. Lucas Black made a
reappearance in my life. Our eyes locked over a dead body for the first time. I
guess you could call it romantic.
 Chapter 28— The Will

Priscilla Martell
Beeping machines and tubes surround my father’s body as he lies in the
bed, his lined face ashen. He looks so weak and fragile, his skin paper-thin
and showing his age. Even though he’s well into his forties, I never thought
of my Papa as anything less than invincible. I perch on the corner of the
mattress, unsure of where to place my hands. That’s a new one for me. I’ve
never felt so uncertain before, so ill at ease. It’s a new and unsettling
sensation, one that makes me wonder if I should stay or go.
The private nurses set up a hospital-like suite in another wing of the
Martell house, far from where his old master bedroom used to be. It’s strange
to see my father here, not only in a different setting—these bland cream walls
remind me of oatmeal and the beige carpet isn’t much better—but also
looking like the senior citizen that he is. It unnerves me. If my father isn’t a
bulwark against the dangers of this world, against those trying to tear our
family down and apart, then who is? The memory of Antonio Cavalli’s
betrayal still sears through me, a sting that accompanies a bleeding wound.
My every heartbeat pulses to a rhythm that is vowing revenge on the
Cavalli’s.
I found a better one. The words shouldn’t ache as much as they do. It’s
not like I ever thought such a marriage with him would be a love match, or
that he would appreciate me for more than the superficial assets and ties to
power that I would bring him, but a girl has pride. And it’s an easily wounded
ego that smarts at rejection.
I can’t help but think that Antonio’s words were the catalyst for my father
lying here in this bed hooked up to IVs and to machines keeping him alive.
They shocked him into realizing his own frailty. Although I’ve seen him
shake off gunshot wounds before and be up and running the next day, Charles
Martell won’t be around forever. His mortality is a thought that I brush away,
like an irritating gnat. Only this particular insect is laced with poison and
venom, threatening to leave a permanent scar if I’m not careful.
“Comment te-tu sens, Papa?” I ask when his eyelids flutter open. How
are you feeling?
He’s not grouchy as I expected, which is good. “Tres bien avec toi ici, ma
petite puce.” Very well with you here, my dear.
Is he being kind? Sappy, even? The thought startles even more than a slap
to the face would, even more than the sight of him in this bed does. “Ca me
rend heureuse.” That makes me happy.
“Now, tell me of more pressing matters. What is the state of the
Cavalli’s? What have you done to avenge our family, Priscilla?” My father
lifts a hand to run it through his greying hair.
I lift my chin, ready to make him proud. Then I tell him about Lucas
Black, the deal we cut, and the contacts I’ve made so far. However, instead of
seeing a smile cross his face, I see a frown, emphasizing the lines around his
mouth and eyes.
“The FBI? That’s something we don’t want to tangle with,” he warns,
sounding as grave as a king issuing a death sentence from his throne. All he
needs is a sceptre to complete the image. “While I appreciate your devotion
to notre famille, it could very well get us all killed.”
 “I know what I’m doing.” Straightening myself up, I pull my shoulders
back and try to emulate his ever-regal posture.
He sighs, folding his hands in his lap, covering the blanket. “Call my
lawyer in. There’s something you need to know, ma fille.”
“What is it?” The nature of the visit has scrambled my mind, twisting my
thoughts into an unusually nervous jumble. I can handle it. Whatever he tells
me, I can handle it.
“While I know I will likely recover from this injury, that may not be the
case next time. So, I thought you should know about the contents of my will.”
Charles Martell’s green eyes stare straight ahead at the landscape painting on
the wall, not shedding a single tear.
“Papa,” I say, then pause. Denial won’t do me any good, as much as I
want to say, don’t talk like that, you’ll live to be a hundred and three. We
both know it’s not true. As for questioning why he wants to talk to me about
the will, I don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. What if he has
something to bestow upon me? “Thank you for trusting me with this.”
His green eyes widen, intensity burning behind his irises as he looks
straight at me. “What I tell you can never leave this room, ma cherie. Not
even your mother—cette vache—can know.”
I chew on my lower lip, trying not to flinch at the harsh words he uses to
describe her. “Of course, Papa.”
He presses a button by his bedside, one that resembles an intercom, and
murmurs a few words in French. Shortly after, Roland Chretien, his lawyer,
enters the room. The man’s imposing bulk and dark suit seems out of place in
a room that is decorated in such anodyne tones, making Chretien seem like a
bull in a china shop.
“Thank you for coming, Monsieur Chretien,” my father says with a nod.
He gestures with one hand toward the two leather armchairs facing the bed.
“Take a seat.”
Chretien seats himself, perching on the edge as though ready to spring up
at any moment. His sheer size as well as his alert posture make him appear
more suited to the role of bodyguard than lawyer. “Quoi est neuf?” What’s
new?
“It’s the will,” my father says. “I need you present to discuss it.”
Chretien launches into a long description of the will, pulling a sheaf of
papers from his leather briefcase, dark snakeskin marked with three glittering
letters: S. IN. Finally, after all the legal jargon has been spewed, he says two
words that catch my attention. “Christina Martell.”
I perk up. “What about her?”
What more could this usurper possibly take from me now? First, an
engagement. Now, what?
“She’s listed as a beneficiary in your father’s will, but only under one
condition. That he dies under natural causes. If he does not, the ten million
dollars that were meant to go to her, as well as the Provence estate, will be
given to your cousin.” Closing the leather portfolio as though he’s spoken
absolutely nothing of significance, Chretien tucks it back into his briefcase.
“As well, as you may know already, you and your sisters will be dividing the
rest of your father’s assets equally, with a trust for your mother to use for the
remainder of her life, provided she does not remarry.”
Gritting my teeth to keep my jaw from dropping open, I smile at him.
“Thank you for telling me, Chretien.”
Ten million dollars and the Provence estate? The Provence estate is my
favourite. I feel like a child sulking over a favourite toy, and I have to clamp
down on the petulant emotions rising in me as I look at my father. His
dignified expression never changes. “I see you don’t approve.”
“I was only surprised, father.” The lie spills out, a self-defense
mechanism that I’ve engrained in me from years of harsh punishments. Still,
it hurts all the same to speak it. “After all, I had never heard of Christina
Martell until now.”
“Of course, but you understand that she is one of my heirs, just as you
and your sisters are.” He speaks calmly, each word intoned with gravitas. Not
an ounce of affection. We are nothing more than extensions of him, like a
hand or a leg. Something to be taken care of, lest it fall into disrepair, but not
truly cared for. And certainly not something that can dare to question him. “It
is my duty to provide for her.”
“Was this always in your will?” I ask anyways. It will earn me nothing
more than a cold look, or a cutting remark, but I try anyway. I have to try. For
my mother, for my true sisters, I have to try. “Or was it only when Cavalli
brought her into your life…?”
“Do not ask me these things, Priscilla.” For once, he looks tired. Not
physically tired, as he did when he lay unconscious in the hospital bed,
unmoving, but spiritually tired. Emotionally drained. The bags beneath his
eyes and the hollows in his cheeks speak to a barrenness, a hollow place
inside of him that cannot be filled no matter how hard he tries.
Or maybe, I’m only projecting my own feelings onto him.
“Rest well, Father.” I stand from my chair beside his bed and brush past
Chretien, my Jimmy Choos clicking across the floor. I will avenge our family.
#
Christina Martell
Back from France, and slightly tanner, and still without a message from
my mother on my phone, I begin to worry. Not telling Antonio where I’m
going—he told me he would be busy with meetings all day anyways—I
commandeer one of his cars and a driver. Making my way into the city, I feel
like a different person with fresh eyes and all that jazz. But what has changed
me, to make me view the city as less of a concrete jungle to explore and
disappear into and more of a hustling, bustling place without a single oasis of
serenity? What has changed to make me concerned for my mother rather than
the other way around?
I don’t want to dwell on the answers. Instead, I make my way to the small
apartment building with trepidation, clutching my purse in front of me.
Everything looks so dingy compared to the place I’ve just spent weeks in,
and I scold myself for getting too accustomed to luxury when I grew up in
near-destitution. How could I let myself forget so quickly where I truly come
from?
Riding the elevator up, the scratched metal walls, buzzing fluorescent
lights, and the pervasive smell of cheap lemony cleaner assault my senses.
The other passenger is a short man in a grey suit wearing a wide-brimmed
hat, a scent of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. I step aside, trying not
to look like I want to get as far away from him as possible, while also trying
to get as close to the other corner of the lift as possible. Fortunately, his time
on the elevator is shorter than mine.
Heart beating fast for reasons I can’t discern, I swing my hands from side
to side in an effort to alleviate some of the tension pulsing through my body.
Nothing is wrong. Nothing. I trace the familiar path to the apartment where
my mother lives and where I spent most of my life. When I open it, my jaw
drops.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
 Chapter 29— The Martell Sisters

Christina Martell
“I like your necklace,” says the girl lounging on my mother’s couch, clad
in designer duds, and twirling a knife in her red-nailed hand. “Is that diamond
real?”
The polite answer comes to mind: thanks, it was a gift. My real answer
springs out of my mouth before I can stop it. “You haven’t answered my
questions.”
“Answer mine first,” she says, her smile dazzlingly bright. She repeats
herself, her cadence slower as she spins the knife between her index finger
and thumb. “Is the diamond real?”
“You’ll have to ask Antonio Cavalli. He’s the one who gave it to me.”
The words spill from my mouth as though plucked from the ground like a
flower, the roots hanging in the air. Whether it will live or die is uncertain.
Maybe Antonio’s name will protect me from this girl, whose hands are deftly
holding a blade. Something rises in my throat as I touch the pendant, the icy
stone’s facets cold against my fingertips.
“Hmm. Well, I can’t see why a man rich enough to own half the city
would bother to buy a fake diamond, so thank you for answering my
question.” She stands from the couch, dusting off her white dress. The lace
cap sleeves and cinched waist remind me of a wedding gown, but she doesn’t
seem like any bride I’ve ever seen. “Now, to answer yours: My name is
Priscilla Martell, and I am here because you’re my sister.”
I scour her features for any resemblance, not wanting to find a shred. I
find many shreds: the same dark hair. The same nose. Different eye shapes,
but we have the same shade of brown. Is this girl really my sister? My fingers
shake and I clutch my diamond, pressing the sharp, polished point into the
pad of my thumb. The pain keeps me alert. “I can’t say I’ve heard about
you.”
“I’m not offended.” She tucks the knife behind her ear like it’s a pencil
and she’s in a classroom. If it is, this is the worst lesson I’ve ever learned. “I
heard your mother didn’t even tell you about our father until recently.”
“That’s true,” I say slowly, wondering how she knows. My eyes dart
around the empty apartment, remembering that it’s Tuesday and my mother
would be at tai chi by now, then out to dim sum afterwards. “So how did you
find me, exactly?”
“You have so many questions, Christina.” Priscilla’s smile is still glittery,
as bright as my necklace, but there’s something in it that makes me think her
pearly white teeth are veneers, and not just in a dental way.
She is out of place in my mother’s apartment and my first home, but her
je ne sais quoi seems like she’d be out of place anywhere. Her classy white
dress, ruby choker, and barrel waves of dark hair stand out against the
backdrop. The old floral couch sits on top of the carpet in a specific pattern of
grey that hides stains, and a collection of mismatched barstools are clustered
alongside a cheap quartz countertop.
“I like to take interest in the people I’m having a conversation with,” I say
with an equally bright grin. “It simply seems like the polite thing to do.”
“I see.” Priscilla’s smile drops. “You know, I haven’t had the pleasure of
conversing with someone so… courteous in a while.”
“Well, why not do me the courtesy of informing of the reason for your
visit?” I place my hands on my hips, unwilling to look away from her and the
knife that gleams in her hair.
“I came here to tell you about my—our father’s will,” she says. “He’s
leaving you ten million dollars and a house in France.”
“What?” I take a step back. “Is he dead?”
Something clenches in my chest, a fist closing around my heart. It’s not
like he’s a good man. But I never got to meet him. Now I never will. It must
be even worse for this girl, my sister, who grew up with her father in her life,
to think about losing him forever.
“No, no, not at all.” Priscilla shakes her head rapidly, ringlets of dark hair
flying around her slim shoulders. “It’s only that I wanted to warn you about
this. In case… in case he does…”
A glimmer of vulnerability seems to slice through her at that moment as
she stares down at her clasped hands. Are those tears welling up in her eyes?
Despite her icy, polished surface, it seems like she’s on the verge of breaking
down in front of a veritable stranger. Her love for her father is palpable,
sucking the oxygen from the room.
“In case he does pass away?” I say softly. “Is he sick?”
She points a long-nailed finger at me, stabbing it into my chest. “Don’t
you dare ask that stupid question like you don’t know that your boyfriend
shot him after he chose you over me!”
“I—what?” I try to picture Antonio shooting someone. I can imagine it all
too easily: his fingers closing on the trigger, not even recoiling as the gun
goes off, dodging bullets and firing back. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know…”
“I came here to tell you that you’re not getting a dollar of that money or a
square inch of that house if my father doesn’t die of natural causes.” She
stands from the couch, brushing off the skirt of her sheath dress. “That’s all.
So tell your boyfriend to try not to kill him.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say because it’s the only ounce of truth I can
offer up right now.
She stalks out of my apartment, heels clicking. The door slams shut
behind her before she spits out a few more words: “I don’t care!”
I collapse on the couch, my head spinning from what she’s just told me.
What do I do? Should I tell Antonio what happened? Should I stay here and
wait for my mother to get home? Out of habit, My feet pace the floor, making
their way to the kitchen as I take a glass down from the cabinet and fill it with
water. Taking a swig, I pause and choke. The glass is dusty. I glance around
the apartment. A fine layer of dust covers the island, the chairs, and other
furniture.
A sinking feeling of dread drops my stomach. When I open the
refrigerator, a carton of milk is spoiled. The expiry date is from a week ago.
Where is she? I dial my mother’s phone number with shaking fingers. Five
rings and no answer. In the kitchen sink, a single plate with crumbs on it
stares back at me.
I peek into my mother’s bedroom, the door creaking open with a rusty
hinge that makes me wince. The hair on the back of my neck stands up on
end as I look around. Cosmetic and skincare products have been left on the
vanity. Even one of the bottles is open. In the ensuite, a leaky faucet drips
water into the sink basin.
Has she been missing? For how long?
And why?
#
 Antonio Cavalli
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I’m on the way to lunch with my
brother, Sebastian. Christina’s name flashes across the screen and I
immediately pick up. “Hello?”
“Antonio?” Her voice is shaking. “It’s… it’s an emergency. Can you
come to my mother’s apartment, immediately?”
“What’s happened? Are you hurt?” My mind immediately jumps to
worst-case scenarios, each one more panic-inducing than the last: her car
drove off into a ditch on the side of the road. Someone tried to rob the place
and now they’re holding her for ransom.
I hear her sniff. “I… a bunch of things.”
“I’m on my way there.” I shoot off a text to Sebastian, cancelling on him
half an hour before our scheduled time to meet. A jerk move, perhaps, but
somehow it’s not a hard choice to choose Christina over him, the brother I
haven’t seen in five years. “Give me the address again.”
She rattles it off before she ends the call. “Please hurry.”
I lean forward and give the address to the driver. He makes a U-turn in
the middle of busy traffic, barely escaping a narrow collision with a speeding
taxi. “I’ll get you there, Signor Cavalli. Don’t worry.”
“Prego.” We make it there in record town, in a more family-friendly area
of the city with small parks and playgrounds and fewer towering skyscrapers
and bodegas. “Wait for me and circle the block a few times.”
Unless there’s a serious problem, I plan on taking her with me. I thought I
could let her go, but this emergency seems to only prove that I can’t just let
her slip between my fingers, unprotected. An OUT OF ORDER sign has been
slapped on the elevator and I take the stairs three at a time until I make it to
the tenth floor.
 “Christina, it’s me, Antonio.” I rap on the door twice in quick succession.
“Can you let me in, sweetheart?”
Footsteps scurry across the apartment. While I wait, I take in my
surroundings: nothing seems to be out of the ordinary, but I smell a faint hint
of perfume that’s familiar to me. It’s not Christina’s. It’s someone else’s.
What other woman has been here whom I know?
The answer drifts through my mind, like a fish swimming through the
lake, briefly surfacing and revealed by the sun, shining patches of scales in
shallow areas of the water, before diving deep again. A name.
“Who else has been here?” I say right when she opens the door. My hands
curling into fists, I survey her body for any injury but find nothing, and the
muscles in my back uncoil as I step into the small apartment. Still, I need to
be sure. “Are you hurt?”
“I don’t know.” She chews on her lower lip. “I… My mother is missing.
When she didn’t contact me after I… After I found out who my father was, I
thought she was only mad at me. But now, I don’t know where she is. I called
all her friends and they said they don’t know either… and my relatives…
Nobody has heard from her… I don’t know what I’ll do without her, Antonio.
Please. Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with this.”
Her voice rises, her words becoming more frantic and slurred as she
speaks. “Please.” She’s shaking, but she lifts her chin and looks me straight
in the eye. “You have to help me find her.”
“Of course.” I put my arm around her but she steps back. “What else is
there?”
“How did you know someone else has been in the apartment?” Christina
asks, looking me up and down with narrowed eyes.
I lean a hip against the door to close it. “I thought I smelled perfume.”
 “I wear perfume.” She tilts her head to one side and regards me like one
would a bloodhound. “It could’ve been mine.”
Before I can think of a rebuttal, the name hits me with full force.
“Priscilla Martell,” I say. Memories pass through my mind of the brief
time we spent together, yet it was long enough for me to realize things. One
of them is that she’s not a harmless kitten like other spoiled mafia princesses,
but a fully grown cat with sharp claws. A girl who would do anything for her
family, and for her father. “She’s dangerous. Why was she here?”
“How did you know that?” A furrow forms between her brows and she
clutches her denim jacket to her chest, the light blue fabric bunched up
between her hands like a makeshift shield. “How did you know she was
here?”
“A gut feeling.” It’s not that I don’t want to tell her the truth, but it would
be too hard to explain. “This isn’t important. I’ll help you find your mom.”
Christina steps back, her eyes narrowing. She ignores my hasty promise.
“How do you know her?”
“I was supposed to marry her,” I say bluntly. “But I chose you, Christina.
I wanted you.”
“To tick off your dad,” she says, her voice sharpening into blades that
embed themselves into my chest. “Got it.”
“Come on, Christina,” I say. I know I made a mistake. I know I made
many mistakes, but letting her into my life wasn’t one of them. The only
mistake I could make now would be to let her walk away. “Not this again.”
She sits on the arm of the couch, staring up at me with defiant brown
eyes, red-rimmed as though she’s been crying. “Yes, this again.”
A muscle tics in my jaw. “It may have started out like that, but I chose
you, Christina. And I’m going to keep choosing you until you understand.”
 “What’s there to understand, Antonio? There’s nothing that you haven’t
made crystal clear. At best, I’m a fling to you. At worst, I’m a pawn for you
to get back at Roberto Cavalli.” She plants her hands on her hips, causing her
to lose balance and grab onto the back of the sofa for balance. I reach out,
gripping her shoulder to steady her, but she recoils and tumbles backwards,
her hair splaying out on the couch cushions.
My hand is still on her shoulder. She tries to sit up, her eyes widening
with fear as though she thinks I’m going to… what? Assault her? Attack her
now that she’s lying down? The thought ripples through me like a stab
wound, like a betrayal. I would never do that to a woman, especially not to
her. Releasing my grip on her shoulder, I tuck my hands into my pockets.
Christina scrambles up and off the couch, her eyes narrowed as though trying
to see through me.
“Start over with me,” I say suddenly. This recklessness may come back to
bite me, but I want to tell her the truth. I want to be with her. “We can put
this behind us, and act like it never happened. I’ll just be a guy, taking you
out on a date, for no ulterior motive whatsoever. What do you say, Christina
Martell?”
I should’ve known she would say no. I should know that she doesn’t want
this. That she’s been thrust into this life, this underground cascade of bullets
and pain, kicking and screaming. I should know better than to ask for things
I’ll never have, than to ask for this girl, so beautiful and pure and unstained
by the blood and ashes on my hands. Yet I dared to ask anyway. I dared to
jump, and now I know I’m going to be spiralling through this fall without a
parachute or a safety net.
She studies my face for a moment as though waiting for the other shoe to
drop. Christina, like me, knows that this world we live in is too tangled for
games of pretend. “Let’s find my mom first.”
 Chapter 30— The Manhunt

Christina Martell
“Have you called the police?” Antonio asks me, his grey eyes probing.
They traverse the length of the apartment, making me feel inadequate. This
little home where I grew up, with the pencil marks on the wall to measure my
height, seems shabby compared to what I’ve seen of his home and his opulent
tastes. But at least my mom didn’t make her money dealing drugs and doing
God knows what else. Yet another reason that I can’t bring myself to agree to
his do-over.
I watch him as he studies the open-floor plan of the small rooms. He
doesn’t seem at all ruffled by my rejection of his offer. Is the man human at
all? When he asked me to start over with him, I thought he might have been.
Now, I don’t know what to think. Rationally, since he’s offering to help me
find my mother, I can infer that he cares about me, at least. Emotionally?
Well, that’s a whole other bag of snakes.
His question surprises me. Why would a member of the mafia ask me to
call the police—a high-ranking member of the mob, at that? “No. I thought
about it, but then again, should I?” I chew on my lower lip, tasting cherry lip
balm. “I mean, if they dig into my life, they’ll find… You.”
You. And all the messiness that comes with Antonio Cavalli’s presence.
Guns. Bullets. Being fugitives from the law. The FBI. Cracked windows.
Snipers. A boatload of drama and the life-or-death kind at that. Everything
that my mother fought to protect me from. Now I’ve thrown that protection
away, scorned her efforts, and she could be lost because of it. A sob breaks
free in my chest, like a rosebud unfurling, a floodgate swinging open.
“I have contacts in the police department,” he says, his expression grave
as he reaches for me. I move away, not wanting him to touch me. I don’t need
his affection. Not from hands that have caused innumerable amounts of harm
to people that will never receive the same comfort. “I’ll get them on it.”
“You have contacts in the police department?” I repeat, my mind still
stuck on one perception of him for a moment before the realization sticks,
sinking in as quickly as an anchor dropped off a ship. Disappearing into deep,
dark recesses. Into the shadows of this world. “I… Oh. Of course, you do.”
I should have realized. It’s foolish of me to think this world is so black
and white, to think that all federal agents are working for the interests of their
country and government. To be misled into believing everyone joins the
police force in order to serve their community and not to enrich themselves.
After all, I’ve known Antonio. Shouldn’t I be smart enough to realize that
evil can exist anywhere, especially in the man standing before me?
Yet the world is not as simple as I would like to believe, either. Of
course, I should have known. Antonio is not purely terrible. He’s not only,
completely good—a diamond necklace and an offer of help don’t change
that. I doubt that he’s never caused anyone else’s mother to disappear before.
I doubt that no other girl has ever been set to pacing around her own
apartment somewhere in this world, worrying about her mother. I doubt that
he’s never been the cause of anyone else’s pain.
And they didn’t have a crime lord to help them find their vanished
mother. Right now, he’s only helping me because… because what? He’s
attracted to me? I matter to him, and so he will help me. I am important to
him. I am a tool, a weapon, a way for him to annoy his father and satisfy
some baser inclination. I am not nothing to him, but a short step away from
someone.
He’s helping me because I am useful. But he wouldn’t help someone else
who didn’t matter to him. He wouldn’t help a stranger. He wouldn’t help
somebody who was of no use to him, in the same way that people throw
away broken toys. And that’s what makes the difference between a good man
and a powerful man. The powerful one needs to keep his power.
Still, I can almost taste the pain on his lips, glimpse the betrayal in his
eyes at my accusation that he’s in league with some corrupt cops. He leans
against the wall, a marble statue clad in black: leather jacket, jeans, sweater.
A little more casual than the usual suit. Still as untouchable and void of
warmth as ever. Yet the words he speaks are ones I want to hear, words of
comfort and reassurance. “I’m sure your mother will be fine.”
The reminder of what I called him here for, the bombardment of events
today that have rattled the frame of my world, shakes me a little. Something
inside my chest cracks, crumples, leaving me hollow. “I can’t live without
her, Antonio. If… If my actions caused her to fall into the hands of some
criminal somewhere… I don’t know what I would do with myself. I wouldn’t
be able to live with myself.”
“I won’t let that happen,” he promises. But a twisted voice in my mind
whispers: what if he already has?
What if he’s the cause of all my problems and his presence in my life is
what leads to my mother lying dead in a ditch somewhere? I wring the denim
jacket in my hands, the fabric rough against my palms, the metal buttons
digging into my skin. The discomfort keeps me alert, awake, keeps me from
fully giving in to him.
 “Okay.” I look up at him and tell him a lie that I think we both want to
believe. “I trust you.”
#
Charles Martell
“It’s been a long time, Linda,” I say, looking at the woman who has just
entered my room. Her footsteps are light, like those of the small sparrow that
likes to peck at the seeds scattered on my windowsill. “Who let you in here?”
She says nothing. I could hear her coming from her footsteps, the same
way she walks in sensible shoes. Not in teetering heels the way my wife or
daughters do. She moves like a dancer, like someone who can escape from
grasping hands in a graceful instant. Someone who can disappear just as
quickly as she came, which she did twenty-two years ago.
“It couldn’t have been my wife, Marcella.” I turn to look out the window.
If she doesn’t wish to talk, I will do it for her. “Nor could it have been
Priscilla, or Joanna. Perhaps it was Augusta, then, if you bribed her with
candy or a good book.”
“It was none of them,” she says at last. “Your guard, Bruno, recognized
me.”
“Now that is a surprise.” I look at Linda at last, drinking in each drop of
her appearance. It remains unchanged yet so much about her is different now.
The same sensible shoes, but her hair is shorter, cut into a wavy bob. She
wears much less makeup, only a swipe of pink lipstick lending colour to her
pale face. Her clothes are practical, jeans and a sweater, but well-fitted to her
body. “Have you come to see me before I die?”
“You’re forty,” she says bluntly, her hands on her hips. “You’re not about
to keel over, Charles.”
I smile at her language, the way she never minces a word. It’s refreshing,
after being surrounded by so much deception and intrigue, to hear someone
speak in such straightforward tones. “You’re here to tell me about our
daughter, then? Christina, isn’t she?”
“I came here to ask you to protect her,” she says, her voice tinged with
desperation. Linda looks like she’s about two steps from falling on her knees
to plead with me. “The Cavalli’s have her and I don’t know… I don’t know
how to get her out. Please, Charles, if you ever cared for me at all…”
“How did you find me, Linda?” I can’t help but size her up again. What
has she done in the time, in the two decades that we haven’t spoken? Her ring
finger is empty, with no tan line to mark a divorce either. I gesture toward the
chair next to the bed, the one that my daughters take turn filling, but
Marcella, never. “Have a seat.”
I can see the movement of her throat as she swallows. “I shouldn’t. I
shouldn’t have come here. It was a mistake.”
Rote words, recited as an automatic defence. Of course, she would say
these things when faced with a man who owns some of the deadliest weapons
and in charge of some of the most dangerous criminals in New York and
France. Still, I notice that she doesn’t answer my question. It doesn’t matter, I
suppose. I’ll know the answer soon enough.
Again, I wave a hand toward the chair. “I said to take a seat, Linda. In
case you hadn’t noticed, I’m in no shape to pounce on you.”
She sits daintily, holding her purse on her lap. “Have you seen
Christina?”
“I wouldn’t know if I had.” Or would I? Would I recognize my daughter
immediately upon locking eyes with her? Would some immediate genetic,
paternal instinct click into place and alert me? “When you say the Cavalli’s
have her—what do they want with her, exactly?”
 I know, of course. I was there when Antonio Cavalli all but spat in my
face and broke our uneasy alliance. But I would like to hear her say it.
“How should I know?” She wrings her hands, twining the cheap fake
leather material of her purse strap around her fingers. “It’s not as though they
broke into my house and dragged her out by the hair. No—she went with
them willingly! With that man…”
“What man?” It’s no fun to feign ignorance, but without complete
certainty, one cannot go around making assumptions. “Was it one of the
Cavalli’s?”
She nods emphatically, tears welling up in her brown eyes. “Yes, she
went off with Antonio Cavalli. And now, my daughter is ruined!”
“Linda, Linda.” Her tears, while moving, seem unnecessary. What can I
do for her if her daughter decides to make the wrong choices—if our
daughter chooses the wrong paths to go down? It isn’t as though bringing yet
another drug lord into your daughter’s life will improve it if she’s already
gotten herself entangled with the Cavalli’s. “What do you mean, ruined? This
is the 21st century, not a Jane Austen novel. Even if she spent the night at his
house, I highly doubt it would ruin her reputation.”
“I’m not talking about her reputation! I am referring to her life,” Linda
snaps, her hands gripping the bed rail and leaning over me. “Who knows
what the Cavalli’s could do to her?”
“Trust me, Linda,” I say, turning away to look out the window. I can’t
bear to see her face. Not when it brings back so many old memories from
over two decades years ago. Somehow, two decades have passed with the
wrong woman, raising the wrong children. Is Priscilla even mine? She has
my spirit, her mother’s fiery tenacity. But Joanna—Joanna, the daughter of
my heart if not my blood—how could I abandon her? I am bereft, then, of
any legacy at all. Daughters only. “The Cavalli’s are quite civilized. They are
hardly bent on roasting her and eating her flesh like cannibals.”
The words don’t reassure her, as I suppose they wouldn’t assure any
worried mother. I have never been very skilled in comforting distraught
women, and I doubt I can start now. “They’re civilized? Is that how you
wound up in a hospital bed, riddled with bullet holes?”
I smile at her tone. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were
actually concerned for my well-being.”
“Nonsense.” She sniffs, dabbing at her cheeks with an embroidered
handkerchief that she pulls from her purse. The pattern is familiar. When she
catches me studying it, Linda freezes, tucking it away. “I haven’t thought
about you in twenty-two years.”
“So you never wondered how the father of your child was doing, Linda?”
I inquire, for once asking a question that I don’t know the answer to. One
whose answer piques my interest more than I would like to admit. “You
never thought to ring me up once in all these years and say, comment ca va?”
Linda balls up the handkerchief, the monogrammed insignia showing
between her fingers. CM, for Charles Martell. “Only when Christina asked
me where her father was and even then, I could not bring myself to tell her.”
“What did you tell her instead?” I say, bracing myself for some hurtful
lie. Why do I care so much? Why do I bother asking? These questions aren’t
about to further my business or benefit me. No, instead they’re more likely to
wound me. Yet I keep digging for the truth. “That you didn’t know who her
father was?”
Anger flashes in her brown eyes. Each word is cutting in its enunciation,
sharp and cold. “I told her you were dead.”
I recline on the pillows. They’re far too firm for my taste. “I suppose
that’s better than any number of alternatives. It’s almost true, isn’t it? I was
dead to you, the moment I married Marcella.”
The fury escapes Linda, draining from her face like air from a balloon at a
child’s birthday party, leaving her pale. “I always knew you would marry
Marcella. My only mistake was letting myself get involved with you in spite
of it.”
All those years ago, and still, I have lingering regrets. Not only because
Marcella turned out to be a cheater, but also because… Because I thought of
Linda. She was only a waitress working in the bar that my father owned. She
hadn’t deserved to be caught up in my life of crime. Yet I had wanted to
sweep her away into it anyway, because of my own selfish desires. Is her
daughter about to make the mistakes that Linda didn’t?
“Well, I certainly hope you don’t tell your daughter that she is a mistake,”
says a familiar, icy voice at the door. “Hello, Charles. We meet again.”
Seeing Antonio Cavalli at the door, I reach for my gun and fire off a shot.
And this time, I don’t miss.
 Chapter 31— The Past

Lucia Esposito
A droplet of water slides down my champagne flute and onto the white
tablecloth, soaking into it. Soon enough, it will dry as though it were never
here.
I wish I had never been here. Unfortunately, it’s a wish that will probably
never come true. Sighing, I wait for the waiter to return and tell me that
Monica is never showing up. Or rather, that’s what I hope will happen.
Instead, he just brings the breadbasket. That’s not bad, either. The basket
contains dinner rolls, mini croissants, and my personal favourite type of
Italian bread. Using the tongs, I pick up a slice of focaccia bread, the smell of
rosemary wafting toward my face as I shut my eyes and nibble at it.
“You’re late,” I say automatically, eyes still closed as I hear a chair
squeak against the floor and a pair of high heels clicking against the marble
tiles.
“Traffic was lousy,” Monica says. “Are you finished falling in love with
that piece of bread, or…?”
I open my eyes, rolling them as I shove the rest of the bread into my
mouth and wiping my fingers on the white linen napkin in my lap. With my
mouth still full, I completely disregard manners and speak with my mouth
full of crumbs. “I’m done.”
 Her eyebrows pinch, a line forming between them. In her classy white
blouse and black slacks, she looks like she’s ready for a boardroom meeting,
not a lunch date. “Do you have to be such a slob?”
Monica’s critical analysis of everything and everyone around her never
fails to grate on my nerves. It’s like sitting next to a nagging mother or
henpecking wife.
“Nice to see you, too, cousin.” I smile before swigging my water. It’s
carbonated and I almost choke. I hate sparkling water, so it only makes sense
that Monica would have called ahead and ordered it. She would be that petty.
“How have you been?”
“Fantastic, since you left,” she responds, summoning the waiter with a
wave of her hand.
He comes scurrying over, a stack of menus in hand. “How may I help
you, ma’am?”
“I would like to get some champagne for my companion and I—we are
celebrating,” she responds.
The waiter falls prey to her gleaming smile, aided by the help of veneers
and years of braces. I knew her when we were in diapers, so why is it that she
grew into a beautiful swan while I remained an ugly duckling? “What are we
celebrating?”
“Oh, her homecoming,” Monica says. She even dares to reach over the
table and hold my hand as though we’re best friends when she’s the reason
that I left the family in the first place. “She’s been away so long, I really
missed her. We really missed each other, of course.”
The server looks between the two of us curiously. “Were you away for
college or something?”
My smile is tight. It feels the same way that having Botox must look.
“Something like that.”
“Well, I’ll be right back with your champagne,” he says when neither of
us elaborates. Monica’s hand is clammy over mine, her engagement ring and
wedding band digging into my finger.
“Thank you,” Monica says before dropping her mask and turning back to
me, snatching her hand away as if I burned her. “Why are you back here,
Lucia?”
I shrug, trying to keep a cold facade. It doesn’t work. I’m no Monica
Esposito, and I’m certainly no ice queen. I wish I could be, but my cousin
always has a way of rattling me. We’ve competed and been pitted against
each other in equal measure ever since we were little. Why should things
change now? “You’re the one who called me up to ‘talk.’”
“And talk, we will. But tell me why you’re back, first.” She takes a sip of
her water, red lipstick wreathing the rim of the glass.
I twist the ruby ring on my left hand, the only memento I have of my
father. When I was away, I took it off, worried it would give away my
identity. Now, my hand feels heavier with it on. “Marco is the one who
kidnapped me and brought me back here. I assumed there was some greater
purpose I needed to serve. Something that the Cavalli’s want from me—some
unfinished business.”
“Why you?” Monica says, her voice dripping in disdain. And then I
realize why she called me up. She’s jealous. She can’t fathom what use I
would be to the family, and so she wants to figure out what I have so she can
take it from me. This has been the nature of our relationship for as long as I
can remember. Well, no longer. “Why not anyone else? You’ve been away
for years, working as a stripper, of all things. It’s not like you were rubbing
shoulders with the wealthy and elite.”
 Her scorn coats every syllable. You were rubbing something else, is the
unsaid statement that she would never dare to repeat out loud, too afraid of
tarnishing her image as an Esposito princess. But I know she’s thinking it.
“I actually got to know a lot of wealthy and elite men,” I say. If she wants
to bring up my job, so be it. I’m not proud of it, and it definitely wasn’t the
easiest or ideal path. No, if I could turn back time, I wouldn’t have… or
would I? I don’t even know. I would never have met Lucas if I hadn’t taken
the path I did. But he hates me now, anyway. I only brought upon myself
unnecessary pain. “You would be surprised to know how many men cheat on
their wives. Staggering amounts, really. Politicians, stock brokers,
lawyers…”
Her eyes narrow as she looks at me. She traces a finger around the
diamond on her engagement ring, the sparkly stone almost blinding me as she
tilts it this way and that. “Yes, well it’s not like you were talking to them,
were you?”
“Monica, you have no idea about who I am or what I’ve done.” I square
my shoulders, refusing to let her monopolize the conversation with her
contempt for me anymore. “Just say what you have to say and be done. Tell
me that you’re jealous because no one ever cared enough for you in the
famiglia to involve you in any important discussions, meetings, or missions.
Tell me that you’re jealous because all you were worthy for was to be
married off, sold like a pig at market!”
Heads turn in the restaurant and I realize my speaking volume has risen
above societally acceptable and polite decibels. Oops.
Her jaw drops. “How dare you!”
“No. How dare you, Monica! You stole from me before I left and made it
seem like I was the one who sabotaged that deal. But the truth is, you’re the
one who messed all of this up. If you had just married Alexander Steele like
you were supposed to, none of this would have happened. Your father—my
uncle—wouldn’t be rotting in prison for trying to shoot the Steele family. We
wouldn’t be embroiled in this decades-long feud.” I fold my arms across my
chest. “So there. Do with that what you will.”
Monica rolls her eyes. “How was I supposed to marry Alex? The man is a
heartless—”
“We all have to do difficult things in life to survive,” I say just as the
waiter returns with an ice bucket full of Veuve Clicquot.
“Ah, here we are, Miss,” he says with a sheepish smile. “And if I could
ask both of you to keep your voices down? The other patrons, I’m afraid,
have issued some small complaints.”
“Of course,” we say in unison, equally fake smiles plastered onto our
faces.
“Thank you.” He pours the champagne into two crystal Lalique flutes and
we watch as they foam up. “Enjoy.”
When he leaves, I pick up my glass. “You could have married him and
we wouldn’t need to be at constant war with the Steeles anymore.”
“Don’t act like this is my fault,” she says. “Do you really think the
Steeles would back down? Not while Roberto Cavalli has their daughter,
their sister.”
We both freeze at the acknowledgment of that kidnapping, over a decade
ago. “Allie is happy here. She doesn’t even remember her old life.”
“Maybe, but her old life remembers her.” Monica lifts her glass toward
mine. “To family.”
We clink our glasses and drink. The champagne turns from sweet to sour
in my mouth as I look at my cousin. “To family.”
 #
Antonio Cavalli
“You have to be kidding me,” Christina says. “Mom?”
“Honey?” A middle-aged woman who I assume is Christina’s mother
jumps up from a chair next to Charles Martell’s bed and runs toward her,
clinging to her daughter in a tight embrace. “How did you find me?”
“I helped,” I say, but both mother and daughter are too engrossed in each
other to hear me. I won’t begrudge them that much. Instead, I look at Charles
Martell. “Monsieur Martell.”
His gun is in his hand, having just ejected the bullet that has embedded
itself into the wall next to my head. “Signor Cavalli. How can I help you on
this fine day?”
“I only came here to retrieve her.” I gesture toward Christina’s mother.
“She’s not a princess in an ivory tower, and neither is your Christina.
They don’t need rescuing.” Charles Martell reclines on his bed, and despite
his supposedly weaker, passive position, he reminds me of my father. Both of
them are men who have built their empires on blood and crime, on lies and
passion. Yet one of them loves his children, and the other… the other left his
daughter before she was ever born. “Which is why your presence is not
appreciated. The next bullet will land in its target, I assure you.”
“If you wanted to assure me of that, why not simply bury the bullet in my
skull?” I ask, tucking my hands in my pockets. One of my guards, Filip
Esposito, is waiting outside the room. The other has a getaway car ready. “Or
are you too afraid to admit that it would miss?”
“If I wanted to have you killed, I would. This is my territory, after all. But
I let you live because I would prefer to face you like a man, on my own two
feet.” He smiles, and it’s the grim smile of a skeleton showing teeth, not that
of a man expressing joy or affection. “I am giving you one warning. You
have five minutes to take Linda and your girl and leave. Or I will have you
killed and I will keep both of them here.”
“And you say they don’t need rescuing. Yet you seem to be the villain
locking them up and throwing away the key.” Christina and her mother have
begun talking in animated Chinese, heavy emotion flooding the space
between them as they talk. I tap Christina on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”
 Chapter 32— The Other Woman

Christina Martell
“Christina, I don’t understand what happened,” my mom says as we sit in
the backseat of the Rolls Royce. Antonio took off in a different car, telling
me he wanted us to have some time alone together. I appreciate it, but right
now I almost wish he had stayed. “How did you find me?”
“Well, when I went back to the apartment, I didn’t see you there. But
someone else was there.” I swallow thickly at the memory of the fear and
anxiety that had surrounded me, wrapping me in its clutches when I saw
Priscilla Martell and couldn’t find my mother. It reminded me of being a
child, lost in the grocery store without a hand to hold or a familiar face in
sight. “It was my—one of the Martell girls. Priscilla Martell.”
My mother grabs my hand with her own, her slender fingers cool against
my palm. “Did she hurt you? Are you injured?”
I shake my head frantically. “No, not at all. She just told me about…
About this will that said her father—my father—was going to leave me ten
million dollars and a house in France, if he died of natural causes. I think she
wanted to protect him, she wanted me to care about him and care whether he
lives or dies.”
A furrow forms between my mother’s brows. Her voice rises, making the
backseat of the car feel smaller, the air slowly draining out of it as though the
walls are closing in. I turn to look out the window as she clutches my fingers
tightly. “I spoke to your father just now. I went to him of my own accord to
find you and he never told me a single thing about this will!”
“You went to see my father… to find me?” A strange sensation spreads
inside me, like a flower blooming. Or maybe it’s a weed. A dandelion.
Putting down roots and refusing to leave. “Yet all these years, you knew
where he was and you never told me.”
“I wanted to protect you.” She sighs, rubbing her temples with her
fingers, her nails unpainted.
“Well, you did a fantastic job.” The laugh that erupts from my lips is
harsh. After our tearful reunion, where I was so happy to see her safe and
alive after getting myself worked up, I thought I could let go of the bitterness
that had taken hold of me. But now, I’m not so sure. “Because clearly I’ve
been running with a great crowd.”
“Christina, come on. I did the best I could.” Her voice is heavy with
chastisement, like the lash of a whip.
My spine stiffens, my shoulders pulled back. “Did he ever send you
money? For me?”
“A trust. To come into effect when you reached the age of twenty-five,”
she responds. Her quick honesty surprises me. Making me wonder what else
was lying just beneath the surface, waiting for me to hear about it. To ask
about it.
“And what would you have told me, if I never found out who my father
was?” I fling my hands in the air, bangle bracelets clacking against each other
on my wrist. “An inheritance from a distant relative?”
“I wasn’t going to keep things from you forever. You don’t understand
how difficult it is to—” My mother stops herself when she sees the look on
my face. I must look terribly betrayed. But all I feel is emptiness, a growing
void that threatens to consume me. “Like I said before, Christina. Like it or
not, I wanted to protect you and I did that as best as I know how. Do you
honestly think it would be better for you to have grown up in that kind of
environment? Surrounded by those people? They are thieves and murderers
and prostitutes.”
“You can’t protect a child from everything,” I say.
“I did all I could, Christina, what more do you want from me? Was I
suppose to raise my only child amidst a pack of wolves? I don’t think so,”
she says, her voice quivering.
I feel bad, my heart dropping in my chest, twisting into unbearable
shapes. I hate to hurt those I love. “I’m sorry, Mom. It’s just that, ever since
Antonio came into my life, it feels like everything I ever knew to be true was
revealed as a lie. I don’t know what to believe.”
“You can believe in me,” she says softly. “And you always have God.”
Brushing away a tear, I sniff, knowing that’s true. Even if it doesn’t feel
true, even if it feels like nothing at all—it’s true. That’s the thing about God’s
truth: it doesn’t change, no matter what you make of it. “Thanks, Mom.”
She wraps her arms around me, rubbing circles on my back and letting
me rest my head on her shoulder, even though I’ve long since grown three
inches taller than her. “Of course, Christina. I’ll always be here for you.”
#
Lucas Black
My past and present are together in one room, and I have to say, it’s not
pretty.
Well, technically Dest—I mean, Lucia—and Christina are in the same
room, and they’re both conventionally attractive so I guess it is pretty on a
superficial level. But obviously, that’s not what I’m referring to. Though
surprisingly it hasn’t devolved into a full-on catfight either, which is almost
disappointing.
“Christina Martell, this is Destiny,” I say, gesturing between the two as
though to cut through the tension slowly filling up the room like water in a
sinking ship. “Destiny, this is Christina.”
“We’ve met,” Destiny says, turning a friendly smile on Christina. “How
are you? I like your necklace.”
“Thanks,” Christina says, touching the diamond at her collarbone. It must
be a gift from Antonio, just like the shoes she was wearing all that time ago.
The thought no longer makes me burn with jealousy, but only pity wells up in
my soul. Pity for what will happen to them, both him and her. “A lot of
people have said that to me lately.”
“Well, they have good taste.” Destiny flips her hair over one shoulder, the
brunette fading into a strawberry blonde. She turns to me with an expectant
look. “Was there a reason you called this meeting or were you just expecting
us to try and rip each other’s extensions out, a la Real Housewives?”
“You know me too well,” I say drily, but the truth is, she probably does.
Christina gives a nervous laugh, glancing between me and Destiny like
the space contains explosives ready to detonate at any second. “I don’t wear
extensions.”
Clearly the most important subject here, I think, but I don’t say it out
loud. “I want to take down Antonio Cavalli and I need your help to do it.
Both of you, I mean.”
“I know, that’s the only reason I picked up the phone when you called,”
Christina says. “Thanks for calling my mother’s house, by the way, now she
thinks we might be back together.”
“I like her,” Destiny mouths at me over Christina’s shoulder. I roll my
eyes. Destiny always likes to keep me on my toes. “What’s the real plan,
then, Agent Black?”
“I want you to both get as close to Antonio as possible, find out
everything about him and his business dealings, and report it back to me,” I
say. “I will set up a dead drop for information. No phones, no computers, no
emails, anything like that I will not accept. Only handwritten letters—”
“What is this, the nineteenth century?” Christina mutters. “Are we
supposed to seal them with wax and write them with quills?”
“I don’t want us to get caught, Tina. You can burn paper. But someone
can always hack into your phone or your laptop or whatever you’re using.
You want to get caught by the Cavallis, you go ahead and text me,” I say.
“But I’m only accepting notes, and you will leave a specific code word in
each of them.”
“Fine,” Lucia says, a ruby choker shining at her throat. “So you want
news about his business? Like, his meetings, who he’s meeting with, names
of the people,e locations, etc.?”
“All of those things, anything you could be important to the Cavallis,” I
say. Then I remember one more thing. “Oh! And Sebastian Cavalli. If you
hear anything about Sebastian, I want you to let me know about that, too.”
“On it, boss.” Christina’s voice drips with sarcasm. “Well, I have a date,
so I’m going to go now.”
No twinge of jealousy flares through me. But as Christina leaves the
room, Destiny’s eyes seem to be filled with it. I raise an eyebrow at her.
“What?”
“You didn’t tell me your ex was going to be here.” Her voice is soft.
Strange. Different. It’s only then that I realize she sounds vulnerable. The
whole time she was living with me, she put on this facade of hardened
stripper and a girl who was toughened up by the streets. She was that, I guess.
She is that now. But there’s something else beneath the surface, like flakes of
gold beneath stainless steel.
“She doesn’t matter to me,” I say. The truth is, she doesn’t. I may have
started this investigation because of her, but over time, I realized that I
genuinely care about Destiny. I can’t picture myself coming home to anyone
else, and I really do miss her. My apartment feels empty without her in it.
“You’re the one I care about.”
“Did I say I was jealous?” she snaps, but her eyes are full of something
far more tender than anger. “Because I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”
“I could see it on your face,” I say, going to hold her hand.
She pulls it away, touching the necklace she wears. Is it some kind of
mafia rite of passage to get expensive jewelry or something? “I’m wearing
makeup on my face, not emotions.”
“Are you referencing the Elise Estrada song?” I say, a frown pinching my
brows. I only know it because my older sister played it nonstop during her
high school breakups.
Destiny shakes her head, tension dissipating as she laughs. “How do you
know that song? Actually, never mind. I don’t need to know.”
“That’s not the point. I want you to know, Destiny or Lucia or whatever
you choose to call yourself… You’re the one I want. Not her.” My voice
breaks. I feel like a twelve-year-old boy again. “Okay?”
She rolls her eyes before kissing me on the cheek, her scent of lilacs
engulfing me, but it’s good-natured, playful. “Sure. Whatever.”
“Wait.” I catch her by the arm just as she turns to leave. “What is this?”
“It’s my wrist,” she says perfunctorily. “Do you have a basic
understanding of human anatomy?”
 “No, I mean…” I drop her arm. “Are we dating?”
She tilts her head back. “You’re supposed to ask me, Destiny, do you
want to be my girlfriend?”
“Then you’re supposed to say yes, I’d love to,” I retort.
“But neither of us have said those things for real, so I’m going to go get
my nails done on your credit card,” she says cheerfully.
I point a finger at her. “That’s a girlfriend thing to do.”
Destiny looks up from her chipped nails, one hand on the doorknob.
“Hmm? It is?”
“Yes.” I tuck an errant strand of hair back into place. “Destiny, will you
please be my girlfriend?”
She taps on her chin. “Hmm. You know what, I’ll have to think about it.”
Before I can get a better answer out of her, she’s opened the door and left
to go to the nail salon.
 Chapter 33—The Puppy

Christina Martell
A helicopter is landing on the grass outside my room and I can’t sleep.
The two are probably connected in some way. Despite my heartfelt
conversation with my mom the other day, I couldn’t bring myself to go home
yet. Plus, considering all that happened with Lucas and his—girlfriend?—I
knew I had to stay here. Though it may be dangerous, I know that the
Cavalli’s need to be taken down. And what better person to do it than me?
As I stand by the window, watching the chopper land on the enormous
expanse of green, I stare out at the surprisingly sun-filled, reflecting rays of
sparkling light over the blue water of the lakes. A man of incredible stature,
wearing a dark fedora, gets out of the chopper, landing on the lawn in a low
crouch. Who is he and what is he doing here? Paralyzed by the window,
unable to tear my eyes away, to my horror he locks gazes with me and tips
his hat at me.
Turning around, and away from the window, I draw the blinds and get
dressed in black skinny jeans and a white oversized sweater. Then I dash out
the guestroom door, running directly into Antonio. “I was just about to find
you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What for?”
“Somebody is landing a helicopter… on your lawn.” I say slowly, feeling
ridiculous as I say the words. “I think.”
 “Oh, I see my brother decided to make a grand entrance as always,” he
says nonchalantly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his tailored chinos.
Somehow, I never pegged him for a chinos guy. Even at eight in the morning,
he’s up and dressed in a perfectly crisp outfit, not a hair out of place.
Catching my surprised expression, he elaborates. “Sebastian Cavalli, my
older brother. He’s been in Italy for the past five years.”
“Italy? Whereabouts?” I ask. Do I sound casual or just overly probing?
“Venice for a while, then Milan, then the Lake Como area,” he says.
“Why do you ask?”
“I’ve always wanted to see Italy, maybe he could give me some travel
suggestions,” I joke.
His face darkens for a moment before regaining his composure. Is that
jealousy I smell? “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
“Maybe I will,” I say, testing the limits of these waters. Are they shark-
infested, or merely filled with minnows? “Is he a tour guide type?”
“More like a pickpocket,” he says. “Charming, but he’ll rob you blind if
you’re not looking.”
“And are you looking out for me? I don’t have anything in my pockets,” I
say, as we walk down the hallway toward the common meeting area where I
presume the mysterious Sebastian Cavalli will be making his appearance.
“Well, some pocket lint and a quarter, but I don’t think that’s worth very
much.”
“Good to know,” he says, his hand resting on the small of my back.
As we turn the corner into the meeting room, I hear a… growl?
Then something large and furry launches itself at my face. Next to me,
Antonio bites back a laugh before prying the animal away from me. I stagger
back, a noise that is half-gasp, half-shriek slipping from my lips. “What was
that?”
“I see you’ve met my dog, Pasha,” says Sebastian coolly. At least, I
presume it’s Sebastian. He wears the same dark fedora and a long trench coat,
his face half-hidden in the shadow of his hat. Like his brother, he’s also
incredibly tall. Does some sort of freakish superhuman gene run in this
family, causing all the men to be well above six feet? “Pasha, heel.”
The enormous husky sits obediently at his feet. He pets her on the head.
His clothes are covered in dog hair, a thought that makes me laugh to think of
a menacing gangster lint-rolling his pants.
“You need to curb your dog,” Antonio says, but his voice is tinged with
laughter and… anger? Instead of the typical cool, unfeeling, unflinching tone
that I always get from him, he seems softer. More human, with his guard
down. Which, with Pasha around, may not be a very good thing.
“And you need to pick up my calls, brother,” says Sebastian with a scoff.
“I can’t believe you cancelled on my lunch to go and… do what? Play
billiards?”
“I had to help somebody find their mother.” The flat truth from him stuns
me. Yet another reason we shouldn’t be together, even if he did wrangle a
vicious dog off of my face. If it surprises me to hear him be honest, what else
about him would? “I think that ranks a little bit above having lunch at
Cavalli’s.”
“Really? But that restaurant just managed to reopen after everything
that’s happened, and you can’t even be bothered to patronize it,” Sebastian
says. I feel like I’m watching a game of verbal chess, with things going over
my head and words with more than one meaning. “Oh well. I didn’t take the
helicopter here just to talk about the past or to talk business.”
 “Then what did you come here for?” Antonio is eyeing the dog like it will
jump up and attack someone again. Instead, it’s curled up against Sebastian’s
feet, shedding onto his leather wingtips.
“I came here to get to know you and your lovely new addition to the
famiglia, of course,” Sebastian says cheerily, in a tone that usually
accompanies whistling and skipping down the sidewalk before comically
slipping on a banana peel. “I’m referring to the Martell girl, in case you
hadn’t realized.”
“I’m Christina,” I say, an edge coming into my voice. “Not the Martell
girl.”
“Your surname is Martell and you are a girl,” Sebastian says
dismissively. My nerves tense up. “Thus, the Martell girl.”
“I see you aren’t even worth meeting.” I toss my hair over one shoulder,
unsure where this newfound boldness is coming from. “I have to go.”
“Where, exactly?” Antonio inquires.
“Somewhere the male ego is less suffocating,” I say drily, turning on my
heel and going into a corridor lit by flickering sconces as though this is the
year 1812 instead of the twenty-first century.
A heavy sigh aggrieves me. I almost stumble to a stop before realizing
where the noise is coming from. Roberto Cavalli sits in his study, the door
ajar in such a way that he can’t see or hear me. He’s talking on the phone,
and I quickly put out my notepad and pen from the pocket of my cardigan.
“No, no,” he says in a thick Italian accent, gesturing with his hands. “This
cannot be.”
A pause. I hold my breath and do my best to write quietly.
“What do you mean, that the shipments have been diverted? Where to?
They were supposed to be here on the 5th, now you’re telling me they will be
here on the 10th and at a completely different airport, to boot?”
Rhythmic clicking noises. I can picture him tapping a pen against his desk
as I scrawl down the date of the shipment and the location. I shudder to think
of what he might be shipping. Drugs? Guns? Or even… people?
“Fine. What’s that? Three pm at LaGuardia?” He sighs. “Ciao.”
Holding my breath, I scribble down the details, turn around, and tuck the
paper into my bra in case anyone questions me. My thoughts make me
suppress a snort as I quickly walk in the opposite direction of the office.
What am I thinking? That someone’s going to stop me in the hallway and
frisk me?
My laughter dries up when I run into Sebastian Cavalli, though. “What
are you doing a mere ten feet from my father’s study?”
“Who actually uses the word mere in a sentence?” I retort. I swear, this
guy gets on every last nerve I have. And they’re already very few.
“Me,” he says bluntly. “Now answer my question, Martell girl.”
I roll my eyes. “Call me by my name first and I’ll think about it.”
“So you have something to hide,” he says bluntly. “That’s okay, everyone
does around here. But I’m warning you, Christina. I’m an expert at
discovering secrets.”
Then he pushes past me, so crudely that my elbow bangs into the velvet-
covered wallpaper, and walks into his father’s office, slamming the door shut
behind him. My head hits against a painting. Ouch. As I turn to straighten it, I
realize that behind the painting, there’s… a hole in the wall.
A literal hole in the wall. Checking to see if anyone is watching me, I
move the painting the rest of the way to the side, wincing as it scrapes against
the wall with a light screech. Behind it, covered in dust that makes me refrain
from touching anything, I see a safe. Quickly, I maneuver the painting back
in place and walk back down the hall, acting as though nothing happened.
Which is easier said than done. A bruise mars my elbow when I pull up my
sleeve, making me wince.
So they keep a safe behind a painting in the wall. Doesn’t seem super
secure to me if I were an Italian mobster, but for all I know, it could be a
decoy safe, planted there in case… in case, what? Robbers come in and
somehow manage to shoot them all dead? This place probably has more
security than the White House or the Pentagon. Wait, what if there are
cameras and someone saw me?
Speed-walking toward the closest exit, I try to push the anxious thoughts
out of my mind. If someone really cared to catch me and throw me in…
mafia prison or whatever they have, it would have happened already. Lights
flashing. Lasers pointing. Booby traps and all that jazz.
No, I think I’ll be fine. For now.
Of course, my confidence is dashed to pieces when I hear what sounds
like a dog barking. If it’s Pasha, I will move back home immediately and
never set eyes on this house, ever again. That dog’s claws left red scratches
on my chest and collarbone even through my shirt, and she seems to be one
of those dogs that only loves her master. That dog is no dog. It’s a monster,
same as Cerberus sent straight from the gates of hell.
But a frown purses my lips, pinching my brows together. The dog bark
that reaches my ears doesn’t sound like a full-grown dog. It sounds like the
whimper of a puppy. My cautious guards lower, and I tiptoe out of the
hallway, only to see Antonio crouched on the ground, scratching the belly of
what seems to be a Chihuahua. It yips when he stops rubbing its belly.
“Good boy,” he says, petting the dog on its head. “Sit, Romeo.”
To my surprise, the dog sits obediently on its haunches, its big eyes
looking up at him with expectant obedience.
“So, are you adding dog training to your resume?” I ask, planting my
hands on my hips as I survey the foyer.
What appears to be the massacred remains of a throw pillow is scattered
across the floor, feathers and cotton stuffing discarded in puffy clouds over
the tiles. Furniture is askew, a chair overturned with the legs in the air. A
lamp is on its side on a corner table, the lampshade crooked, and a puddle of
questionable substance is by the front door. It looks like… well, it looks a
puppy has been tearing through the room and well on the way to ripping it
apart.
Hearing my voice, Antonio stands up quickly, almost tripping over the
remnants of the pillow and placing one hand on the chair to upside-down
balance himself. I laugh at seeing this ridiculously tall man looking like a
child who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Christina! I, um,
didn’t see you there.”
“Where did the dog come from?” I say, biting back a grin as Antonio rubs
the back of his neck sheepishly. I rarely see him appear so boyish. “Did
Pasha give birth to a litter in the middle of the living room?”
“No, I found this puppy outside, actually. Crying on the doorstep,” he
responds. “Like an abandoned child.”
“Aww.” I crouch down to pet the dog’s fuzzy head, scratching it under
the chin. “Wait, you named the dog Romeo?”
“Yes, why not?” he says, raising a brow. “What’s wrong with that
name?”
“There’s no Juliet,” I blurt out.
“I meant to name him after Alfa Romeo, not the Shakespeare character,”
he explains, picking up Romeo from where he is sniffing at the cushion
stuffing on the ground. When he sees my blank expression, he continues.
“The car.”
His words feel like just another brick in the wall slowly stacking up
between us. Antonio must sense the distance growing, because he lays a hand
on my wrist. “I have an offer for you.”
I smile, unable to resist a man who is holding a puppy. “What is it?”
“How do you feel about going on a second date with me?”
 Chapter 34–The Second Date

Antonio Cavalli
It’s kind of hard to pick a girl up for a date when she lives in the same
house as you, even if Christina is on the opposite wing of where I live. When
I knock on the door, she jumps up, fiddling with her phone, before tucking it
into the pocket of her hoodie. “I’m not ready yet.”
“You are fully dressed, aren’t you?” I ask, sticking my head into the
room.
She motions toward her sweatshirt and shorts as though I’m supposed to
see the problem with what she’s wearing. “Barely. Where are we going?”
“Mini golf,” I say, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. To be
honest, I didn’t put enough thought into this. Considering our first date was at
a fancy restaurant but ended with us being quasi-fugitives, I don’t want to
repeat any aspect of that. “What you’re wearing is fine.”
“I need to get my…” Her eyes roam the room looking for an excuse. I’m
beginning to think she’s keeping something from me. “Phone.”
“It’s in your pocket.” I lean against the doorjamb, a wry smile flitting
across my face. “Unless you have two phones. One for your other drug
dealer, I presume.”
She freezes, eyes wide as a deer’s in the headlights. “You caught me.”
“I have that intuition,” I say. “Some call it a sixth sense.”
 “A spidey-sense?” She turns her back on me, before going into the closet.
I can’t remember the last time someone did that when they weren’t family.
When she emerges a few minutes later, she’s wearing black tailored shorts
and a red, flowy blouse with black heeled boots. She looks so good I don’t
have the heart to tell her to change. “I didn’t know you were Spiderman.”
“I’m more of a Batman fan,” I say, watching her as Christina rummages
in a drawer before tucking something into her purse.
She gives a mock-gasp as she straightens up and turns toward me. “How
dare you!”
“I do dare,” I say. “I dare a great many things.”
Christina is silent, her eyes studying my expression as she walks over to
me, but her eyes are soft, appraising, not critical. Her hands fall to her sides,
uncertainty brewing in her mind. I hold one of her hands in mine, rubbing her
knuckles with my thumb as she speaks. “Like what?”
“Like this,” I say, before I can stop myself.
She doesn’t resist as my other hand cups the back of her head, fingers
splaying and tangling in her hair. She gasps as I bring my mouth to hers, her
heels helping to bridge the gap between us. I taste mint and a faint hint of
chocolate on her lips, the waxy lipstick an artificial contrast. Christina pulls
away first, her brown eyes wide, cheeks flushed, like roses high on her
cheekbones.
“You dare too much,” she says softly, but her voice is coy, teasing, not
accusatory as her eyes cast downward, shy. “I… I, um… Do I look okay?”
“Perfect,” I say, but the words ring hollow, empty as a cheesy pickup line.
I don’t want her to be like any other girl. I don’t want this to be like any other
relationship. I don’t know what I want exactly, but I know it’s not this. “You
look perfect.”
 She straightens up, pulling her shoulders back. “Thanks. Are we leaving
now?”
“Yep,” I say, still holding her hand. “The mini golf course awaits us!”
Christina is mostly quiet on her way there, seeming to be lost in thought.
When we arrive and check in at the desk, she swipes one of the business
cards and a mini golf pencil off of the Formica counter.
“What?” she says when I turn my gaze on her. “I want to remember this
place.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, unable to help the smile that upturns my lips.
Her words taste like a lie, sound like a falsehood, but I swallow them
down and wait for a reaction. Something is off about her. Usually, she seems
less guarded. More… more vulnerable, more open. Now, she shrugs. “I just
like mini golf.”
“Really,” I say as we get our clubs and walk over to the course with its
abundance of fake grass. It’s an indoor mini golf place, complete with
windmills and Astroturf. “You like mini golf.”
“Do I not seem like a mini golf type of girl?” She raises an eyebrow
before lining up a black golf ball with her club and hitting it into the hole. Or,
at least she tries. It narrowly swerves at the last minute to knock into the edge
of the course, spinning out of control. “Darn it.”
Her fake curse words are charming instead of annoying. Maybe because
it’s her who’s saying them. “Let me show you how it’s done, sweetheart.”
“Oh, because you’re a mini golf pro?” she says with a scoff, but she steps
back and lets me hit the ball. It careens into hers before making a wild turn…
into the hole. We both let out loud reactions: her a half-angry shout, me a
whoop of surprise. “You did not just do that!”
“I did,” I say as she lines up her cue with the ball again, this time having
to hit the ball further to get it in. It wobbles around the edge before sinking in
this time.
She shoves my chest with half-hearted force. “Did Sebastian have to put
up with you cheating at mini golf, too?”
“I didn’t cheat,” I say. “Though Sebastian wouldn’t know that.”
“Why not?” she asks, before we walk over to the next hole and she
gestures for me to take my turn. This time, a pinwheel is spinning slowly,
blocking the tunnel and requiring careful timing and judgment. In golf,
however, I’ve always been more of a brute force, “whack at the golf ball until
it meets the hole kind of guy.” “And, does he always just literally drop into
your life like that? I mean, in a helicopter?”
Something twists inside me at the questions she’s asking. Why does she
want to know so much about my family? About my brother? Is there
something… yet, no. She’s already proven herself innocent. Lucas Black has
for all intents and purposes vanished from her life, not that he should have
been there in the first place. No, it’s not that she’s spying on me. She… THis
is just how people have conversation. They ask about each other’s families.
“He does have a flair for the dramatic,” I say. “When we were younger,
he would always play the prince saving the fair maiden from the dragon.”
“Were you the fair maiden or the dragon?” she asks, her voice half-
serious, half-mocking.
“The dragon,” I say, almost miffed by her question, but she’s too kind for
me to stay mad at her long. “Bianca was always the princess. Allie wanted to
be a knight, too.”
“Allie seems nice,” Christina says, hitting the ball. It rolls smoothly until
it knocks against the blade of the windmill, jerking to a stop.
“She’s my baby sister,” I say. “I’ll always be very protective of her.”
 Perhaps very ironic considering her family’s history with mine, but
Christina doesn’t know the whole truth about it, and I don’t intend to tell her
any time soon. From the moment that Allison Steele—now Adelina Cavalli—
set a wobbly foot into our lives, her bright blue eyes wide and innocent, her
expressions mischievous but awkward, we all loved her. Even my father.
“That makes sense.” She sighs. “I’ve always wondered what it would be
like to have a sibling.”
“It’s a little overrated when it comes to brothers, maybe.” I raise a hand as
the sun nearly blinds me when I position my shot. “Sebastian and I have
always had a sort of brotherly rivalry going on.”
“Was it a friendly kind, or do you hate each other’s guts?” she muses.
“Well, what do you think?” I say with a laugh. “We’re hardly best
buddies, but we… I guess he makes an effort, whenever he’s in town.”
“What does he do?” she asks.
“He owns Cavalli’s,” I say cautiously, not wanting to reveal too much to
her. “And he also has a bunch of other restaurants around the world.”
“Also called Cavalli’s?” she asks. “Is he a chef?”
I try and fail to picture my brother as the Gordon Ramsay type. He’s far
too cool and collected for that, and besides, he would hate to get his hands
dirty. I can’t even imagine him with a hair out of place. The thought makes
me laugh.
“No, not at all,” I say. “He has very fine tastes and he’s good at predicting
trends, what people will want to buy or eat, that sort of thing. I guess he’s
kind of like an influencer, of sorts.” The words feel funny even as I say them.
“So… a mafia guy works as an Instagram influencer?” she says, her voice
skeptical, on the verge of breaking into a laugh. “Seems a bit hard to hide
your criminal associations that way…”
 “Not really. Gives us the option of breaking into a legitimate business as
well as a… lucrative side hustle, I guess,” I say. I’ve said too much, but she
has that effect on me. Being around her is like taking a shot of truth serum.
“It’s about having options. A believable front.”
“Yours must not have been very believable,” she says, a smile twisting up
the corner of her mouth. “I saw through it on our first date.”
“It’s hard to lie with the police, FBI, and DEA all chasing you at once,” I
respond.
Her shoulders sag like my admission is a reminder that that’s what I do. I
lie to people. I hide the truth to protect… what? My family? These days, I
don’t even know anymore. It’s like I’m wading through quicksand, thinking I
was on the beach, not realizing that what seemed like fun and games would
turn into snares of death.
“Right,” Christina says. “Excuses, excuses.”
I smile. It’s hard to find a girl who’s willing to rib me this much without
worrying about being killed. Maybe it’s the guns that does me in, in that
aspect. We lapse into a comfortable silence, both of us concentrating on the
game.
Until, she speaks. “Do you ever wonder where you would go, or who you
would be, if you were born in a different family?”
“I wouldn’t be the same person,” I say automatically, the words like a
reflex. I wouldn’t, would I? I’d be someone else entirely, genetics wuld see to
that. Unless she means, if my father wasn’t a criminal. If my mother wasn’t
the ex-wife of a classics professor and the current wife of a drug lord. If only,
if only, if only. I had so many of them growing up and they never brought me
anywhere, so I gradually have come to shut them down immediately. “What’s
the use in wondering?”
 “Sounds like someone who’s wondered a lot,” she says.
“Are you always this observant?” I pull the collar of my shirt away from
my throat as the sun beats down on us. “Or did God just gift you with that?”
I don’t know why I bring up God. I don’t know why she makes me want
to bring up God, why she makes me wonder what happens after I do, why I
am who I am, whether who I am is a matter of choice or birth.
“God gifted me a lot of things,” she says, her voice sly as a fox’s tail.
“Like the talent to play mini golf. Look, I won!”
I glance down at our score cards. She’s right. “Congratulations.”
Her childlike giddiness is infectious, making me smile. She reaches up on
her tiptoes, and, to my surprise, wraps her arms around my neck and kisses
me on the cheek, leaving behind the scent of roses. “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.” We walk hand-in-hand back to the car. “So… do
you ever wonder who you would be, if you had a different family?”
“Well, I know I wouldn’t be here if my father wasn’t Charles Martell,”
she says drily. “I know that one for a fact.”
“Christina…” I pause, unsure of what to say. She always has me on my
toes, it seems. “Maybe it was fate or bloodlines that brought us together,
but… I’d like to keep you in my life.”
She turns to me, eyes wide, still clutching my hand. “I wasn’t fishing for
—”
“And I don’t say things just to say them, Christina.” I squeeze her hand,
wanting her to believe me. “I mean it.”
Christina’s gaze skims her shoes before returning to her face. “To be
honest, I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know how to respond.”
“You don’t have to respond. I didn’t say it so you could reciprocate,” I
say. Still, it hurts me to speak. “You can say whatever you want, when you’re
ready.”
“Thanks.” Her words soften slightly like a flame curling the edges of
paper. “Let’s get some food.”
 Chapter 35—The Best Friend

Christina Martell
“I don’t know what to do, but I know I have to leave,” I say rapid-fire
over the phone to my best friend in Paris. Well, technically, Thyra lives in
New York, but she’s on exchange to Paris right now, lucky duck. She even
got a scholarship to go there for practically nothing. “What do you think I
should do?”
Romeo is curled up at my feet, having decided that he likes me more than
Antonio. Probably because Antonio feeds him dry dog food while I sneak
him rib bones with most of the meat gnawed off, but still. I’d like to think
that the dog at least is a good judge of character. Right? Or, I’m just losing
my mind to the point that I’m talking to a dog and desperate for canine
approval.
God help me. Heavenly Father, I don’t know if I can do this.
“I think you should… Hello, Christina? Are you even listening to me?”
she asks, her voice rising in annoyance. “Wait, I can’t even keep up. Please
tell the story again, more slowly, of how you ended up in a drug dealer’s
house, because of your ex-boyfriend being FBI!”
“Is somebody listening to your phone call?” I ask.
“No.”
“Then why are you whisper-shouting?”
 “I don’t know… It just feels like that’s the kind of thing you should
whisper, in case the police hear you.”
“You’re in public?”
“No, my apartment, but I don’t know…”
“Don’t the French police… speak French?”
“They could also speak English!”
I smile. Classic Thyra.
“Yeah, well, somehow I doubt they care about some gang member in
America.”
“You said he’s a gang leader, and he’s Antonio Cavalli. I’m studying
criminal forensics, of course I know who this guy is. He’s famous.”
“Famous? You make him sound like the lead singer of Maroon 5.”
“Does he also sing in a falsetto?”
“That’s besides the point.” I don’t think I’ve ever heard Antonio sing, but
that’s a different story. “He’s famous?”
“He’s, sorry, what’s the word… Notorious. For brokering territory
disputes, drug trade, cartels, casinos, you get it. Last year he walked out of
Monte Carlo five million dollars richer, but between you and me, it wasn’t
because he’s really good at baccarat. It’s because he did a trade there.”
Shifting on my bed with the phone pressed to my ear, I scribble down
Monte Carlo 5 million dollars. “A trade?”
“Yeah, a deal. He supplied someone with cocaine, and they supplied him
with a hefty check.”
“Drug dealers use checks?”
“Well, a hefty duffel bag of cash. Make that… ten duffel bags.”
“Yeah, I can only imagine.” I can’t imagine getting five million dollars so
easily. I’ve never even had ten thousand dollars in cash at any one time? Five
million seems like an impossible sum to me. “That’s some Ocean’s Eleven
heist.”
“Oh, well, hardly a heist. More like a legitimate business exchange.”
“Right.” The thought of Antonio Cavalli, wearing a suit and tie—well,
that part is easy to picture—and holding a briefcase, shaking hands with
someone in a casino in Europe, James Bond style, makes me want to laugh,
or cry. “Well, enough about me… and my crazy life. How’s Paris been
treating you, Thyra? It feels like we haven’t talked in forever.”
“Well, it’s been great…” She launches into a description that makes me
want to drop everything and fly to Paris right now. “You know what, you’d
love it here. It’s just so beautiful. Gosh. I met the cutest guy here.”
“On exchange? A native?” Trust Thyra to meet a guy anywhere. Back in
high school, she had to fight off the guys. As for me, I was always redirecting
them toward her, at least until I met Lucas. But maybe I just settled for him.
Maybe he was what I thought I wanted because I was bored and lonely and
waiting for someone to soothe sting of rejection and the listlessness of
waiting. Waiting for the right guy to come along. But is Antonio the right
guy? “Send me a pic.”
“Here you go.” My phone dings. She’s right. This guy is as gorgeous as
all get out.
“Wow, he’s hot,” I say. “What’s his name? Tell me all about him.”
“Gladly,” she says. “Right after you let me work out your situation with
Antonio.”
I groan. “Really?”
“Come on, Christina! This is the most exciting thing to happen in your
life in a while.” Ouch. While my life before him wasn’t exactly something to
write home about, I wouldn’t say he’s the Prince Charming who swept me off
of my feet into a whole new life of crime and passion. Well. Maybe I would
say that. But not out loud. “What did he say to you again?”
“He said, I don’t know,” I say, as though I haven’t memorized every
word he said to me on that mini golf course. I study my black-painted
toenails, accessorized with silver star-shaped stickers. “He said that he
wanted to keep me in his life. But what does that mean, even? I mean, I’ve
known the guy for two months, and the whole time he was just using me to
make his dad mad. I know he’s… I don’t. Actually. I don’t know if he’s
changed and I don’t know if he’s still using me except maybe his dad isn’t
mad anymore and maybe he won’t want to keep me around…”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Christina, please, take a deep breath in,” Thyra
commands. “Now exhale.”
I sniff, following her commands. “Sorry. It’s been a rough few months.”
“Sounds pretty insane,” she says. “Because you sound like you’re twelve
years old again doodling his last name next to your first name and wondering
if he likes you or he like likes you.”
“I do not!” I say. I want to throw a pillow at her, but she’s all the way on
the other side of the Atlantic, so I settle for throwing a pillow across from me,
where it bounces harmlessly off of the painting on the wall, knocking it
askew. I frown. Another one of those literal holes in the wall? Why does one
house need so many holes in the walls? “I never had a crush when I was
twelve, anyways.”
“That’s besides the point. Are you good, bestie?” Her voice is lilting,
teasing.
I take a few deep breaths, sucking in air like I’m drowning. She’s right, I
sound crazy and I do sound like a pre-teen with her first crush.
But I don’t know how to get over this. I don’t see a way out of this panic,
because I don’t see how to escape this fear coursing through me, at the
thought of my future bearing down on me, crushing. Suffocating.
Silently, I pray the prayer that I have whispered so many times, in a
thready voice, the words falling from cracked lips and from the shattered
anguish of a broken spirit. God, I need you. It’s simple, yet it hurts me every
time to admit that I cannot do anything in this life by myself. This phone call
is proof of that.
“Not really,” I say. “I know I’m gonna get there, though.”
#
Antonio Cavalli
“You have got to be kidding me!” My father’s voice rings out through the
dining room as he marches in at breakfast time, his face the very picture of
rage. He waves something around that I can’t quite see clearly. A receipt? A
shipping manifest? Whatever it is, he does not seem pleased to see it. “Which
one of you tonto boys did this?”
“Excuse me?” Sebastian says. Rising from his seat with a bagel in his
hand. He never could hold his tongue when provoked. And Sebastian is
always provoked. Thanfkully, Christina isn’t here to see this. “What did
Antonio do now?”
I roll my eyes at the juvenile jab but don’t respond.
“The cargo was due to be flown in on the eleventh after a rescheduling.
Instead, it arrives at the airport. And guess who is waiting? The feds. So tell
me, which one of you ticked off those guys? Was it you, Sebastian?”
“You think I would break omerta?” he asks. The question is such a stain
upon his twisted sense of integrity that he looks like he would go to blows to
prove that it’s intact. None of us would ever go so far as to break omerta. No
matter what kind of situation we were in. “And here I thought you were my
father. “Dio, I would never.”
Our father laughs, looking like he’s seconds away from spitting in
Sebastian’s face. “Your words mean nothing. It’s your actions that prove who
you are, And you were in my office the same day that I had a phone call
about rescheduling these shipments.”
My stomach sinks. How could this happen? Who could be causing it?
Would Sebastian really sink so low as to betray our family?
One look at his face suggests to me that he might. “I would never betray
our family.”
“You’ll have to make me believe it, boy.” With that, Roberto Cavalli
snatches up and takes a bite out of a perfect, polished apple on the table,
leaving a crisp hole in its side. Then he leaves.
That went reasonably well.
“You did it, didn’t you?” snaps Sebastian,. “You sent your girl in there to
spy on our father, in here to spy on all of us—”
“Why would I do that, exactly?” I say coolly. “In what way would it
benefit me?”
“I don’t know, but when I find out, you’re going to be wishing you’d
confessed a long time ago,” he says. Then he grabs his bagel and makes a
second, less dramatic exit than our father’s.
I continue eating my oatmeal in silence, staring out the window. A hush
falls over the room, now absent of any conflict or shouting. Yet my soul is
still downcast, disturbed within me. I need something. Peace escapes me,
forever out of my reach. Happiness, I have long given up searching for,
watching it slip from my fingers with every terrible tragedy or minor
irritation. But peace, I thought I might try. What I need, I decide, is a
purpose. A reason to live. A reason to exist.
Not just for this family. Not anymore. Not now that i’ve seen the cracks
that run through it, like throwing a glass vase on the floor and thinking it’s
unbroken, not seeing the fractures that snake through it like the veins on my
wrist.
I need something. But from where? What?
 Chapter 36—The Investigation

Christina Martell
It’s my second time leaving the country in as many months, and I have to
say… a girl could get used to this.
I convinced Antonio, with what took a surprisingly small amount of
eyelash batting and a lot more wheedling than expected—rom-com writers do
not know what they’re talking about—to take me to Monte Carlo.
Beforehand, though, I had a plan. Lucas didn’t like it, but he’s also not the
boss of me, so… there. Okay. I did convince him. Somewhat. He’s kind of
mostly persuaded, but he’s also in the throes of a brand new relationship with
Destiny (Lucia?) so he was extremely distracted when I told him that I was
flying to Monte Carlo with Antonio so that I could investigate what Thyra
told me about.
Now that we’re in Monte Carlo, I realize that may be a bit more difficult
than expected, considering I have no idea which casino Antonio was
gambling in, and… Monte Carlo is basically the Las Vegas of Europe.
“So, have you been to Monte Carlo before?” I say, hoping I sound like
I’m asking a casual question and not interrogating him for details of what he
was doing last summer. “Or did you just decide to come with me because you
want to re-enact Casino Royale?”
Dressed in what I’ve deemed his official resort wear—a white linen shirt
and the surprising addition of beige cargo pants that have more pockets than
all my skinny jeans combined—he has added aviator sunglasses and a straw
hat that I saw at the airport and couldn’t resist buying for him. He looks
incredibly relaxed, once more stunning me. “You mean, you would be
Vesper? I don’t think I’d enjoy killing you and I doubt you have a death
wish.”
“Maybe I would be James Bond and you would be Vesper,” I joke,
holding his hand as we stroll down the cobblestone streets. I’m wearing the
same hat with a ribbon that ties under my chin, along with a black wrap dress
with a ruffled hem.
“You look better in a dress,” he says, completely deadpan. “And to
answer your question—yes, I came to Monte Carlo last year on business.”
“What business?” I ask, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear that
escaped my French braid. “Or is it top secret, not allowed to tell me?”
His chest puffs up a little, like I’ve touched on something that caters to
his ego. These past few days, he’s seemed kind of down, so it’s actually a
relief to see him seem to enjoy himself. “I negotiated a pretty good deal for
the chain of Cavalli’s restaurants.”
Huh. “A supplier? Or would you be opening a restaurant here?” I ask,
gazing at the beautiful sandstone buildings with slate roofs and little wrought
iron balconies everywhere.
“A mix of both,” he says vaguely. “There’s our hotel.”
Checking in leaves me in a blur, flopping onto a king size bed in a
penthouse suite that cushions me. I’m alone now, since Antonio actually has
something to do—some business to take care of, again stated in that veiled,
hazy, completely opaque way that could mean killing someone in a back
alley with a dagger or taking out the trash. Giving me the perfect opportunity
to sneak down to the casino, and talk to people about Antonio.
 I should be… I don’t know what. Scared? Excited? Wanting to play the
part of a spy? Yet none of those emotions, none of those feelings, washes
through me. I feel nothing. Not a single thing.
All I can think about is that I have no idea where to start, and I don’t even
know if I should be doing this. Maybe coming to Monte Carlo was a mistake.
Maybe I should just go to the pool and sunbathe until I meet Antonio for
dinner, instead of going on a fool’s errand when Antonio likely has guards
watching my every move. How the heck am I supposed to get away from
them?
It’s not even the guards that worry me the most. What worries me the
most is what I might find. I am scared of the unknown. If I remain in it, in
this blank space of questions and mystery and confusion. I will never have to
know. The worst will be only a figment of imagination, a febrile fixture of
my mind’s eye. The best will be what could be possible, that this was a
legitimate business dealing that happened last year.
But if I find out… if I find out what this man has done, he might be too
horrible for me to love. He might be an arms dealer. He is a drug dealer. Or at
the very least, a mafia lord, who totes guns and has the feds hot on his tail.
He is a bad man. I know it, I know, I know too much and yet I know also,
that I’m falling for him. And he’s going to break my heart.
Not just because he’s a playboy. Not just because he’s been with at least a
dozen girls before me. But because I’m going to have to leave him. I’m going
to betray him, this man who may not always have bene good to me, but has
treated me with some kind of strange tenderness, some kind of affection that
feels like helping me to find my mother while also warning me away from his
father. A sort of care that involves giving me diamond necklaces and keeping
secrets from me. I don’t know what to believe about him, and maybe that’s
what he wants.
Maybe he wants to hide things from me. Maybe he wants me to live this
half life, knowing only the face that he shows to me, only seeing the good
parts of him, like watching him dole out affection with one hand and deal out
blows with the other. I can’t live like this.
I can’t stay in this uncertainty. I have to make a decision. I came here to
find out who he was, and it’s high time I did it. God would want me to do
this… wouldn’t He? Wouldn’t it be good and holy to make the right decision,
not to associate with people who are wicked and immoral? After all, I can’t
change him. He can only change himself.
That’s it. I’m settled. I get up from the bed, smooth out my dress, and
then get out of the room, walking towards the elevators. There are things to
be done, and people to be seen, after all.
A few discreet inquiries in the casino in my rusty French allow me to find
what I’m looking for, always keeping an eye on the two bulky men in black
who are trailing after me. I’m about two hundred percent sure they only
speak Italian, which is reassuring.
“Pardon, mademoiselle. Savez-vous cet homme?” I ask a girl who is
dealing out cards at a baccarat table. At least I think it’s a baccarat table.
Gambling isn’t really my forte. Showing her a picture of Antonio that I
snapped on the plane, I watch as her eyes widen.
Her face pales, her blonde ponytail swinging as she shakes her head
rapidly. Somehow, I get the feeling that she’s lying. “Non.”
“Parlez-vous l’anglais?” I say, trying to probe more deeply into what she
might be keeping from me. Considering I’m not a skilled interrogator with
torture skills and I have a mild language barrier between us, it’s not really
working.
She sighs, and then, in French-accented English, begins to speak. “I don’t
know this man. Now if you will excuse me, I have customers. Get some chips
or leave.”
Well, that was rude. I go off to find someone else, before bumping into
one of the guards. At least I think he’s my guard, unless I have a stalker.
“Excuse me,” I say stiffly. Maybe I should gamble so that I would at least
have something to do.
Ten minutes later, I’m back at the baccarat tables, losing all of Antonio’s
money.
At least, that’s what it feels like. The object of the game is apparently to
have the highest hand, but I keep being dealt fours and threes. God must be
frowning on my gambling.
“So, are you sure you don’t know him?” I say as I lose all my chips.
She shakes her head, clearly fed up with my probing as she deals
everyone another hand. To my right, a woman in a stunning white dress with
bombshell blonde waves styled to cascade over one shoulder sits in the seat
next to me. Her winged eyeliner and red lipstick are perfectly applied, and
her dazzling smile is movie star-white. She flashes me a grin.
“Who are you looking for? Trust me, honey, if he’s cheating… he’s not
worth it.” Her voice is syrupy-sweet yet genuine, with a Southern drawl that
makes me feel like I’m at home, even if I’m from New York. “Just leave
him.”
“I appreciate the advice, but I’m not looking for a guy,” I say, taken
aback by how her advice would have applied to me a year ago. “Well, I am,
but… it’s kind of a long story.”
 She extends a graceful French-manicured hand to me. “Delilah
Sutherland.”
“Christina Martell.” I shake her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“How do you feel about grabbing a drink with me at the bar? I’d like to
make a friend,” she says. “Monte Carlo can get pretty lonely if you don’t
know the right people. Plus, it’s nice to see a fellow American again.”
“Well, seems like you’re one of the right people to know, and I was about
to mortgage my house if I kept at it,” I joke. “Let’s go, then.”
Delilah is sweet yet incredibly charming. She’s an Alabama transplant on
vacation in Monte Carlo with her brother, who struck it rich in Texas oil, and
Delilah is here to charm his investors.
“So, tell me about this man you are… or aren’t looking for.”
I sigh. She’s a complete stranger, yet somehow, I feel like I can trust her.
“That bad, huh?” She pats me on the back. “Don’t worry. Who is this
guy? A brother? Boyfriend? Dad? I won’t judge.”
Picking at a hangnail despite all my mother’s warnings against doing so
peppered throughout my childhood, I start to try and unwind the complicated
thread that is my and Antonio’s relationship. “He’s… I want to… He’s my
boyfriend, I guess. I’m with him on vacation right now, and he does some… I
think he’s involved in some shady business. Kind of a legal grey area. I know
he was here last summer, doing some less than legal things, and I want to
know what he did. But so far, I haven’t been able to find anything out. And I
guess maybe he paid them off, or they’re all scared of him to speak?”
My voice cracks. The resolve I summoned to get myself into this casino
is rapidly dissolving like ice on a hot summer’s day, and I don’t know how to
get it back. “I know it sounds really bad, and I know I should leave, but…”
“You want to save him?” Delilah’s voice is soft, sympathetic, as
comforting as a warm blanket against a blustery December day. “Or you want
to be his guardian angel, and guide him to the right decisions? You think that
maybe, if you say the right things, or if you do the right things, or you’re just
good enough for him, he’ll magically decide to be a good guy. Am I right?”
My knee-jerk instinct is one of denial. No, that’s not it, you don’t get it,
that’s not how I feel… But isn’t it? Isn’t it true? Haven’t I harboured this
fantasy about changing him for the better, reforming him? “I mean… it’s
complicated.”
“Of course, it is, honey.” I don’t know why she’s being so nice to me. It’s
like she’s an older sister that I never had. “A guy like that, these things are
bound to be complicated. But you know what I’ve learned? It’s that in the
most complicated scenarios, usually, the answer is pretty simple. You just
don’t want to do it, because it’ll hurt too much. It’s like when you break a
bone and it heals wrong, and you have to break it all over again or your leg
will be crooked. You know what needs to be done. But you just don’t want it
to be done.”
“I have to…” I shake my head. Monte Carlo is making me crazy, and it’s
nothing like the Selena Gomez movie made it out to be. “I’m not trying to
change him. Or maybe I am, but I don’t mean to, I swear. I want to turn him
over to the feds. That’s why I’m here.”
Delilah’s red lipstick smile turns from empathetic to… excited. “Gosh,
well, if you want my help with that, I’d be more than happy to take your call,
Christina.”
She slides me a business card across the bar before pulling writing her
room number across the back of it with a gold fountain pen. I pocket the card
with a grateful smile. “Thank you so much, not just for this but for listening.”
“Of course,” she says, and before I can stop her, she’s pulling me into a
hug. This must be a Southern thing. The New Yorker in me stiffens, but the
lonely, vulnerable part of me gives in. “Have some faith, girl. It’s all going to
be okay.”
She squeezes my shoulder as she pulls away, before gracefully sliding off
the bar stool in a whirl of floral perfume and what might as well be gold dust,
glamour rolling off of her in waves.
God, show me what to do.
 Chapter 37—The Associate

Antonio Cavalli
I’m listening to the man in front of me drone on and on about stock
prices, gambling chips, and other things that would normally be somewhat
interesting to me, but coming from his mouth with a wispy goatee attached
beneath it, are utterly boring. As I sit on this leather barstool, all I can think
is: Monte Carlo shouldn’t be like this.
I should be showing Christina around the city, telling her all about my
favourite haunts.
You should be telling her what you did here last summer. That would
really scare her off.
But is that what I want? Is that what I should do, or is it some part of me
that yearns to sabotage this relationship, that longs to push her away because
I believe that she’s too good for me? I do believe she is too good for me, but
only in the sense that this world is too dark for her. My life has already
tainted her too much.
But I can’t let go of her. Not yet. I don’t know when I’ll be able to, when
I’ll ever be able to cut ties with her, if ever, but it’s not now. Not yet. I can’t.
Not yet.
God, you’ve given me this girl. Don’t take her away from me, just yet. Yet
I know I should let her go, push her out. I know I should let her go to some
guy with a boring life, or at least a morally and legally untampered life.
Someone like Lucas Black, though preferably not a cheater like he is.
Someone who can take care of her, protect her from this darkness instead of
pulling her into it.
Someone who would treat her with respect, who could always be honest
with her about what he did that day instead of saying, I took care of business.
Is she going to be the one to drag me into the light? I don’t think so. Not
literally. Not figuratively. I have to be the one to be brave enough to expose
my own shadows, my own sin, into the light.
Yet other things hold me back. My father. My family. My whole life has
been spent living in the dark, and yet I’ve stuck around here long enough,
past the sunset, waiting for dawn to come and yet praying that it doesn’t.
“Listen, I’m sure that’s nice and all, but I hear a game of baccarat calling
my name,” I say. “Why don’t we defer this discussion to a later date?”
Dante Silva nods. “Noted, Mr. Cavalli.”
I do feel bad. Maybe. Not really. Yet another reason I’m not the guy for
her.
Pushing off of the barstool, I head into the crush. I think Christina said
she might be here. Stopping at the baccarat table, the dealer places a hand on
my forearm. I’m about to shake it off and refuse her flirtatious advances
before I realize the panic in her eyes is anything but seductive. “Quoi?”
“Monsieur, a woman was here asking about you,” she says in a low voice
before removing her hand from me, dealing cards. To anyone else, we would
just look like we’re chatting about the game. “She asked if anyone had seen
you from last summer. I told her no, but I don’t know if she believed me.”
“A woman?” I frown. Who could be looking for me? That summer was
such a blur… A fevered haze of too many drinks and bad decisions that had
somehow ended up with my father and the family becoming a good fifty
million richer, thanks to a deal that we had made with some bigwigs in Monte
Carlo. I could scarcely remember the faces I had seen or the people I had met,
let alone the things I might have done to cause a woman to come after me.
What if…?
No. Surely, I would have known. Wouldn’t I?
“Yes, a woman,” she says impatiently. “It was probably nothing.”
“Most likely,” I say. “Thanks for letting me know.”
No longer in the mood to gamble, I slide off of the leather stool. I need to
find Christina. What if this person who is looking for me is looking for? She
could be in danger? I check my phone for hourly updates from the two guards
assigned to follow her. She’s safe. At the pool. —Hortensio
Something inside of me relaxes, unclenches, releases, like a bowstring,
pulled taut to release and watch the arrow find its mark. I go back to the
room, ready to change into more pool-friendly attire and find Christina.
Having attired myself in swim trunks and a white t-shirt, feet shod in flip
flops, I head upstairs in the elevator. The warning from the girl at the baccarat
table sets me on edge—well, even more so than usual, if such a thing were
possible.
Every pair of eyes that lands on me feels like a gaze made of tattoo ink,
sinking into my skin. Every person that enters the lift and so much as glances
at me has the muscles in my abdomen coiling and uncoiling, despite my
previous more relaxed state upon hearing about Christina’s safety.
I need to get a grip. Why am I so anxious all of a sudden?
Is it because maybe, just maybe, you know that if you get caught, you
wouldn’t even know what for?
Is it because your sins have piled up sky-high, and you know the wrong
breath will send them tumbling down in a house of cards, only these cards
are razor blades, ready to destroy you?
Is it because you wouldn’t know if someone is hunting you for the crimes
of the heart or a crime of life and death?
My hands curl into fists and I have to force myself to breathe deeply.
Perhaps too deeply, because the woman in front of me steps forward to get
away from me, a disgusted look etched onto her pristine face, her blonde hair
falling in waves over her shoulders. She’s standing with a man who looks too
similar to her to be anything but her brother, their heads bent close together
as they whisper about something.
I catch snippets in a Southern drawl—something about oil and investors
—but I brush off their conversation, breathing a sigh of relief when they walk
out of the elevator a floor before mine. The pool is a rooftop one, all marble
and statues and fountains and neatly trimmed hedges, reminding me of the
inferior counterpart, the Venetian on the Las Vegas Strip, a mere shadow of
an imitation compared to this grand hotel. It’s not Italy, but it’s close enough
that I feel at home.
I haven’t felt at home in a long time. It’s been even longer since I’ve felt
at peace. But when I spot Christina, her cover-up discarded on a beach chair
in one of the private cabanas, swimming laps in the pool, I feel both at peace
and home. What an odd sensation, so at odds with my day-to-day life that I
have to stop and wonder if someone hasn’t slipped something into my drink.
“Christina,” I say when she pulled up at the pool’s edge, resting her head
on her folded arms, her elbows on the ground next to the pool.
She pulls herself out of the pool, wearing a black one-piece suit. It is
more of her than I have seen before, yet less of her, at the same time. She
seems guarded. Different. Less open, less vulnerable. And I know I have
done that to her. I know that I was responsible for her putting her walls up,
for breaking her trust.
“How did you know I was here?” she asks, picking up a towel to wrap
around herself with a shiver. Then her expression changes from delighted
surprise to resigned bitterness. “Oh, right. The stalk—I mean, the guards,
right?”
“You’re very astute.” I don’t comment on the tone she used, that
resentment simmering beneath the surface. She wraps the towel more tightly
around her shoulders, her dark hair dripping wet and plastered to her face, her
eyes big and brown as she looked up at me. “And no, they’re not stalkers.”
“I didn’t say they were.” She folds her arms across her chest, still
clutching the towel. “I said they were guards.”
“It’s for your safety.” I sigh. “Especially since I just found out that
someone’s been asking questions.”
She stiffens, her face paling. Frightened, it seems. Her breathing
quickens, prey caught in a trap. “Asking questions?”
“I was in the casino, and the dealer at the baccarat table told me that she
had seen someone asking questions about me and the business I was
conducting here last summer.” I rub at my temple. “I don’t know what she
could want, but it can’t be good.”
Christina tugs at the edge of the towel, wrapping it around her collarbone.
“Do you think she wants something from you? Money?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. It could be worse. It could be revenge or
something that I don’t even know about.”
She frowns, biting her lip. “Well, I hope it’s nothing.”
I hope so too. But I know better than to be optimistic.
 Chapter 38—The Threat

Priscilla Martell
I dial the foreign number, knowing that I’ve timed it just right so that
Christina Martell will pick up.
How do I know? Well, let’s just say that Hortensio will have a lot of
explaining to do if Antonio finds out about the money being wired into his
account. Fortunately, he hasn’t found out just yet.
Three rings and then she picks up. “Hello?”
“Christina Martell?” I say.
“Who is this?” An edge comes into her tone, not razor-sharp like the ones
I grew up around, but blunter. Harsher.
“Your sister,” I say. I’m used to having sisters. Her? Not so much. I can
imagine the expression on her face, but I continue. “Priscilla. I believe we’ve
met.”
“You broke into my mother’s apartment,” Christina says flatly. “I
wouldn’t call that a meeting.”
“Oh, but I would,” I say, grinning as I lay back in my massage chair,
soaking my feet before my pedicure. Normally this would hardly be the time
for me to indulge in a spa ritual, but since my mother convinced me to spend
time with her and this is the only way she likes to spend time—other than
shopping and scolding her daughters—I figured it would be an efficient
pastime. “We met. Introduced ourselves. Just because it was unconventional
doesn’t mean it wasn’t a meeting.”
“What do you want from me, Priscilla?” she says, in the same tone like a
bludgeoning cudgel. “I doubt you called without a favour to ask.”
Wow. That one stung. Not. “You don’t even know me at all! Maybe I just
called to remedy that. A little sister-to-sister chat.”
“I may be young, but trust me, I’m not naive enough to believe that when
a mafia princess calls me, she doesn’t want some kind of favour,” she says.
“Aw, you called me a princess.” I shut my eyes as a spa worker puts
cucumber slices on my eyelids. “And, you know what, I’ll hand it to you. I do
want something from you.”
“Thanks for cutting to the chase,” she says.
“I am promising you… Well, no, let me start over. I would like you to
betray Antonio Cavalli to the FBI.” I shift in my massage chair, trying to get
comfortable.
“What would that do for you, and why? And how do you know I’m not
doing that already?”
Her barrage of questions does intrigue me. The last one, at least. “I don’t
think you’re the one asking the questions here, Christina.”
“Why not?”
“Because otherwise, I’ll be watching the police haul you away in cuffs,
for the suspected murder of Charles Martell, and trust me, Tina, the Martells
won’t be very kind to you, either.”
“How would you do that? I’ve only met the man once!”
“Oh, trust me, sister, I have my ways. How would you like to have ten
million dollars in your bank account, a French chateau in your real estate
portfolio, and then shortly after finding out that our father was shot?
Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re an evil genius?”
“Me, every morning. In the mirror, to myself. I want the Cavalli’s
destroyed, from the inside out, and this is just my leverage, Christina. I’ll see
you in a month to ensure that you’ve been making progress.”
Satisfied, I hang up.
#
Lucas Black
“Did you do it?” I say, the speaker pressed to my ear as I hurry through
the streets. A cold breeze whips against my face, drying my eyes. “Priscilla?”
“Yes, now stop interrogating me, Lucas,” she responds with a snort.
“What are you, FBI or something?”
“Don’t you already know what I am?” I ask. “I mean, I thought you
already knew my name when we met, so I figured you would have done a
stakeout or stalked me for long enough to know that I am, indeed, FBI.”
“It was a joke, there’s no need to babble on and on.” I picture her waving
her hands in the air to punctuate her annoyance. “She’s taking the deal. Or,
rather, I guess she’s responding to the threat. No need for you to worry your
pretty little head.”
“My head is not little.” I frown. Is it? “Anyways, what do you mean
responding to the threat? I thought you made her a deal?”
“Honey.” Her voice is a drawl, without a drop of seduction but every
syllable saturated with lethality. “I don’t make deals without threats. Fear, I
have found, is more powerful than self-interest.”
“It also makes people more unpredictable.” I tuck a strand of hair behind
my ear. “What if she does something that you don’t expect, Martell?”
 It still feels weird to call someone Martell who isn’t Christina, though I
never did refer to her that way when we were together.
“She’s my sister,” Priscilla says drily. “I know girls like her. They’re all
the same. They get scared easily, and when they do, they bolt, because they
just want their lives to be back to normal. A girl like her? She might like the
diamonds and the shoes for a few weeks, but she’ll get skittish the first time
she sees him kill a man with his bare hands. I’m just escalating what would
have happened anyway. She’s not like us. She wasn’t built for this world.”
I wonder who she meant by us. But I don’t want to ask. I’m not sure the
answer would be particularly reassuring. “So what you’re saying is, you think
she would have left sooner or later, you’re just speeding up the process.”
“Exactly. I’m glad you’re catching up, I was really worried about your
learning curve for a second,” she says, her tone as caustic as ever. “Now if
you’ll excuse me, I have to go see a woman about an epilator.”
I shudder as she hangs up, another gust of wind billowing my coat. I
don’t even want to know what she’s talking about. Under my breath, I mutter,
“This deal is going to be the death of me…”
Finally spotting the mechanic where I left my car for a tune-up and to fix
those scratches, I walk into the garage. Barry, the owner, spots me and claps
me on the back. He’s an old friend of my father’s, but so far I’ve tried not to
hold it against him. “Hey, Luke, your car’s out back.”
“Thanks.” The smell of grease and motor oil greet me as I follow Barry
into the garage where my car is. She’s in top condition, a far cry from the
scratched-up sight a week ago when I brought her in. I let out a whistle
despite myself.
“She’s a beaut,” Barry says, but something in his tone makes me pause.
“What’s wrong?” I frown, turning to him. I’ve known Barry since I was a
kid, and he’s always been honest with me. He’s one of the reasons I found
out about all the affairs my father was having.
“Luke, there’s no easy way to say this… When I was digging around, I
found out that someone had planted a car bomb in the engine,” he says with a
sigh. “Thankfully, we were able to remove it. But it looks like someone either
wanted to kill you or frame you for something.”
I know this job has gotten me too far gone when my first instinct is to ask
him, “Do you still have the pieces? Maybe I can bring it into work and get it
analyzed.”
Barry shakes his head. “Man, Lucas, you’re crazy. But sure, I can have
my son drop it off at your place tonight. He’s obsessed with those darn video
games, and he’s the one who noticed the bomb was there, to begin with.”
“Let me pay now,” I start to say, but he holds up a hand.
“I’m not about to let you do anything of that sort, Luke.” He shakes his
head. “You’re like family.”
“Thank you for everything.” I get into the car, smelling the familiar
leather and feeling the worn-out seats. “I mean it, Barry. Give me a call, if
you ever need anything.”
He nods; his brown eyes sincere. “I will, Lucas. I will.”
 Chapter 39—The Heartbreak

Christina Martell
What the heck was that phone call? I slam the phone down when I hear
the dial tone, stretching out on the bed, burrowing beneath the sheets. I don’t
want to come out until all my thoughts are sorted, so beneath this tent of
duvet cover and comforter, I’ll probably suffocate.
How dare she threaten me to do something that I was already planning on
doing?
And not even offer me any help with it, to boot?
And how did she even find the hotel room that I’m staying in?
“Christina?” Antonio’s voice echoes through the room, exiting the
bathroom most likely. I try not to picture him shirtless, wearing a towel. It
doesn’t work. “What are you doing under the blankets? Are you building a
fort or something?”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “No problems… at all. Just… I like thinking
here. You know. It’s a nice, peaceful thinking place.”
“Okay…” he says uncertainly. “Well, are you done thinking? I thought
we could go to dinner.”
“I’m done,” I say, even though I’m not even close to finding any answers.
Pulling the blankets off of my head, I scoot out from under the covers to find
that Antonio is, indeed, shirtless and wearing a towel. “Can you put on a
shirt, please?”
 “Why, is this distracting you?” he asks, opening up the small steamer
trunk he brought with him.
“No, because the restaurants say, no shirt, no shoes, no service,” I say,
ignoring the blush that tints my cheeks at his words. I wish I could dive back
under the covers again. But sadly, life is out there, the world is out here, and
both of them are waiting for me to face them or be conquered.
“I didn’t realize you cared so much about etiquette,” he says, picking up a
shirt and pulling it over his chest and shoulders. When his head has cleared
the collar, he continues. “You don’t strike me as a stickler for the rules.”
I get out of bed, planting both feet on the ground as if to solidify my
stance. What stance, exactly, I’m not sure yet, but I know I will find out.
Soon. As soon as my heart stops going crazy and my mind stops racing like
it’s going down Route 60 in an old-school Cadillac during a California
summer. “Why is that? Because I’m with you?”
Brushing my hands against my thighs, I check to se if my outfit is dinner-
appropriate. A red dress that makes me feel like I’m dressed to kill? Check.
Matching lipstick? Also, check. Mascara that’s waterproof? Check and
check. (And, the diamond necklace that he gave me to top it off, hanging
around my throat like a collar, like a reminder, like a threat. Against whom,
of what, I’m not sure anymore).
“You look lovely,” he says softly. “I’ll be the envy of every man in
Monte Carlo.”
My eyes widen as I spin around, my back to the mirror. “Every man in
the city? You exaggerate, Mr. Cavalli.”
“I never do.” He puts an arm around my waist, his fingers splayed against
my hip. We make our way to the restaurant, but a feeling of dread keeps
worming its way through my stomach, an unwelcome guest refusing to leave.
 Once seated and having ordered, Antonio fixes his attention not on me or
any conversation we’re having, but… on a couple at the table a few feet away
from us. He leans forward, his hand over mine, but his gaze is distant. “Don’t
look now, but…”
“Ah. monsieur et mademoiselle, I have brought you some bread, yes?”
The waiter hums La Vie en Rose to himself and I am irrationally annoyed as
Antonio drops my hand. The speakers are playing an upbeat jazz song in
French and English, Formidable by Charles Aznavour.
“Merci,” I say before the man leaves, still humming the song.
Antonio rubs a hand across his mouth as though hiding a grin. “There’s a
tip in store for him, to be sure.”
“But is it a large one?” I try to joke. His words remind me of scripture.
Store up your treasures in heaven, for where your treasures are, your heart
will be there also. Where is my treasure? Where is my heart? It feels caught
between two different worlds, half-sliding into Antonio’s hands and half-
drawn to the idea of bringing the Cavallis’ to justice. Mired in fear and doubt
and faith.
He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “As I was saying, there’s a couple a few
tables away from us, and the woman keeps looking at us.”
“Is she blond? Beauty queen features?” I ask. It could be Delilah.
“Did you grow eyes in the back of your head?” He raises an eyebrow, his
foot skimming against my bare calf beneath the table.
“No, I just, um, made a friend this afternoon, while you were… taking
care of business.” I twist a strand of hair around my finger before I stop
myself, remembering, suddenly, the way Lucas would scold me for fidgeting.
Antonio doesn’t seem to mind. But the thought only reminds me of Lucas
and the dead drop we had set up around the property, which will now lie
abandoned, empty until I get back. Unless Lucia is filling it.
I don’t know how to feel about her–Destiny or Lucia or whatever she
calls herself. On one hand, there’s no jealousy there. I don’t love Lucas
anymore if I ever did at all. On the other, I fear that he might hurt her.
There’s a sense of innocence that surrounds her, despite the unsavoury
surroundings she might have been placed in. I don’t want her to get hurt by
associating with him or with the FBI.
But I have enough problems on my plate to worry about hers.
“Really?” Antonio takes a sip of his water, his body stiffening. Something
tenses in the pit of my stomach. I feel like he can see through my skull and
into the thoughts that run through my head. “What did you tell her?”
“We were just chatting.” Do I sound defensive? Like a liar? Can he see
the sweat beading underneath my collar? All of a sudden, the lights above us
feel like the spotlight in an interrogation room. “It’s her first time in Monte
Carlo, too and she’s an American, too.”
“I didn’t mean to sound defensive.” His shoulders relax, his jaw
unclenching. He didn’t mean to sound defensive? How must I have sounded?
“In my line of work, I guess I’m not used to making friends so readily.”
I butter a croissant and let the flaky bread melt in my mouth. “So your
only friends are your family?”
He shrugs. “Essentially.”
“That sounds lonely.” For that one split instant, I hate who I am
becoming. I hate the deception I am putting on, the sympathy I have for him,
the feelings I hold that I can no longer distinguish false from genuine. I hate
that I have confused morality with emotion, and I’ve replaced what’s right
with what feels right.
 “I have you.” He tilts his glass toward me and I clink mine against it
without thinking, without pausing to let his words sink into me. Because if
they do, I will be lost. I will drift asea, unmoored, unanchored, and God, I
want an anchor. I need an anchor, even if it drags me to the bottom, because
at least then I’ll be sure of where I am. I’ll be sure of who I am. “Cheers.”
I echo it, trying to smile. “Cheers.”
#
Lucia Esposito
“You’re late,” I say when Lucas walks in, hair dishevelled from the wind
and cheeks rosy. “Dinner’s been on the table for half an hour.”
“I got held up at the shop,” he says, examining the spread. I may have
ordered takeout on his credit card, and put it onto some Corelle plates, but
that doesn’t change the fact that now it’s cold takeout. “The mechanic found
a bomb in my car.”
“He found a what?” I almost drop the wine bottle I was holding and
carefully set it onto the small, circular dining table to prevent that. “In your
car?”
“You know, a bomb. Hiroshima, Nagasaki, World War Two, that sort of
thing.” How can he be so casual? I understand that I grew up in a family of
people who was all trying to survive and also killing each other at times, but
his nonchalance takes the cake. “Except, y’know, small enough to fit into a
car. Right next to the engine.”
“But… in your car… Why? Who?” I frown. “Were they trying to frame
you or kill you?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. All I know is, whoever it is, I should be finding
out shortly. The mechanic’s son is bringing it over tonight.”
The furrow between my brows doesn’t budge. My voice quavers when I
speak and I hate it. “Did I do this?”
“What? No, Destiny, what are you talking about?” Lucas drops his bags
onto the floor and walks over to me, folding me into his arms. He smells like
engine oil and sandalwood, a less than stellar combination. “You didn’t do
anything. I was FBI way before I ever set foot in that strip club.”
I look up at him, fighting back the tears that suddenly threaten to
overcome me, and push at his chest. “Take a shower. You stink.”
“You just said dinner’s been waiting for half an hour,” he says, pointing
toward the food even as he backs off and shucks off his jacket.
“Yes, well, I can reheat it. You smell like someone crossed a cologne
shop with a mechanic’s garage,” I say, pinching my nose for good measure.
Lucas chuckles. “Yes, mom.”
His words hit me like a punch in the gut even as he drops a kiss on my
forehead and, whistling to himself, goes to shower. The water turns on,
beating against the porcelain walls of the tub, and I mechanically begin to
gather the plates and reheat the cold food in the kitchen. The fried rice goes in
the microwave, the orange chicken in the oven, the bok choy in the steamer.
He never took me to meet his mother. I don’t know his family. What he
knows about mine, could fit in an FBI dossier. And it is written into an FBI
dossier.
I am practically living with—and have lived with—this man for months.
Yet we both haven’t met the others’ families and barely know anything about
each other. Do I want to remedy that? Or should we just keep skating on thin
ice, avoiding the cracks?
By the time the food is piping hot again and Lucas is out of the shower,
hair damp and a boyish grin on his face, I know I have my answer. I felt real
fear and concern at the thought that he might die from a car bomb. When I
met Christina Martell, a bolt of pure jealousy ran through my veins, one that I
did my best to ignore but couldn’t. He’s met her mother.
They went to high school together, Destiny. Get it together.
“Ah, the sweet smells of home cooking,” he jokes as he pulls out my
chair for me.
I smooth my hands over my olive green sweater and try to smile. “Yes,
didn’t you see me flying out to Thailand this morning to harvest my rice and
stir-fry it myself?”
“I wondered who took the private jet,” he says, a twinkle of mischief in
his eyes. “Destiny, can I ask you something?’
Uh oh.
“Go ahead.” I gesture with my mouth full of sweet and sour pork, hoping
I will have to chew for a very long time before I can answer him.
“If you could do anything in the world, what would you do?” His gaze is
wistful.
Well, that was unexpected. I swallow. “An excellent question.”
“That just translates to I don’t have an answer and we both know it.” A
smirk tugs on the corner of his mouth. “I mean unless you planned on
stripping forever? I don’t know if I could date you, in that case.”
His words are reassuring in a way. I knew guys who date the girls that
worked at the strip clubs I worked at, and they always gave me such creepy
vibes. Not to mention the way they both disdained their girlfriends’
professions and pocketed a generous half of their tips.
“Really? Why ever would that be?” I joke, reaching for more rice. I spoon
some onto my plate, lowering my gaze to avoid his.
“When I’m with a girl… she’s all mine. I don’t want to share her with
anyone. I know you may think it’s hypocritical, considering how we started,
but…” He shrugs, his expression turning sheepish.
I dodge the blush of affection that threatens to overwhelm me. “Well,
since you asked, I think I would like to be a nurse.”
“A nurse?” He raises his eyebrows. “Interesting. I never pegged you as a
medical professional.”
“I mean, I’m not,” I say. I have only a high school education and I was
raised to marry passably well and produce babies. Not exactly typical career
woman stuff. “Or, not yet.”
“I can picture you in scrubs,” he says thoughtfully. “I think you’d be good
at it, Destiny. You should do it.”
His words warm some tender, hidden place within the pit of my stomach.
A part of me that was worried he would discourage me from my dreams. A
part of me that thought, no man cares about what’s in your brain. Just about
how you look. After all, wasn’t that why Marco and I had never suited each
other in the first place?
“Okay, but you have to promise me I won’t have to use my nursing skills
on you,” I say, picking up a single grain of rice with my chopsticks before
pointing it at him. “I’m not going to stitch you up if you stagger back here
with a bullet wound.”
No, I saw far too much of that growing up.
“I promise to only get injured near hospitals, or preferably in the
hospital’s emergency room so that you can use your skills to tend to all the
other patients there.” Lucas grins as he holds up one hand, as though he’s
swearing the Hippocratic Oath.
“Thank you,” I say, pressing one hand to my heart. “I’m touched.”
And, to my surprise, I find that I am. This thawing heart of mine has
cracked, and I don’t know where the pieces will fall.
Hopefully, into his hands.
 Chapter 40—The Betrayal

Adelina “Allie” Cavalli

I have never been more perplexed in my life.
The plan, as Antonio explained to me in hushed tones over the phone, as
he flew on a private jet with his girlfriend napping one seat over, was quite
simple. I was to be a bargaining chip in his increasingly elaborate-sounding
plan with the Steeles, an option to them: either Alexander Steele took back
his heavily pregnant wife—who, to me, looked like she might go into labour
at any minute—or he took me.
Me. I didn’t even consider myself a Steele. For starters, I spoke fluent
Italian. For another thing, I had spent more of my life with the Cavalli’s than
the Steeles. Finally, the Steeles were such a strange and cold and unloving
family. People may have thought a mafia family would have been just as
bloodless—or bloodthirsty, I supposed—but I had never met such an
awkwardly dysfunctional household until I set foot in my biological father’s
apartment.
It felt odd to call Aaron Steele any version of dad. I settled for ‘sir’,
something I had called my father, but I could see the pain that he tried to hide
in his eyes every time he heard it.
But, back to the plan.
I’m sitting in the Cavalli compound and the mere thought makes me
remember a conversation with my parents when I was nine. Yes, we have a
compound. No, Allie, you may not bring your school friends over to ride
ponies there, the compound is for emergencies only. With how paranoid
Roberto Cavalli was, I wouldn’t be surprised if he also had a bunker
somewhere on the land, only that I hadn’t discovered it yet.
I never did get to sneak one of my friends into the compound. But now,
meeting Katerina Steele—or is it Devereaux?—as she’s being rolled into the
compound in a wheelchair, one hand on her heavily pregnant abdomen, this
almost feels like that. Only, we aren’t friends. We may technically be some
sort of family, but we aren’t friends.
Still, part of me is curious. What is my other family like? Do they ever
talk about me? Does Alexander or Abigail miss me? Do they remember me at
all? Katerina Steele is like a portal into another life, like glimpsing who I
could have become.
You’re Allie, I remind myself, but I don’t even know what that nickname
is short for anymore.
That’s how I find myself in the foyer, scolding Paulie when he almost lets
the wheelchair hit a snag in the carpet. “You could have killed her.”
Paulie rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything. He’s always been the
strong and silent type. Most of our guards are, which is nice at times but also
can make for awkward car rides sitting in silence.
“I’m fine,” Katerina says in a low murmur, and we both stir. The drugs
must be wearing off. I spent two hours with Antonio researching drugs to use
to knock people out that would be safe during pregnancy. He didn’t have
anything better to do, other than mope around the house after some
heartbreak that he won’t tell me about. All I know is, I don’t want to know
about it. Though I hope Christina doesn’t leave.
Her eyes flutter open, revealing hazel irises that fix… on me. With a
gasp, her hands fly to her mouth. “Who are you? Where am I?”
I’m pretty sure she knows the answer to question one, but I answer both
for her anyways. “I’m Allie. This is the Cavalli Compound. I tried to call it
Camp Cavalli when I was younger, you know, like Camp David, because I
was obsessed with politics at that time, but the name never stuck. So.
Anyways. Here we are!”
“Oh…” A yawn causes her jaw to pop. “Wait… what? You’re Allie? As
in, Allison Steele…?”
“You know what, some people have tried to call me that, but I feel like
the name Allison just doesn’t suit me. I knew an Allison in gymnastics once,
and she was the meanest girl you will ever meet. Of course, she could also do
a perfect split,” I say. I can’t tell if I’m rambling in the hopes of endearing
myself to her, or because I’m nervous. Probably both.
“A pleasure to meet you,” she says as Paulie rolls her chair through the
hallway. For someone who’s just been kidnapped, her manners are
impeccable. “So I should call you Allie…”
“That would be best. And you’re Katerina, right?” I say, popping my
fruity gum.
She eyes me suspiciously. “So the Cavallis kidnapped me and brought me
to their compound and now my tour guide is the other girl who has been
kidnapped, fifteen years ago?”
“Was that a question? Because I don’t think I can answer it,” I say,
beginning to feel uneasy about this whole setup.
“Just an observation,” she says, sitting primly with her hands folded in
her lap. Her stiff posture and the general aura of ladylikeness remind me of
my older sister, Bianca. “So, where are you taking me in this compound?”
“The hospital wing,” I respond without thinking. “No offence, but you
look like you could give birth at any moment.”
Her eyes widen as though in panic. I can’t blame her. “But… my
husband.” She swallows thickly, a tear slipping around her face. “He’s not
here… Do you even have doctors in this place?”
She casts an eye around the surroundings: lavish furniture, gilt-edged oil
paintings, plush Oriental carpets and mahogany panelling.
“I assure you, we’re not complete savages in the middle of nowhere,” I
say drily. “This place just happens to be a little remote, but we have a doctor-
on-call. Though usually, she’s more used to taking care of people who have
been shot at.”
“Well, I’d fall under that category too,” Katerina mutters under her
breath.
“You’ve been shot? You’re not bleeding,” I say, glancing at her. She’s
wearing a flimsy paper-thin hospital gown, an IV hooked into her arm.
“No, but I was shot a few years ago at my engagement party,” she says
casually.
“Huh.” It’s no less dramatic than my own family reunions turn out,
always with someone injured on the inside or the outside. “So, tell me about
yourself. I don’t know how long my brother wants you to be here.”
She starts at the word brother. “Oh, you mean Antonio.”
I almost say, who else? before I realize she thought I might be referring to
her husband. Because technically, I’m a Steele. “Yes.”
“Why is he keeping me here?” An edge of hurt panic creeps into her tone.
“I haven’t done anything to him. I’m an innocent bystander in this whole
saga… I mean, for crying out loud, I’m pregnant. I don’t want to give birth
while kidnapped!”
“Calm down,” I say, which is rich coming from me. I am, to be frank,
rarely calm. “It’s going to be okay.”
She sucks in a deep breath and I half expect her to struggle against her
bonds or rip out the IV, but instead, she lowers her head and murmurs
something that sounds like a prayer, her dark hair shielding her face. I’m not
sure what to make of it.
I guess if I was in her situation, I would be praying, too.
#
Christina Martell
I don’t know what to believe anymore.
Well, that’s a lie. Scratch that. I know I believe in God. I know I believe
He will pull me through this, that no matter where I end up, I will be serving
Him.
But I don’t know what to think about Antonio. I’m supposed to be
betraying him. I’m no femme fatale. Sinking the knife in his back would be
all too easy and yet his blood would never stop staining my hands and my
misdeeds would never stop weighing down my heart.
I almost wish I had never met him. Yet I know that’s the coward’s way
out, too.
I know I need to stand firm and believe in my convictions. I know that he
has done despicable things, awful things, darker acts than I could ever
imagine. Yet I also know that he sheltered a puppy, that he held me with
tender hands, that he helped me look for my mother. I know that he is capable
of terrible evil and great destruction, yet on the other face of the coin, he has
made me feel things that I’ve never felt and he has shown me that he is
capable of goodness. The way he interacts with his nephew, with his family.
He was born into this family. He can’t help it, my heart whispers.
Everyone has a choice, everyone has free will, and he used his to sin, my
mind says. There is no sin without free will, and he’s shown me that he has
plenty of both.
“What are you thinking about?” Antonio asks softly on the plane ride
back home.
I stare out the window, listless, my eyes watching the blue sky and puffy
white tendrils of clouds drift by. Before this year, I had never even left the
country. Now, I’ve left twice in a month. Yet I can’t bring it in me to enjoy
any of it. Not even when we met up with Thyra in Paris, since it was close
enough to Monte Carlo, and had a girls’ night out.
I had hoped to leave Monte Carlo triumphantly, with answers in hand.
Instead, all I have is more questions to add to my mental list, and I can voice
none of them to him.
What do you really want from me?
Where do I fit into your life?
Who are you, truly, and what would you do to me if I stayed with you long
enough?
I am terrified that you could tell me all your worst crimes and I would
still be willing to stay with you. I am horrified by the depths of affection that I
might hold for you, by the willingness I harbour to forgive you, for every
awful deed and thought and word you might have committed against me. I
don’t know who you are anymore. I had hoped you would be pure evil, but I
have learned that there are so many things that are much worse than that.
“Nothing,” I say. “My mom, that’s all. We said we would have a spa day
when I got back.”
He makes noncommittal noises of encouragement. “Sounds fun.”
“Do you ever just—hang out with your siblings?” I ask, having an only
child’s curiosity. “Do you play, I don’t know, board games or something?”
 A smile quirks his lips. I hate it, the way he looks less and less like some
distant Michelangelo statue and more and more like a real person, whom I
could fall in love with. Someone whom I might already be in love with. “We
play foosball, actually.”
Lucas’s words echo in my mind, the ones he spoke to me before I left
New York. You’re not falling for him. You’re falling for this idea of him, for
this idea that you can fix him; like he’s a fallen angel with broken wings. He
isn’t. He could very well be the devil himself, Tina.
My heart breaks a little. “Are you any good at it?”
“I’m better at pool,” he says. “Foosball has too many moving pieces, all
at once. It’s hard to keep your eye on the ball.”
“But pool?” I say.
He shrugs his broad shoulders. “There’s only really one or two balls you
need to keep your eyes on at all times, and at that moment, you get tunnel
vision. You focus on that one thing, that one path that leads you where you
need to go.”
I don’t know why his words ring with me, striking a chord. A Scriptural
chord. For I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father
except through Me.
“Must be why I’m so bad at it,” I say wryly. “I can’t focus on one thing at
a time.”
His smile fades. Maybe I’ve brought up something else in his mind, some
shadow looming over us, threatening to swallow both of us whole. “How
unfortunate. I had hoped you were giving me your undivided attention.”
On the screen, the news plays on mute. A chyron rolls at the bottom while
the anchors speak. SHIPMENT OF DRUGS CONFISCATED AT
LAGUARDIA! POSSIBLE LINK TO CAVALLI CRIME FAMILY. Antonio
reads the same thing I do, but our reactions are totally different.
The nervous sweat that pools in my palms is definitely giving me away.
Meanwhile, Antonio blinks once before resuming his cool composure.
Yet another reason out of a thousand that I shouldn’t be with him. We’re
too different. His icy collectedness would drive me insane.
It hasn’t so far, a voice in my heart whispers.
Shut up, heart. Your job is to pump blood, not give input on my
trainwreck of a love life.
Somehow, the arguing isn’t working.
Does Lucas know? Is he the one who made the arrest and gave the tip to
stop and search? Is he the one who put two and two together for the FBI and
told them that it was linked to the Cavalli’s? New, but no less anxiety-
inducing queries run through my mind. I swallow. I should say something. I
will. “That’s bad, isn’t it?”
“Hmm.” A completely useless noise that I could interpret in ten different
ways. Yep. We can’t be together. His stoicism would drive me insane.
Absolutely up the wall. Do not think about him pushing you against a wall,
Christina.
Some things are easier said than done. “What are you going to do?” I say.
He shrugs and opens the in-flight magazine. On a private jet. Why is there
an inflight magazine on a private jet?
“You know, I don’t appreciate being given the cold shoulder,” I start to
say.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair, and rolls up the magazine,
tossing it to the seat next to him. Then he pats the space between us, as if to
say, come here, his gaze set on mine. I scoot over, nerves and excitement
thrumming through my body at different paces.
One of them is saying yes. The other one is saying heck no.
His arm wraps around my shoulder. “In my line of work,” he says. “I
have to make very… difficult choices. Choices that, either way, will lead to a
great deal of regret. But please, Christina, believe me when I say this… you
are the decision I will never regret making. Never.”
Something sinks in the pit of my stomach. No, worse than that. It’s like
someone’s taken a wrecking ball to my insides and swung with rapid-fire
precision, hitting the most vital parts of me. I can’t breathe. Can’t eat. Can’t
even feel my heartbeat. “Thank you,” I say with trembling lips and a mouth
as dry as sandpaper, because what else am I supposed to say?
I can’t tell him I don’t regret opening Tinder and going on a date with
him. Nor can I tell him the truth: that regret and desire war in me every day.
That every night when I lie in bed, I wonder what my life would look like
without him and I don’t want to know, yet I realize that I do. I would
probably have given into my mom’s pleadings and taken Lucas back. or
maybe I would find some nice, normal guy to date and he would be an
accountant and he would hold my hand and buy me flowers and give me a
good night kiss because he wanted to, not because he was on the run from the
DEA and was using me as a distraction.
I wouldn’t be here at all if I had the choice. But I don’t have a choice.
And yet still I’m not choosing him.
He kisses the top of my head. “You don’t need to thank me.”
No, I don’t. I need to betray him. And that hurts even worse.
 Chapter 41—The Kidnapping

Antonio Cavalli
I didn’t tell Christina about the kidnapping for two reasons, which I
justify to myself very clearly.
First of all, it’s none of her business. To know would only endanger her
life.
Second of all… I don’t want her to see me for who I am. For what I am
and what I do. If I can keep up this wall between these two sides of my life, if
I could have the money without the source, the power without the
intimidation and danger, I would take it.
But we both know that’s a joke. It’s crumbling and I can’t stand the
thought of not keeping herself close to me before that happens. Binding her
to me.
But how?
We get off the plane, a gust of wind causing Christina’s loose trousers to
billow around her ankles and calves. I’m half-reminded of a period drama
Allie and Bianca forced me to watch with them once, where a flash of an
ankle would be considered shocking. It still feels shocking despite having
seen her in a swimsuit only recently.
You’re losing your touch, Cavalli.
“Did you have a good trip, signor?” Paulie, our driver—the word
henchman sounds bad—asks me as I step into the car. He tips his chauffeur’s
cap at me, a motion that makes my stomach clench. He would never do that
normally if Christina wasn’t here. Instead, it’s practically a blinking neon
sign for, something’s gone wrong.
“It went well, but I’m glad to be back,” I say breezily as Paulie opens the
door for Christina and me to enter the car.
“So am I,” Christina says, but her face is pale, wan. Is she sick?
“Are you okay?” I ask, pressing a hand to her forehead. “You seem
tired.”
She yawns, moving away from my hand. Something in her eyes seems to
convey more than simple fatigue, but who am I to say what it is? “Just jet
lag.”
“Okay.” I have to believe her because moments later, she falls asleep on
my shoulder. Her head burrowing into my neck, her small hands resting on
top of my forearm, her scent of roses wafting in my direction.
Her phone slides out of her purse, hitting the floor of the limo. I reach for
it, carefully picking it up and trying not to jostle Christina too much, when
the screen flashes, lighting up with a message.
+1 212 909 8654: Did you do it yet?
Then, moments later, a message from the same number. I’m only giving
you this much time because you’re my sister. Get it done, or you know how
this will go.
My mouth goes dry, falling open before I can stop myself.
Why did I lie to myself? Why do I lie to myself? I’m not surprised. Not
shocked in the slightest. It’s not like I trusted this girl. It’s not like I let her
into my life and told her things about myself that I had never told anyone
before. No, it’s not like any of those things happened. Not at all.
It’s not like I thought she trusted me. Trusted me enough to not leave
when I allowed her to flee on our very first date. Trusted me enough to help
her find her mother. Trusted me enough to fall asleep on her shoulder.
But apparently, she doesn’t trust me. She doesn’t trust me at all, or she
would have come to me with this information and with this threat of
blackmail.
My heart stops, dropping into my stomach like a stone sinking in a well,
making barely a splash but leaving deep reverberations.
I let her sleep on my shoulder until we reach the house. I instruct Paulie
to bring our luggage in, but then to come out again and bring us to the Cavalli
Compound. Sliding Christina’s phone back into her purse, as though nothing
ever happened, I calm my breathing and slow my heartbeat. I will be fine.
I am untouchable.
I always have been.
She was just an exception to a rule that should never have had one.
If she wants to play with fire, she’s going to get burned. And the things I
have planned for her… Well, they won’t be pretty. And I will make her regret
ever betraying me.
#
Christina Martell
I wake up in a strange place. The masonry and stone walls surrounding
me make me think of a cathedral, but it’s too fortified for that… more like a
fortress. Tapestries hang on the walls, and I’m lying in a four-poster bed. At
any moment I expect a medieval knight to come rushing in with a sword.
This isn’t the Cavalli house in the Hamptons. This place is… somewhere
else. Something else.
Why would Antonio take me here? The last thing I remember was falling
asleep in the car, onto his shoulder. Panic and curiosity war within me, and
curiosity wins out. I’m wearing the same clothes as I was on the plane: tan
palazzo pants and a black camisole with a black cardigan, so the frigid air
conditioning doesn’t bother me too much. Pushing on the heavy wooden door
that seems to take more bicep strength than I possess, just to make it creak
open a few inches, I slip out into a corridor.
“Where is this place?” I mutter under my breath. Through a window
partially covered by red velvet drapes, I spy a river, a dense forest beyond
that, and blue sky, a few clouds drifting across it.
Completely out of place, a kitchen magnet on the fridge reads Welcome
To Vermont.
Vermont? We’re in Vermont of all places? Okay, calm down, Christina,
maybe we’re still in New York and he just likes collecting kitschy souvenir
magnets to hang on his refrigerator. Maybe. But have you ever seen the man
cook? Why would he collect magnets for his fridge?
But New York? The man is wealthy, but not wealthy enough to have a
palatial mansion in New York City. I chew on my lip, walking out of the
empty kitchen. All my footsteps echo, making me feel like Jane Eyre in
Rochester’s manor, wandering through bare rooms and carpet-lined hallways.
I feel like I should be carrying a candle and wearing a white nightgown,
making soundless footsteps and haunting the castle.
Walking past a door, I hear someone crying. The voice is unfamiliar but
distinctly feminine, making me tense up. Who else is here?
Carefully unlatching and opening the heavy door, I wonder why it’s
locked from the outside. Inside the room is a heavily pregnant woman sitting
on the edge of a bed, her chestnut hair falling over her face and disguising her
delicate features. When she sees me, she looks up and dabs at her wet eyes
with a Kleenex, her expression unreadable. A Bible sits on the bed next to
her, open. She wraps a burgundy shawl around her thin shoulders, covering
her thin white dress.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you…” I fiddle with my fingers. “I
just heard someone crying, so I worried there was something wrong.”
“No, it’s fine.” She stands up from the bed with difficulty. Extending a
hand for me to shake, she introduces herself. “I’m Katerina, Katerina Steele.”
“Christina Martell.” I shake her hand. “Can I ask why you were crying?”
“You mean, besides being kidnapped by the Cavalli’s on the way to see a
doctor?” she says with a scoff before smiling at me. Her smile seems genuine
enough, despite her… situation. Something clenches in my chest at her
words.
Kidnapped. Kidnapped?
What was it Antonio had told me a few months ago? That he never
kidnaps people? That they never engage in human trafficking?
Well, Allie is clear proof that that’s a lie. Not to mention this woman
here.
My heart pounds in my chest and an acrid taste sits on my tongue like
I’ve eaten too many sour suckers. Kidnapped. He kidnapped her, this woman.
“I… I’m so sorry to hear that.”
She chews on her chapped lower lip, looking down, smoothing a hand
over her abdomen. “It’s fine. I just… Um, I hope my husband can find me,
before… Before it comes time for the baby to be born.”
This entire situation is so messed up. What is this place, some kind of
sick Bluebeard’s castle, for storing women? My stomach turns, and I force
myself to focus on the conversation and offer a smile.
“Do you know where we are?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Somewhere in the middle of nowhere. That’s all I
could say. Upstate New York, probably. It doesn’t seem like they took us
very far. So, what’s your story? Did your family mess with the wrong people
and now the Cavalli’s took you?”
I pause, unsure of what to say. I came here willingly. Didn’t I? Didn’t I
get into that car, into that plane, didn’t I go on that date of my own free will?
“I don’t even know anymore… I just woke up and I was here.”
“Oh.” She frowns. “Have you seen Allie?”
“Allie?” I ask. Antonio’s little sister, the one who stood up to me against
though mean girls at that party that feels like a lifetime ago now. “What does
she have to do with anything?”
“She’s the one who was with me when I came here,” she responds. “I
haven’t seen her since, and that was three days ago. Guards are patrolling this
place every night, and even if I tried to run away, I wouldn’t make it very far
in my condition.”
“Have you been eating anything?” She looks thin and tired, dark circles
beneath her eyes. Where is Antonio? Didn’t he come here with me? “Are
they feeding you in this place?”
She nods. “The kitchen is fully stocked and open to us. Except, they keep
all the knives chained down. It’s not like you couldn’t attack someone with a
fork.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I say as my stomach growls. “Do you want to go
there now? I could do with a snack.”
“That sound good. Let’s go.”
“This place is so strange,” I comment as we walk down the hall together,
offering her my arm. “It’s like being in the castle from Beauty and the Beast.”
Katerina snorts, a surprisingly unladylike sound from her seemingly prim
and proper figure. “Where’s the Beast? I haven’t set eyes on any Cavalli so
far, only the guards who brought me in here.”
Beneath the derision and curiosity, I hear vulnerability and fear in her
voice. I can’t imagine being in her situation, and I realize, with a sinking,
twisting terror that wraps around my insides like a vice, that I could be. Not
now, not right here and now of course. But what if I was still with Antonio?
What if I stayed with him and someone else took me as retaliation against
him? I doubt they would be so kind as to leave me a fully stocked pantry for
me or to keep me alive.
I have to leave him. I have to. But how? It’s not safe. What if he knows
about the airport? What if he knows I’m the one who leaked information
about the shipments?
What if that’s the reason I’m here? As punishment? The princess
abandoned and locked in the tower by a dark prince, for her sins and stupid
mistakes? I shake my head. Confined for only a few hours and already I’m
losing my mind.
“Want some cereal?” Christina shakes a box of Honey Nut Cheerios into
a bowl.
My mouth is still so dry that I can only nod as she pours milk into the
bowl, passing it toward me and grabbing a spoon. “Thanks,” I say between
mouthfuls.
“No problem.” She gently eases onto a chair, eating her cereal slowly. I
don’t even know what time it is here. I didn’t wear a watch and I can’t find
my phone.
Is it breakfast time? I try to remember when we got back from Monte
Carlo. Late afternoon, at the most. Did I sleep from then until the next day?
One peek outside the barred windows tells me it’s bright enough to confirm
that notion.
 “So, how did you get involved with the Cavalli’s?” I ask. Part of me
wants her to tell me that her decision-making has been as poor as mine.
Another part of me just tells me that’s selfish and it would be better for
her to have people out there looking for her and wanting to rescue her.
“I wasn’t. My husband’s family and the Cavalli’s have a generational
feud going back to the last fifty years or so.” She sighs. “Sometimes, I can’t
believe this is my life.”
I quirk a smile. “Relatable.”
But in what way? Good, or insanely bad?
“I was just a normal girl, living my life until my father died…” She bites
her lip, the spoon pausing as she stirs the cereal. “And then in his will,
believe it or not, I was forced to marry into the Steele family if I wanted his
company to remain in one piece. So I had no choice. I mean, it all ended up
for the best, and I know now that God had His plans for us, but… It’s crazy,
you know? Where God takes you when you trust Him. It may not always be
good, but you know it’s where He wants you to be.”
I sigh, marvelling at her faith. “I… thank you for sharing, Katerina. I
needed to hear it.”
 Chapter 42—The Leak

Antonio Cavalli
“Padre,” I say over the phone to my father.
Roberto Cavalli must be pacing back and forth because I can hear the
rhythmic cadence of his steps. “Antonio. What is it now?”
He thinks there’s some disaster. There often is, but the last one involved
Sebastian, some illicit substances, and several trays of desserts at Cavalli’s,
and this one is of a far more serious nature. The last one seems more like
brotherly hijinks than any real crisis. “I know who the leak is.”
“Who is it?” he demands. “Who tipped off the feds about the shipments?”
I pause. If I tell him it’s Christina… I had been so prepared to take out my
wrath on her. Yet I never paused to confront her about it. “Meet me at the
house at noon tomorrow. You know the lines aren’t secure. The feds could
hear that we know and whisk their informant away.”
An irritated sigh, but he acquiesces nonetheless. “Very well. Arrivederci,
Antonio.”
“Ciao.” I hang up the landline, putting it back in its cradle. The
compound is big enough—and old enough—that the sound echoes through
the room. Who still uses landline phones, with cords nonetheless?
Then I assess my plans. Guards are always patrolling every corner of this
estate, an old hideaway in upstate New York that my father doesn’t know
about. He thinks it’s a run-down storage warehouse and I’m content to let
him keep thinking that way. It makes for a nice lair to escape his wrath
sometimes.
Christina is here. The thought keeps popping up in my head, though I
haven’t seen her since I ordered Paulie to deposit her in a room and then
report back to me. Her presence haunts this place, and I swear I can smell her
floral perfume. I should talk to her. But how would I explain what I’ve done?
How would I explain the person I have become?
Katerina Devereaux–or Steele, I guess she is now—is here, too. But I
can’t dwell on that. I can’t dwell on the way I said I would never involve
myself in kidnapping women or children and have now essentially done both.
It’s not a kidnapping. It’s a bargain. A deal… with human lives as
bargaining chips. Am I turning into my father because I want to be, or
because I have no choice in this life to become anyone else?
The thought sickens me. Yet I know nothing else but this life. Where
could I go?
“Signor Cavalli,” Zia Maria says, barging into the kitchen with a broom.
“This place looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in weeks.”
I glance at the calendar hanging on the wall. “You would be wrong about
that, I just had it cleaned yesterday, so I don’t know what you’re doing here.”
She puts the broom down next to a dustpan that looks like it’s seen better
days. “I came here because I heard about who else is here.”
I sigh. “News travels fast among the Cavalli’s, I see.”
Zia Maria is my father’s younger sister. He has a soft spot for her, even
though she’s not technically in the family business anymore. She married out
of the Cavallis, to an accountant and they live a humble life in New Jersey
with three children. Since her children are all grown up now, she sometimes
likes to come to New York to harass—I mean, show her concern for—us.
 “Of course it does,” she says with a huff. “You think your Auntie Rhea
doesn’t gossip either? She tells me everything. And I mean everything. Far
too much.”
I almost laugh. “So what, did you come here to stage an intervention?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ve long given up on telling grown men what to do.
In my experience, they are too bullheaded to listen, anyways.”
She isn’t wrong. I won’t deny that most of the men in my family lean
toward the stubborn side. “You’re right about that.”
“Have you eaten yet?” Now that what she and I would consider niceties
are out of the way, she cuts straight into the meat of the conversation,
behaving in the way of any Italian aunt by pressing food and drink onto me
whether I say I’m hungry or not. “I made some lasagna. It’s heating up in the
oven.”
“Really?” My stomach growls as if on cue. Traitor. Here I thought I could
leave, but not after the mention of my Zia Maria’s lasagna. Never after that.
“What about cannoli?”
She shoots me a look like, do you have to ask?
“Right,” I say. “Lead the way.”
She huffs and goes toward the kitchen. As we walk through the halls, I
hear two women’s voices. Something clenches in my gut at the sound of
Christina’s laugh, and it’s not just hunger pangs. But a deeper sort of desire, a
more vital sort of appetite.
Somehow, I have the feeling I won’t be hearing her laugh again, for a
long, long time. Not if this plan works, and not even if it goes sideways.
When I enter the kitchen, my suspicions are confirmed. The room falls
dead silent as Zia Maria busies herself with sweeping the floor, humming an
old Italian operetta to herself and giving me no help.
 Christina’s eyes meet mine, a mixture of confusion, vulnerability, and
defensiveness swirling in those brown irises. “Antonio.”
The woman next to her is Katerina Steele. I can tell that not just from the
fact that she’s heavily pregnant —really, the longer I look at her the worse I
feel about having gotten her roped into this whole mess in the first place, she
looks like she might give birth at any moment and there is only one doctor
here —but from the emerald ring that she wears on her finger, next to a
wedding band. She carries herself like a princess: shoulders back, spine
straight even with the added weight she’s carrying, and her voice and
gestures are prim and proper, her hands neatly folded in front of her as she
looks between me and Christina. A hand lifts to play with the cross necklace
at her throat, the diamonds shining on the pendant. Pretty enough, with her
hazel eyes and chestnut hair cut at shoulder-length, but… she’s no Christina.
“Christina.” I glance at the counter to avoid meeting her gaze, seeing two
mostly eaten bowls of cereal there. It will break me. She will destroy me, ruin
me even more than I have already been, and it will be the end of everything I
have worked so hard for. Everything I have worked so hard to build, to keep,
to kill for and fight for. Yet was it even worth the effort? Am I losing it or
rejecting it? “There’s a lasagna in the oven.”
“I know.” She folds her arms across her chest and angles her body
slightly in front of Katerina though they’re roughly the same height and build
—or would be if Katerina wasn’t over eight months pregnant. Protective,
even of new friends. Another reason we wouldn’t be suited for each other.
“Your aunt told us.”
Zia Maria continues her humming and sweeping as though nothing is
happening. “So there’s an ‘us’ now, is there?”
“Yes, the two prisoners have formed a mutiny,” Katerina says from
behind Christina’s shoulder, her pretty smile tense. She’s lovely in a delicate,
fragile kind of way. Christina, on the other hand, appears far less breakable
yet the look in her eyes suggests otherwise. It suggests that something I’ve
done has pushed her beyond the edge of repair.
“You’re not a prisoner here, Christina,” I say, ignoring the frisson of guilt
wrapping around my heart, weighing it down.
“Really?” Her brown eyes widen and she gestures around her for
dramatic effect. “Because this place sure looks like a prison, Antonio.”
I fold my arms across my chest, unable to handle the truth that she flings
at me like a dagger. “You’re mistaken.”
“No, I don’t think I am,” she says, and tears spring to her eyes, her voice
thickening with sorrow. “I think that I’ve always been exactly right about
who you were, and I refused to see it. You told me you didn’t kidnap people!
Well, who is this right here, in your kitchen, of your freaking compound?
Katerina Steele. Here against her will. Tell me that there is some kind of
explanation, Antonio!”
My arms drop from my chest. I want to embrace her and tell her lies that
will make this all better. But we both know that it won’t happen. We both
know too much for us ever to be together. It’s not the truth that binds us
together, but lies. The truth just gets in the way, piling up between us like
bricks in a wall. “I can’t.”
Christina looks like she wants to spit in my face, but instead, she just
pushes past me and storms out of the kitchen.
Behind me, Zia Maria takes a lasagna out of the oven. My stomach has
knotted into a tight fist, and I follow Christina outside.
“Did I not make it clear that I don’t want to talk to you?” she says, her
voice brittle, each word sounding like it might snap into broken glass and cut
me.
“No, you never said that. You just left,” I say, my fingernails digging into
my palms.
“Screw you.” She’s crying in earnest now, and yet all I know is that if I
tried to embrace her, to wipe her tears away, I would only be digging the
knife in further. This is what I’ve known all my life, isn’t it? That I’m
unwelcome? Unwanted? Certainly not loved. “You told me that you weren’t
like Lucas. But at least Lucas is a good guy, even if he did lie to me!”
That was a low blow. I feel it in my gut, as harsh as any sucker punch.
Our voices ricochet and echo in the hallway, before being muffled by the
heavy tapestries and carpeting. I say nothing, unable to stomach my presence,
my thoughts. Drowned in self-loathing.
“What is this place anyway?” she asks. “A prison for all the women that
you use and discard?”
“I never laid a hand on Katerina,” I respond. “She got tangled up with the
wrong family, that’s all.”
“I’m not talking about Katerina!” Christina shouts. “I want to know what
I did that was so bad that you threw me in here.”
“You want to talk about wrongdoing and lies, Christina, go ahead. Tell
me why you’re in contact with Priscilla Martell.” I point one finger at her and
she flinches.
She flinches. Like she thinks I’m going to slap her across the face, or grab
her arm so hard she bruises. Why should I be surprised? She just found out
I’m capable of kidnapping and holding a pregnant woman against her will.
What else does she think I could do?
“I… I was scared,” she says, the fight leaving her body. Somehow, the
vulnerability in her gaze, in her slumped shoulders and curved spine, make
me feel even worse pain than any of her severe words. “She threatened me.
She promised to ruin my life if I didn’t…”
“If you didn’t betray me,” I say flatly. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why
didn’t you come to me?”
The silence hangs in the air, filling with all her possible answers.
Because she was never mine. She was never loyal to me, to begin with.
She had no real reason to trust me other than my wish that she would, and I
was so blinded by that desire and desperation that I thought it counted as
reality.
“I could have helped you,” I whisper, but it rings hollow as we both turn
and walk away. Would I have done it?
 Chapter 43—The Agent

Delilah Sutherland
I stroll into the office of the FBI director easily, pink pumps clicking and
cream-coloured dress swaying. I think a few jaws drop as I pass, and I hear
something clatter to the floor, but I keep walking.
“Director James,” I say cheerfully. “What can I do for you?”
The director pauses in a phone call, his eyes widening at the sight of me.
“I’ll be right back, I just need a moment to attend to an emergency.” Then he
hangs up with the click of a button. “Please, Miss Sutherland, have a seat.”
Technically, I’m on a first-name basis with Director James, aka Frederick
James, aka my uncle. Well, not my biological uncle, more of a close family
friend, but they’re close enough. But here, I’m also technically at work, since
I’ve been hired as a consultant to work with the FBI on the Cavalli case. I just
got back from tailing Antonio Cavalli and his girlfriend (poor thing!) to
Monte Carlo, and to be honest, this jet lag has me beat.
“Well?” I fold my red-nailed hands in my lap, the blonde wig still itching
my scalp. I prefer my natural brunette hair—the blonde stands out too much
—but I didn’t have time to change out of my “sister to an up-and-coming oil
tycoon” outfit before leaving the airport. “What is it, Director?”
“I could feel the Cavalli case coming to a head,” he says with a sigh.
“We’re closing in on him. Then, all of a sudden, Antonio Cavalli vanished,
taking Katerina Steele, wife of business magnate Alexander Steele, with
him.”
“Alexander Steele…” I tap a finger on my chin. “He’s the one whose
sister was—”
“Kidnapped by the Cavalli’s, yes.” He breathes a heavy sigh. “Will this
nightmare never cease?”
“It should soon,” I assure him. At the end of the day, Uncle Freddie does
treat me like an actual niece, doting on me the way any uncle would their
relative. So it pains me to see the premature grey hair and wrinkles forming
on his countenance. “Trust me. I’ve got it all under control.”
He perks up to hear that. “Really?”
“Yes, I just made contact with Sebastian Cavalli,” I respond, pulling out a
prepared dossier on him from my Bottega Veneta tote bag. “At a bakery in
Manhattan, where he was looking for a job. He’s twenty-three, an
international jet setter, and frankly, bored to death with his life of crime. I
think he’s the key to legitimizing the business. It’s possible that he was the
one who tipped off the FBI about the shipments.”
Director James shakes his head. “No, it was Antonio’s girlfriend.”
My eyebrows rise. I didn’t think the girl was capable of such sabotage,
but now I’m impressed. “Wow.”
“Yes, well, Agent Black is working closely with her. Between you and
me, that boy is in over his head investigating his ex-girlfriend’s new
boyfriend,” he says with a shrug. “But, he volunteered for the position.”
“Right.” My head spins a little trying to keep up with the drama being
flung at me. “Well, what else would you like me to do?”
“Continue the connection with Sebastian. He might be interested in
giving up his family for immunity,” he says. “And go change and shower,
please. You smell like Chanel No 5 and you look like you’re about to pull a
femme fatale on every man in this building, which would leave me drastically
short of agents.”
I grin. “See you, Uncle Freddie.”
His face relaxes a touch. “See you, ‘Lilah.”
On my way out of his office, I run into someone. According to the
nametag clipped onto his suit jacket, he’s one Rafael Santos. Floppy dark
hair, molten brown eyes, and a quicksilver smile. I scan through my mental
Rolodex for his name: friends with Lucas Black, 24, also working with Lucas
on the case. He takes a step back, extending his hand to me. “Apologies for
running into you. I’m Rafael Santos.”
“Delilah Sutherland,” I say, taking his hand and preparing to give him a
firm handshake.
He kisses it, to my surprise. “A pleasure.”
“Well, I’ve got to be on my way now,” I say, quickly sidestepping him. I
really can’t wait to get this wig off of my head. “Nice to meet you.”
When I walk past him, I feel his eyes on me. Grinning to myself, I keep
going.
#
Priscilla Martell
“Did you have your fun?” Lucas Black asks me, his voice harsh and acrid
as the liquors in the bottles behind the bar, his face a scrunched-up rictus of
anger. “Did you enjoy ruining that innocent girl’s life? I haven’t heard from
Christina in a week, ever since she got back from Monte Carlo. I don’t know
where she is and I can’t for the life of me find her.”
I lean back in my chair, sipping my Manhattan. “Have you considered
that maybe she’s avoiding you in the way that girls avoid their ex-boyfriends
by cutting them out of their lives?”
“This isn’t about a personal problem. It’s a professional one,” he says,
slamming his hand on the bar. “She could be hurt. Killed.”
“Don’t give me so much credit, Black.” I knock back the rest of my drink.
“We both know that if that girl ruined her life, she did it with her own two
hands the minute she went on a date with Antonio Cavalli.”
“Priscilla, please,” he says. “Antonio Cavalli… the man is a monster. He
could have her swimming with the fishes because he found out that she was
working with me, or found out that you threatened her. We need to find her.”
“We?” I ask. “There is no we here, Mr. Black. Don’t be confused.”
“Please,” he says again. “I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?” My mind swims with favours from the FBI. “Fine. I’ll see
what I can do about finding her, Agent Black. But I promise nothing, unlike
you.”
“Fine.” We shake on it, and he gulps down his water with shaky hands.
“It’s a deal.”
As he gets up and leaves the bar, I spot a familiar face entering. Sebastian
Cavalli.
He slides onto the barstool next to me. I turn to him, waving at the
bartender. “Hello, stranger. It’s been a while.”
“Yeah, I’ve been away from New York for the past few years, huh?” he
says with a laugh. “I’ll have what she’s having, thanks.”
I eye the crisp dollar bills he slides across the bar. “Europe has been
treating you well, I presume?”
“It’s been alright, but I missed being home,” he says with a shrug. “I
missed the people. My family. Some other things…”
A few years ago, I almost could have married him. Not by my own
choice, but by the machinations of those far above us. I’m not sure I would
have wanted it. He’s far too sentimental, too soft. “Have you thought about
my offer?”
He sighs as the Manhattan is passed to him. “Priscilla, when I said I
wanted to leave the Firm, the Outfit, I didn’t mean I wanted to join yours.
First of all, your father would kill me.”
I shrug. “He’d come around eventually.”
“Second of all, some days… I’d just like to leave this place, you know?
Not just get out of this town, but leave this life that I lead. I’d like to find a
new one, find something less… shady.” He shrugs. “So thanks again for the
offer, Priss, but it’s time for me to chart my own path. Blaze my own trail, as
it were.”
He drinks the Manhattan, then, just as suddenly as he entered, picks up
and leaves.
I rest my head in my hands and wait for my life to finish unravelling at
the seams like a snagged sweater thread.
 Chapter 44—The Prayer

Christina Martell
If I ever see Antonio Cavalli again, I swear to God, I’m going to break his
nose.
I may have never punched anyone before, and I may not even know how
to properly throw a punch, but I’m half-tempted to start training in MMA just
to learn how to.
Of course, it’s impossible to avoid him since he kidnapped me, and
Katerina Steele, and now I’m trapped in his compound.
I feel so stupid. So idiotically blind, reckless, and completely unlike
myself. This isn’t a love story, is it? It never was. Because in love stories, the
prince is supposed to save the princess from a tower. He doesn’t imprison her
in one next to another princess. He doesn’t lock them both in a dungeon.
He’s supposed to fight off the dragon. Not dredge all your demons to the
surface and drag you into the darkness with him.
He’s supposed to keep you safe, not plunge you and your eternal soul into
mortal peril.
He’s supposed to do a lot of things. And I was never supposed to be
foolish enough to think that I could be powerful enough to change a man
whether with my bare hands or my mere presence or anything else. Who did I
think I was, God?
What an idiot you were, Christina.
 I told myself I was just here to betray him. But now the thought of it,
even after all that he’s done to me, feels like betraying myself. And it is. To
fight a man who is so embroiled in a life of crime and sin, I had to mirror his
life. I had to lie and deceive and cheat just as he had likely defrauded and
tricked so many people. How could you not fight fire with fire?
And what good came of it? Two damaged souls and a shipment of drugs
were intercepted. But only one. Because there will be so many more after
this. There will be so many more lives ruined whether by drugs or murder or
theft or forgery. This is a tangled web and I willingly dove in with eyes wide
open, not even trying to look away or escape the imminent danger.
One tear slides down my cheek. Then another. In a moment, I’m breaking
into full-blown sobs.
God, God I’ve made such a mistake. He is the biggest mistake I’ve ever
made. God, I’m so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?
Of course, He can. Of course, He will. Yet I feel too broken to be
forgiven, too dirty to ever be made pure again. Not just by Antonio’s hands
on my skin, or his kiss on my mouth, but by my willing participation in them.
In this relationship. In all of it.
He broke me, and I will never be whole again.
I knew what I was going into. Of course, I knew. The worst part isn’t not
knowing. It’s that I knew and went in anyways. I never should have
downloaded Tinder, swiped right on Antonio, or done any of it.
God, my God, my Father, please, save me from my sins. Save me from
drowning in the disaster that I’ve created. LORD, don’t leave me here in my
distress. Please, God, please…
I cry even harder. My nose stuffs up, my eyes swollen and painful, until
no sound releases from my throat, until my body stops shaking. I curl up on
the four-poster bed, my arms wrapped around my knees.
God, I’m so sorry I hurt You. Please forgive me and please help me to
forgive others as You have forgiven my sins.
Wiping my eyes and grateful for the complete lack of mascara coating my
lashes, I hear a knock on the door. Straightening, I call out, “Who is it?”
“It’s Katerina. May I come in?”
I open the door. “Go ahead.”
“Thanks.” She glances at the tissues in my hands and my puffy eyes. “Are
you okay? I heard crying.”
“I’m not okay,” I say. “I was just praying.”
“Oh.” Katerina gestures toward the bed. “Can I sit?”
“Of course.” I sit next to her on the foot of the bed, since the room holds
no other furniture. “Please.”
“Do you want to pray together?” she says. “I know we’ve just met, but…
It never hurts.”
I nod. “No, I mean, as far as I know, more prayer never hurt anyone.”
“You’d be right about that.” Her smile is sad, but not pitying as we bow
our heads and pray. “Heavenly Father, I pray for Christina, Your daughter,
that You would comfort her and give her your peace and love. For You say
that when we sow with tears, we will reap with joy. I pray that You would fill
us both with joy in time, that You would rescue us from those who seek to
harm us, and that You would protect us, Father.”
I clear my throat. “And I pray that justice would be done, Father, not by
our hands to seek vengeance but by Yours. May you protect me and Katerina
and her child, Lord, from danger and evil. In Jesus’s Name, I pray, Amen.”
She wraps an arm around my shoulder and we sit in silence, meditating
on the great sorrow and great joy we hold, all at once.
 #
Antonio Cavalli
I don’t know how to make things right and I’m not sure that I ever will.
I sit in silence, staring at the lasagna as my aunt bustles around the
kitchen, busying herself with cleaning. She tsks as I pick up the fork but don’t
bring any food to my mouth. “You’re brooding.”
“No, I’m not.” I cut off a slice of lasagna and plop it onto my plate.
“What did you do to that poor girl?” she says, and I don’t even know
which one she’s talking about, because what have I not done? What crimes
have I not committed, what pains have I not inflicted?
“Everything,” I say, taking a forkful of noodles, sauce, meat, and gooey
cheese. “And nothing.”
She sighs. “You know what, Tony? That, right there, is brooding. If you
can’t do anything about the situation, then there’s no use in sitting on your
butt and whining about it.”
I finish the lasagna in a few bites, chewing slowly. “You’re too wise, Zia
Maria. As wise as you are beautiful.”
My aunt rolls her eyes at the flattery. “My dear nephew, you must
remember this, from your wise aunt, then. There is no sin too big for God to
forgive.”
“I hope you’re right.” I stand from the table, putting my plate in the sink.
“I always am.” She smiles, but I scarcely feel the warmth of it.
Making my way toward Christina’s room and hoping she doesn’t rip my
head off, I ponder the decisions that have led me to this place. Did I bring her
here on purpose? Because I wanted her to know the truth, not to hide my
worst crimes from her in the hopes that she could somehow provide
absolution? If so, it’s been a drastic failure and a doomed effort from the
starter.
There is no sin too big for God to forgive. I remember Saul—no, Saint
Paul—and how he persecuted Christians. Then, there was David, who
committed adultery and killed the woman’s husband. God forgave them.
Yet I am so much worse, I start to think, and stop myself. Jesus Christ
came into this world to save sinners, of which I am the chief. Saint Paul’s
words. Surely, I cannot count myself worse?
Before I know it, I’m standing outside Christina’s door, readying myself
to knock. “May I come in?”
“Why bother to ask? You certainly weren’t so polite when you kidnapped
me,” I hear Christina’s muffled voice say before she flings open the door,
revealing only Katerina sitting on the foot of her bed. It seems they’ve
become friends. “Thanks for praying with me, Katerina. I think… we need to
talk, alone.”
“That would be best,” I say stiffly. Whatever trust or intimacy we might
have built up in the last months since we’ve known each other is gone now,
demolished by both of our actions. We killed our own relationship, dousing it
in gasoline before it ever had a chance to escape the flames.
Katerina leaves quietly, shutting the door behind her.
Christina looks at me like she would kill me if she thought herself capable
of it. The fire in her eyes makes me sure that she could if she wanted to. After
all, the purest hearts may be able to commit the darkest sins; it’s only that
they choose not to do so.
“What did you come here for?” she asks. “To tell me about another
promise you broke or another lie you told me?”
The words spill out of me before I can control myself. She has that effect
on me. “I came here to make you a promise and to tell you the truth,
Christina. I know you betrayed me, and I know you were the one who fed
information to the feds about the shipment of drugs. I know you were talking
to Priscilla Martell.”
“Then why am I alive?” she asks, pulling her shoulders back and tilting
her head up to meet my gaze with her own, but tears spring up in her eyes.
The sight of her on the verge of crying breaks something in me; punches
a hole in a wall that I had previously thought was solid brick. She thinks I
would kill her.
And sadly, the truth is, if she were Mafia, I would. If she were one of the
men that I had trusted my life to, I would never have brought her here. I
would have taken her to my father or brought her out back and put a bullet
between her eyes.
Instead, I brought her here to keep her safe.
I don’t know where to go from here. To show her my mercy? Mercy in
sparing her life? Or to threaten her with the possibility that I could, at any
moment, snap her neck?
“Why am I still alive, Antonio?” Her voice is no longer calm. It’s a
breaking wave, a roll of thunder. “If you just brought me here to threaten me
into telling you about who I told… who my informants are…”
“I presume you are the informant and that you were in the hallway
listening to my father’s conversations,” I say flatly. “And I think I know
damn well that you were talking to Lucas Black, your ex-boyfriend. There is
nothing that I don’t know.”
“If you know so much, then tell me why I’m here,” Christina says,
breaking out into real sobs now. “Tell me why I’m not dead yet. Tell me why
I decided to stay here, with you, to my detriment. And now, to my demise
and execution, it seems.”
“I don’t know!” I snap. “I’ve been trying to figure that out this whole
time, and I don’t know. Because maybe you were FBI this whole time, and
you fed me a pretty line about God, and you’ve twisted my head into a dozen
incomprehensible shapes that I will never get straight. Because I kissed you,
and you kissed me back, and you got into my car when you could have left,
and you told me you trusted me when you had no reason to. Because I feel
things for you that I’ve never felt for anyone before, and you are this
beautiful, shining light in this dark world, and I would do terrible things just
to keep from losing you.”
“Those terrible things,” Christina says and pauses to draw in a deep
breath. “Antonio, those terrible things are what is going to make me leave
you. They’re what’s making you lose me. Kidnapping a pregnant woman?
Holing me up here in a medieval torture chamber? Antonio, you’ve lost me
already. I may be here right now, but I will never be here, with you. You’re
breaking me apart, Antonio Cavalli, and I don’t know how to stop it. I’m not
a light in the darkness for you, and I can’t be one. This world that you’ve
dragged me into, I was stupid to think that it wouldn’t taint me.”
“Come on, Christina,” I say, and my voice cracks. “You’re not stupid.”
“Is that all you have to say to me?” she says, pointing her finger at my
face. She shoves at my chest, hard. I am unmoved, physically, but inside, I
am a mess of emotions: hurt and indignation and so much confusion. “You’re
not stupid? I’m done, Antonio. I’m done. Get me out of here. Please.”
“Christina, please…” I reach for her, trying to hold her hands that she just
used to keep me away from her. “We both know there will be consequences.”
She shakes her head. “Whatever the consequences are, they’ll be better
than living in limbo for the rest of my life. I would rather know whether I
land in heaven or hell than be stuck wondering for eternity.”
“Fine.” My shoulders sag. There’s not a thing I can do or say to convince
her. I don’t want a half-dead shell of a girl in my life. It’s either all of her or
nothing. “Get your things. I’ll drive you home and this will be the last time
we ever see each other.”
“You told me you had a promise to make me,” she says, and her lip
trembles. She bites down as though regretting the show of weakness. “What
was it?”
“That I promise this is the last time,” I lie.
Christina shakes her head, not believing me, but not caring enough to ask
me again. We walk out of the fortress in silence.
But when we make it to the driveway, my father’s Lamborghini pulls up.
 Chapter 45—The Departure

Christina Martell
Antonio practically shoves me into a car when he spots his father getting
out. I hide in the backseat, the window cracked open half an inch so that I can
overhear their conversation.
“Noon, on the dot, as promised,” Roberto says calmly, gesturing with his
arms wide. His thick Italian accent coats his brusque words. “Though I didn’t
require your information, I still made it. I know who the informant is.”
“You do, now?” Antonio stuffs his hands in the pocket as though he isn’t
given informed critical information from his gangster father and instead
engaged in a calm conversation with someone in the checkout line at the
grocery store. Though I could never really picture him in the grocery store,
buying produce. “Then please enlighten me. Who is it?”
“That girl,” he says. And I hear all the restraint in his voice to keep from
calling me something much worse. I don’t blame him. “Christina Martell.
Where is she?”
“Why do you need to know?” he says.
Is this why he brought me out? He was going to let his father kill me? I
burrow deeper into the backseat, afraid even to breathe. Tears spring to my
still-raw eyes and I wipe them away, angry at my cowardice.
“Why do you think?” Roberto Cavalli says. “We have omerta for a
reason. Anyone who breaks it faces a fate worth than death.”
 “She never took that oath of silence,” Antonio says. “She’s not one of
us.”
His words, she’s not one of us, sound both filled with resentment and
adoration. I do not deserve either.
Not from him.
The door opens, the engine revs and I jump, clapping my hand over my
mouth and trying not to scream. Then the driver turns around, their blue eyes
locking on mine. It’s Allie. She places a finger to her lips, like, don’t speak. I
couldn’t even if I wanted to, my vocal cords seeming to have constricted
completely.
“No, but you wanted her to be, didn’t you?” Roberto says slowly.
What?
“You bought a ring.” Roberto Cavalli continues, his black suit standing
out against his white car and the grey gravel underneath his feet, crunching
like the snapping of his enemies’ necks. Maybe I’m being a bit dramatic. But
every noise to me sounds like a ready peril, lethal and immediate. “You
wanted to marry that girl and make her a Cavalli.”
Antonio says nothing. Through the crack in the window, I see his face,
full of nothing but the most sorrowful anguish.
Something inside of me, something traitorous and foolish enough to not
know that Antonio Cavalli is bad for me, not just bad but the worst, not just
bad for me but bad in general… that part of me crumbles. I want to fling my
arms around him. At that moment, that part of me would say yes to anything
as long as he was the one doing the asking.
But I can’t. Not if I want to make it out of here alive.
The tires crunch on the gravel. Allie rolls down the driver’s side window.
“Bye, Papa!”
 He frowns. “Where are you going?”
“Shopping,” she says. Too quickly. For a mafia princess, I thought she
would be a better liar. I guess not.
“Where?”
“Hobby Lobby.”
“You never go there.”
“They’re having a sale.”
“They’re also closed on Sundays. And last time I checked, Adelina, today
was a Sunday. So tell me, where are you going and why are you driving your
own car?”
Allie’s hands move quickly over the gears and buttons, but in her haste,
she hits the button to roll down the tinted backseat window.
Revealing one Christina Martell.
“Harbouring a fugitive?” His face doesn’t change as he glances from his
daughter to me and back to Allie. But something deepens in his voice,
opening new and darker pits of wickedness. “This isn’t how I raised you.”
“No,” she says coolly. “But I learned from you that some things are more
important than the laws.”
“Things like what?” He jerks the car door open and I barely escape
tumbling to the ground, scooting back to the back of the seat. Should I run or
hide? How? Where?
“Family,” she says. “And love.”
Roberto scoffs. “You don’t love this girl.”
“No,” she says. “But my brother does.”
Just as I put my hand on the handle of the car door, Roberto Cavalli
reaches in and in one fell swoop, he drags me out of the car kicking and
screaming, pressing a gun to my temple.
 My insides tense up, feeling the cold metal against my forehead.
I watch Antonio, my eyes never leaving him as his father’s forearm bends
against my throat, cutting off my air supply. Even when black spots dance in
my vision, I need to know if it’s true.
I need to know if he truly wanted to marry me. If I was the one for him,
and we just caught each other in the wrong lives, at the back time.
I need to know if we could have stood a chance. If we ever had a fighting
chance, before I dive-bombed all over it by working with my ex-boyfriend.
Please, my eyes say to his grey ones.
Please, tell me if any of this was real.
His eyes tell me everything I need to know. Pain, panic, and fear lie in
them. Betrayal, and hurt, too. But most importantly, an emotion I know all
too well: grief.
Not grief for what he’s lost. Grief for what we will never have.
“Take your hands off of her,” Antonio says, slowly walking over to his
father. “Damn it, Dad, drop the girl! She didn’t do crap to you!”
“She’s the one informing on us to the feds,” Roberto says calmly. I feel
his hand tighten around my neck, the gun pressing harder against my face,
digging into my skin. Tears spring into my eyes again, and I try to glare
through them.
“You’re too blinded by your lust of a pretty face to see the truth, Antonio.
That she betrayed us. You would never have cared about some woman before
this, Tony. Don’t do this now. Don’t let this woman ruin you, now.”
Antonio doesn’t let me go. He doesn’t walk away. Instead, he pulls out
his gun, and, in one fell shot, shoots his father in the arm.
The holler of pain and spray of blood is too near me for my comfort. I
dive away from Roberto as he releases me, trying to make it behind the car,
back into the car and secure myself behind the door. I slam it shut, squishing
Roberto Cavallii’s fingers, and lock the doors, getting on the floor.
“You shot me,” Roberto says slowly. “You shot your father.”
Antonio’s face in the crack in the window is stern, unyielding. “And I
would do it again if you threatened her life.”
The car window smashes and I scream as broken glass rains over me,
veiling my hair and landing on my clothes like deadly snowflakes.
Roberto Cavalli yanks me up by the collar. “You’re not going to stop me,
son. You’re too weak. You will never be able to turn against your family.
You’d never break your word.”
“I would,” Antonio shouts. And with that, his next bullet lands in his
father’s chest. I fall back to the floor of the car, then open the door with
shaky, bleeding hands, and stare down at Roberto Cavalli’s corpse. Covered
in broken glass and blood, I watch Antonio run toward me. Frozen in time, I
feel like I can’t move. I’m rooted to the ground, unable to leave this spot. No
one and nothing can release me from this palace, from this second of my life.
I am numb. I am hollow. I am nothing.
Then Antonio’s hands touch mine, and I come to life again. He brushes
the broken glass from my hair with tender hands, and dabs at the blood on my
face–his father’s blood on my cheek–with a silk handkerchief.
“Christina,” he says. “Christina, look at me. Are you okay?”
I open my mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. I close it again, but
not a thought floats in my head. I say the first thing that my instincts push me
to say. “Did you mean it?”
“What?” He pauses in wiping the blood from my eyebrow. “What do you
mean?”
“Did he mean it when he said that you wanted to marry me?” I say softly,
my voice barely above a croak.
“Christina…” His thumb brushes over my cheekbone, under my eyes. “I
just killed my father for you.”
“Why?” I say, and I feel like I’m about to break. I can’t help but think
that I survived death just to fall into it once more.
“Because I love you,” he says angrily. “Because I love you no matter all
that you’ve done, all that you’ve said, and I can’t stop loving you. I want to
keep you in my life because I don’t know… because I do know how my life
looked without you in it, and it was the darkest thing I’ve ever seen. You
came into my life, Christina, and you woke me up. I don’t want to be without
you. Will you marry me?”
 Chapter 46—The Flight

Antonio Cavalli
I don’t know what I was thinking.
That easily could go down in history as the worst proposal of all time.
Allie sped away with Christina in the backseat, leaving me holding the
gun and standing over my father’s–our father’s–dead body.
Blood still stains the gravel while the gun sits heavier in my hands than it
ever has.
I just shot my father.
He’ll never gripe to me once more about the Martells or tell me in his
gruff manner to stand up straight. He’ll never see what happens with
Christina. Which is nothing.
So many things will never happen. So many things I’ll never learn from
him. So many secrets I’ll never pry from his cold, dead hands.
I toe the sleeve of his suit jacket away from me and bend down before I
can stop myself to close his eyes. His face is forever frozen in a rictus of
surprise, shock, blending together with betrayal.
He never expected it of me. And somehow that made it all the sweeter,
and all the more bitter.
I stand there on the gravel, frozen, for God knows how long. Christina’s
words echo in my mind, as the world revolves around me endlessly.
Something about Jane Eyre and Rochester. The sentences make no sense to
me now. Nothing makes sense anymore. Years pass, or seconds. It could be
an infinity later that my phone buzzes with a text.
I stare at my father’s body crumpled on the ground, so much weaker in
death than he was in life. Was I ever really scared of this man?
Checking my phone, I read the message. I took her to the airport. —Allie
Fine. —Antonio
Are you okay? —Allie
I need a favour —Antonio
Anything —Allie
Aren’t you driving? How are you texting? —Antonio
Moments later, the text box closes, indicating that she’s stopped typing,
and the phone rings instead. I don’t peel my eyes off of Roberto Cavalli’s
corpse, instead, swiping to answer her call.
“Hello?” I remain rooted to the spot. “Allie?”
“What’s the favour, big bro?” she asks, her voice light.
But what I’m about to ask of her is not light at all. “I need you to go back
to your biological family.”
Dead silence. I fix my eyes on a wrinkle in my father’s jacket, right at the
sleeve, then let my gaze drop to a lump in his pocket. What’s in it? His
wallet? He usually puts his wallet in the back pocket of his pants, not his
jacket.
Maybe it’s a roll of cash. Maybe he was going to pay her off. Maybe my
bullets were wasted.
“Allie, are you there?” I say.
“I’m here,” she says, sounding winded. “I just, um, didn’t expect to hear
that from you, Tony.”
“I know it’s a lot to ask,” I say. “And it wouldn’t be permanent.”
 “Would it?” she says with a sigh. “I know how the Mafia works. I know
that I’m not a person to our father, but merely his property, just something to
be traded like a pawn. But Tony, I thought you were better than this. Better
than him.”
“Our father is dead,” I say, my voice hollow. Someone has to take his
place.
She reads my mind. “It doesn’t mean you have to be just like him.”
“Just this once,” I say, hating the way my voice trembles. “I need you to
do this one thing for me, Allie. Adelina, you will be forever in my debt.”

“Fine.” The tone of her voice is like a boot on fresh snow, leaving a deep
imprint. “I’ll do it, Tony. But only because you asked.”
“Thank you.” I collapse against the door of a Bugatti. “Come back when
you’re done at the airport.”
“I’m already on my way,” she assures me. “Are you making the
exchange?”
“Tomorrow,” I assure her. “There’s someone else I need to pick up first.”
#
I don’t know if it’s been minutes or hours after I hang up when I hear
sirens blaring.
Gravel crunches. I make no move to save myself. I don’t deserve it.
“Drop the weapon and put your hands on your head!” shouts a cop. I
perform the actions mindlessly, obliging.
I have nothing left. No reason to run or hide. Christina Martell is out of
my life forever, and I have only my own desperate, idiotic hopes to blame for
it.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be
used against you in a court of law,” says the cop as he takes my hands from
my head, forcing them behind my back. The click of cuffs as the other officer
—no, agent, these are FBI—kneels down and picks up the gun, bagging it
with black-gloved hands. “You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot
afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”
Silent, I watch the world as they drag me to the car. It keeps spinning
around me. Birds chirping, leaves shaking in the spring breeze, and one scrap
of black velvet fabric, torn from Christina’s dress, flutters over the gravel. I
stomp on it, but I have no way of picking it up.
So I let it go. I let the last piece of her go.
#
Christina Martell
This is my last private jet ride for a very long time. Or at least for the
foreseeable future.
I try to enjoy it. Allie dropped me off at the airport with a note in her
hand, written on Cavalli letterhead, to their pilot. I passed it to him when
prompted, and though I have no passport and only a driver’s license, he
promises to take me wherever I want with complete secrecy.
I can still smell the iron stench of Roberto Cavalli’s blood. When I
explore the private jet further, I find a closet, fully furnished with black
clothing perfectly to my taste. I don’t want to wear any of them. I don’t want
any of his finery or his gifts adorning my body. The diamond necklace still
sparkles at my throat and I tear it off in a fit of desperation, fumbling with the
clasp. I’d throw it out of the plane if I could.
Everywhere I turn, I see memories. The trips I took with him. That last
vengeful, desperate, deceitful attempt to bring justice that went against
everything I believe in. But all I can see is my own pride, turned to ashes in
my mouth.
I tried to change him, and failed.
I believed I could be strong enough to bring him to justice, and at that, I
failed most miserably.
Am I running away from my problems now, or am I facing up to my
failures?
My phone dings with a text. How we have service or wi-fi when we’re
ten thousand feet in the air, I have no idea, but I don’t question it as I read the
message.
We arrested Antonio Cavalli. Good job. —Lucas
Good job. I don’t feel like I’ve done a good job. I don’t feel like I’ve
done a job at all. I feel like I’ve lost the first man that I ever loved, and I will
never get him back, because our love ate at my insides like acid.
Good to know. —Christina
I shut off my phone and stare off into space. The plane is loaded with as
many vinyl records, books, and blockbusters, as one could possibly need to
be entertained. But the only thing I can do is sink to my knees and confess
how terribly I have behaved. How awfully I have sinned, by deceiving
Antonio even if I did think it was for a good cause.
I think of Jael, in the book of Deborah, sinking her tent peg into Sisera’s
skull. After she gave him milk and used her feminine wiles to lull him into a
false sense of security. But I’m no Jael, and Antonio, despite everything… he
wasn’t Sisera.
I don’t want a ‘good job’ from some earthly master. I want to hear, well
done, my good and faithful servant from the only Master whose will and
opinion matters. There is no God but God, and He is the only one whose
approval I should ever have sought.
As I sprawled onto the plush carpet of the plane, planted beneath a nickel
wall sconce, I poured my heart out. Regret and remorse and guilt filled me
before being washed away by God’s grace and His Son’s blood.
When I try to stand to make it to my seat, the plane seems to move in a
manner akin to a roller coaster. It lurches, rolls, and generally makes me want
to vomit.
I stagger to my seat and fumble for the seatbelt as static comes over the
intercom. “Miss Martell, we will be going through some difficult turbulence.
Please, hold on.”
Buckling the seatbelt, I grip the armrests as a roaring sound fills my ears.
A scream releases from my throat, my stomach heaving as the plane goes
through more turbulence than I’ve ever experienced before.
Then moments later, my field of vision goes black.
 Chapter 47—The Arrest

Antonio Cavalli
I sit in the interrogation room. I’ve only seen these in movies before.
Metal folding chairs sit across from one another. Industrial flooring, a
nicked wooden table, and one flimsy spotlight surround me.
Lucas Black sits in one rickety chair, facing me. “So we meet again.”
The cuffs dig into my wrists as I try to scratch my chin. “So we do.”
I can’t even bring myself to find any indignation or anger at my arrest.
All I feel is the complete opposite; nothingness, an empty, purposeless void
yawning open inside my chest.
“Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Cavalli?” says a faintly familiar
voice as a woman wearing a red dress and a pair of heels clicks into the room.
I glance up. Dark brown hair. Blue eyes. Red lipstick. Classically
beautiful. She looks nothing like an FBI agent, but who am I to judge? That
could be the very reason they picked her for the job. “Do I know you?”
“I asked you first.” She leans against the doorjamb, an expensive designer
purse hanging from the crook of her arm.
“You were in Monte Carlo, weren’t you?” I study her, trying to
remember.
“I may have travelled there in the last week or so.” She shrugs. “What’s it
to you?”
 The woman looks at me like I’m an insect specimen on a slide beneath a
microscope: with disgust and some curiosity. Does she know me at all?
I roll my shoulders back. “I’d like to know who I’m going to be
interrogated by.”
“Delilah Sutherland,” she says. Lucas plays with his phone, typing out a
text. “I’d shake your hand, but that seems like it would be too humiliating for
you.”
“I’m surprised you care about the dignity of criminals, Miss Sutherland.”
Lucas slams his phone face down on the table, his face flushed. “Please,
either tell me where Agent Santos is or get out.”
She only smiles. “Testy, aren’t we? He’s on his way from a bakery in
Queens.”
“Queens?” repeats Lucas. “What is he doing there?”
Delilah just studies her French manicured nails. “It’s classified. Are you
going to interrogate him or not?”
“I’m waiting for the cops to show up,” he says with an eye roll.
Delilah takes a seat next to Lucas. “Officer Petrarch?”
“The one and only.” Lucas drums his fingers on the scarred table. His
phone chirps and he picks it up. “Oh, good, he says he and Rafael are on their
way.”
Minutes later, two people in uniform enter. One of them is vaguely
familiar to me, and I realize who it is: one of the suppliers at a meeting a few
months ago. Or, I guess, an agent disguised as a supplier.
“Officer Petrarch, this is Antonio Cavalli,” Lucas says, gesturing toward
me. “Delilah Sutherland, Rafael Santos.”
“Now that we’ve all met,” Officer Petrarch says. “Let’s get this over with.
Everyone clear out, please. I have some questioning to do.”
 Lucas Black, Delilah Sutherland, and Rafael Santos file out of the room.
The single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling flickers as Officer Petrarch
takes a seat.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Cavalli. May I call you Antonio?” Officer Solana
Petrarch is a slight, dark-haired woman, with wavy hair undone and loose
over her shoulders. It’s at odds with her neatly pressed and ironed police
uniform.
“If you must,” I say.
“Very well, then. Antonio, are you aware of why you’re here?” she says,
drumming her fingers on the wooden table.
“Because I’m a criminal, I would presume,” I say, fighting the urge to
give a sardonic smile.
“Yes, but there’s more to it.” She pulls a folder out of her briefcase and
slides it across the table, opening the manila file. “Are you aware that you
have been harbouring the daughter of a renowned mafia leader?”
I bark a laugh. “That’s the whole reason I was harbouring her.”
“And Katerina Steele—wife of the business magnate, Alexander
Steele…“ she says. “Did you or did you not kidnap her?”
“The Steeles assured me they were not alerting the authorities, Officer
Petrarch,” I say blandly. “Are you to tell me that they lied to me?”
“Don’t act like you’re shocked by deception,” she replies, flipping a pen
in one hand before setting a recorder on the table, its blinking red light
reminding me that my words are being immortalized. “You lead a life of
crime, after all.”
“Is this how you talk to all your suspects, Officer Petrarch? Because I
have been charged with nothing so far, and I believe your line of questioning
will keep it that way.” I lean back as far as I can in my metal folding chair,
with my hands cuffed to the table. The metal digs into my wrists, making me
wince.
Officer Petrarch smirks. Then she types something into her phone. I read
her texts upside down. Lucky’s, the usual. A food order. Make it a double. Is
she planning on sharing?
She turns the phone facedown. “Didn’t your parents teach you it was rude
to spy on others’ private communications?’
“It’s a text message, not a love letter,” I say. “And, no. My parents taught
me many things, but that was not one of them. Picking locks, yes. Cracking
safes. How to beat a man bloody until he gave you information. How to kill a
man. How to break a man’s spine while keeping him alive. How to fire a
gun–”
“Thank you, Antonio, you have been surprisingly verbose,” she says, her
eyes studying me. “But what I’d like you to open up about is Christina
Martell. Where is she?”
My head hangs low, staring down at my cuffed hands. I pull at the cuffs
until my wrists whiten, then release them and watch the blood flow back into
my hands. I feel like a horse trying to pull off its bridle. “If I knew, I
wouldn’t be here.”
“That’s hardly an answer, Mr. Cavalli. What about Katerina Steele?
Where is she?” she demands.
“Safe and soundly returned with her family,” I respond. And she will be.
Within the next twenty-four hours.
Ten minutes of pointless questioning goes nowhere, as expected. Lucas
Black walks in, carrying two paper bags stained with grease. “I’m not your
DoorDash guy,” he gripes.
Solana rolls her eyes, standing and reaching for the food.
 Then he pulls out his gun and knocks Solana Petrarch unconscious. The
blood and bruises staining his face tell me that either Rafael enjoyed
punching his friend a little too much, or he just found a really good makeup
artist. The former would be cheaper, so I assume that’s the truth. Considering
his stiff movements and the way he cringes as he undoes my cuffs, it’s real.
“Let’s get out of here.” We exit the police precinct with hurried
movements, leaving through a back door.
 Chapter 48–The Steeles

Antonio Cavalli
I asked my uncle to impersonate my father.
Uncle Silvio is long-estranged, having left the mob years ago to become a
simple mechanic. However, I tracked him down with the help of my
busybody aunt, and now he’s taking the place of my dead father. He looks
strikingly similar to him, though the streak of grey in his hair is less
prominent than that of my father’s is—was.
In the span of twenty-four hours, I’ve killed my father, broken the vow of
omerta, and proposed to the love of my life, only to be rejected. Not to
mention I took up arms with a man whom I loathe, Lucas Black.
It’s been a rather insane day. But if my plan goes well, it should all be for
a good cause.
I glance at the two guards behind me, Hortensio and Lorenzo, and nod as
they shove the bag over Lucas Black’s head. He doesn’t resist, his wrists
bound behind his back with rope. Then I give a nod, the doors are opened,
and I step out into the top room of the Cavalli-owned skyscraper.
“Apologies for my tardiness,” I say, facing an array of characters who are
all too familiar to my eyes. Abigail Steele, her older brother, and her
boyfriend, the prince. She’s clad in navy, which looks awful with her sallow
skin and red hair, and looks worried out of her mind for her sister-in-law.
 Behind me, Lucas Black is putting on a dramatic show, fighting as if for
his life. The bag is perfectly breathable, being a mesh hood similar to the
ones that cops might use, but I doubt anyone present besides Lucas and I
know that.
Not that it matters what is real and what looks real. I have a bargain to
make, an offer to be fulfilled, and I refuse to be turned down.
I have nothing left to lose. I’ve given up my family, my father, and my
whole life. For one girl, who might never love me.
Who do I have left? What do I still possess that cannot be taken from me?
Allie is the last bargaining chip I have, which is why she’s waiting in the
back room with Katerina Steele and her newborn baby. Mrs. Steele went into
labour last night, and from what Allie said, she was crying and praying and
even cursing through it, to be delivered of an infant boy.
Glancing at Alexander Steele’s worried expression: the tense set of his
jaw, the hollow look in his eyes, maybe I should feel a bit more remorseful
for my actions, how I took away one of the most important moments of his
life. But I can’t bring myself to feel anything at all.
“Lucas!” Alexander says, as his eyes cast over to the FBI agent and he
dashes to his side. How can he care about this one man—this broken, battered
man—when his wife and son are missing? “Why would you do this to him?”
I school my expression into one of uncaring insouciance. It’s not difficult.
Not when I’ve lost all that I could care for. I snap my fingers for the guards to
put Lucas on a chair. “His actions got him into this position, Mr. Steele. I
would watch my mouth if I were you, to keep it from being… permanently
closed.”
Emotions flicker across Alexander Steele’s face: anger, indignation, and a
deep sense of compassion and pity that confuses me. Who is it directed to?
Lucas Black? His wife? Or me, and this life I’ve trapped myself in? I throw
away the last ludicrous thought before it can take root. “Do not threaten me,
Mr. Cavalli. I have the law on my side.”
The law means as little to me now as it did a week ago when I was the
king of the underworld. What more can this man try to take from me? No, all
the things I’ve tried to hold onto have slipped as easily from my grasp as a
handful of sand in the salt-tinged ocean breeze. “Yes, well… That makes no
difference, considering you’ve decided to take me up on my offer.”
Who is he to lecture me on morality and legality when he’s consorting
with a known criminal like myself? I can only hope that Uncle Silvio doesn’t
have his reputation tarnished by association with me. Family is all I have left.
And maybe I am not alone in my values as I watch Abigail Steele running
up to Lucas Black, a fierce determination in her blue eyes. She wants to save
her sister-in-law, to spare her brother from making the difficult choices. But
I’ve made plenty of those in my life, and look where I am now.
Rock bottom.
“Stop! Don’t hurt him.” Abigail stands in front of Lucas. The guards have
brought him over to me and though the bag was ripped off of his head, he still
has a gag in his mouth.
How quickly they fall for these dark games. How easily I play them.
No wonder she left, Antonio.
I laugh at her request, more out of humour than any real delight in
Lucas’s plight. Well, he did do a number on Christina, but I can’t think of her
right now. It hurts too much. Yet she comes back time and time again, a
persistent message in a bottle that won’t stop washing up on the shore.
“Why should I, Miss Steele? What do you have for me, that I can trade
for him? Because Mr. Black here, as irritating as he may be, seems valuable
to many people I know. He seems valuable to your brother, to Christina
Martell, to such a great deal of people. What do you have to offer me,
Abigail?”
She stutters. Her brother warns her away from her course of action, which
is the wisest thing. The most selfless thing.
Which means I’ll never understand it.
“Your money is no good here, Miss Steele. What will you give me for his
life, and your sister-in-law… or your sister?” I nudge Lucas Black and watch
him almost stagger, his hands still bound.
“You want to make a deal, Mr. Cavalli? I’ll make a deal with you.”
Abigail stares up at me, naive defiance in her eyes. “A sister, for a sister. And
you bring back Katerina.”
She’s right in the back room, ensconced in the lap of luxury, and hardly
as far away as the Steeles might think, but the illusion of power is easier to
maintain than power itself.
It’s an illusion I keep perpetuating. A useful one. “What a sweet bargain.
What a loving sacrifice. I have no use for you, however. What am I to do
with another Steele girl and one who remembers that she had a life outside of
the Cavalli’s? No, this simply will not do.”
“I… I don’t know what you want, then,” Abigail says, desperation in her
blue eyes. “This is all I can give you.”
Contrary to popular belief, I am not a heartless man.
At least, not until Christina Martell tore the beating heart from my chest
and took off.
“This is all you have? Then I’ll take it.”
#
Lucas Black
 I’m beginning to think this was a mistake.
I am drawn between legality and crime, a world of darkness and a world
of blinding, painful light. The pain on my body and face, the bruises, the
bloodied nose, and my split lip… all of it is nothing compared to the conflict
brewing within me.
As I watch the Steele family become reunited with their long-lost sister,
with Katerina, my heart sinks in my chest. Have I joined the wrong side?
Antonio gave me his word—swore on Christina’s life—that he wouldn’t
harm any of them. But what good is a mobster’s word, especially when he
could easily have gotten rid of Christina already? I’ve called her five times
since the last text message and she hasn’t picked up. Where is she?
But as I watch Abigail Steele enter Antonio Cavalli’s car, I have the
sinking feeling that I might find out.
And it may not be pleasant.
Slipping away, I go to hail a cab and make my way back to my apartment.
But just as I reach the door, a hand rests on my shoulder. I swivel around. It’s
Allie Steele and she slips a note into my hand, not saying a word before she
goes back to the Steeles.
I tuck the note into my pocket and walk briskly to the elevator. The
Steeles have all filed out, and I stand alone in the Art Deco elevator, golden
doors and mirrored walls. My reflection stares back at me in an endless loop,
and I wince as I touch the bruises on my face.
My phone dings. Destiny. Where have you been? Marco says you and
Antonio broke out of jail or something.
Kind of… well, something like that. I’ll tell you when I get home.
Making it out of the luxurious lobby and into the parking garage, I reach
my car. My jaw drops, muscles tensing. Graffiti is spray-painted across the
windshield in red letters, and the handwriting is vaguely familiar to me, not to
mention the C logo.
WHERE IS SHE?
I look up, directly toward the security cameras, and say, “Well, damn,
Antonio. If I knew, I’d be there.”
 Chapter 49–The Eiffel Tower

ONE MONTH LATER

Christina Martell
“Mom, I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you when I get back to the hotel,
okay?” I hold the phone to my ear, trying not to get too jostled by the crowds
of tourists thronging around me. “I love you, too.”
Just as I hang up, Thyra returns, wearing dark sunglasses and carrying
two Eiffel Tower key chains. One is pink, the other black. “Which one do
you want?”
“Do you have to ask?” I say with a laugh as I shove my phone back into
the pocket of my black jeans. I take the black one, looping the keyring onto
the strap of my bag.
“No, but I had to be sure.” Thyra smiles, but the expression doesn’t quite
reach her eyes. “Want to go see la Tour Eiffel?”
A group of men walk by in suits, chattering in Italian, and I stiffen.
“Of course, that’s what we’re here for.” I try to sound cheerful.
“Awesome.” She loops her arm through mine and we mill about the
grounds, buying street food and carnival snacks.
When I’m munching on a soft pretzel and she’s eating fluffy blue cotton
candy, we decide to go up the Eiffel Tower.
I cast a surreptitious glance around me as we walk arm-in-arm. The same
men who have been following me since I got off of Antonio Cavalli’s private
jet and into the Parisian airport are still with us. If Thyra has noticed them,
she hasn’t mentioned it. I’ve been in Paris for nearly a month now, and I’ve
updated my mother as to my location, even FaceTiming her to show her that I
was with Thyra, and she seems to have relaxed somewhat. She’s even
suggested taking time off work to come visit us and sightsee with us, which
sounds fun. I miss my mother. I miss New York.
But I don’t know if I’lll ever be able to go back. Not even for the chicken
Caesar salad pizza that I had at one incredible pizza place. Not even for the
Cold Stone ice cream with oreos. No matter how good the food is or how
many people I know and love are there… my heart would still ache from the
one person who I fell in love with.
And then promptly abandoned. And rejected.
I can be happy without him. I can live without him.
But I don’t know if I want to.
Another thing I don’t know is if the men following me are Martell’s men
or Cavalli guards, but either way, I’m not sure if I should feel safe or spied
on. Every time I’ve tried to approach one of them, I’ve been foiled they
always escape into a busy crowd. When I try to talk to them, they pretend
they don’t speak English. Which they very well might not.
Still, I’ve tried French, even some rudimentary Italian. Nothing.
“What are you thinking about?” Thyra says, snapping a picture of the
view. We’re a few thousand feet above the ground, and down far below us is
the cobblestone streets, the Arc de Triomphe with its gorgeous intricately
carved stone surface; even the pigeons pecking at tourists’ crumbs and the
tourists milling around with selfie sticks look beautiful and romantic from
this height.
“What? Oh… nothing. Just my mom,” I say, trying to smile. It’s only
half-false.
Thyra sighs. “I wish you knew you could tell me anything, Christina.”
The thing is, I know I can. I know she would listen. But what happened
with Antonio just feels too personal, too shameful, too intimate to share with
anyone. Except maybe him, and I’ll never see him again. He’s probably in
jail or escaped to some exotic location or maybe even in Italy.
He’s nowhere near me, and I can’t ever let him get that close again. It
would kill me.
“I know… Maybe I’ll be ready to share with you, soon,” I offer weakly.
She nods, understanding. “Do you want to stop by Laduree later and get
macarons?”
“Yeah.” I smile. “I can’t believe this is your life. Macarons, Paris, the
Eiffel Tower… it sounds like a dream.”
Thyra elbows me. “Yours sounds like one, too, you know?”
I nod. Last week, I received news that Charles Martell was dead. Along
with the ten million dollars and a house in Provence that I got, my mom
received a sizeable nest egg of one million and a vault of jewelry. She’s spent
it modestly, since years of frugality are hard to shake off, but she did go on a
shopping spree the other day and she definitely won’t let me pay for her
plane ticket to France, either.
I’m glad we’re comfortable, now. Part of me thinks I might never have
found out who I was—whose daughter I was—without Antonio. But who
knows? Maybe I would have?
“I mean, being a secret mafia heiress and all that,” she jokes. “The only
things I get are crotchety afghans from my great-aunts.”
I laugh. “At least the afghans aren’t soaked in blood.”
“No, just cat litter.”
 We arrive at the top and stare out at the view. From this vantage point, I
can see the whole city. The glittering pyramid of the Louvre; the Champs-
Elysees; I even imagine that I can see far enough to the fabled palace of
Versailles, the gilded cage for Louis XIV’s trapped courtiers.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
I almost jump out of my skin at the tenor of the speaker’s voice.
It’s a sound I would know anywhere.
It’s Antonio Cavalli.
#
Antonio Cavalli
“Antonio?” Christina twists the scarf around her neck, looking up at me
wide-eyed.
“Christina,” I say. “Who’s your friend?”
The petite, sunglasses-clad girl with tan skin and dark curls pipes up.
“I’m Thyra, Christina’s best friend. I’m guessing you’re the heartbroken
lover she cruelly rejected?”
I choke on air. Christina looks torn between killing her best friend and
running away. “Yes…”
“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Thyra.” She shakes my hand before glancing
me and Christina. “I’m going to go over there. But no funny business, mister.
I don’t want my best friend to be kidnapped… again.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha.” Christina seems to have recovered enough to laugh at her
friend’s bad jokes. “I’ll be fine.”
Still, she stares at her best friend’s retreating figure as if to say, don’t
leave me here with this psychopath. Or maybe that’s just my imagination.
“What are you doing here, Antonio?” She stuffs her hands deep into the
pockets of her beige trench coat, her expression shifting from deer in
headlights to defensive and about to sic the alligators in my moat on you.
“I came to see you, obviously.” I take a cautious step closer, ignoring the
swarms of sightseers milling around us.
“But…” she bites her lip. “Are you the one who sent those men after me?
The ones who’ve been following me around?”
“There are men following you around?” I say. That is genuinely a
surprise to me.
“How else would you have found me?” she says, eyebrows rising.
“A wild guess,” I say. “Okay, fine, your mother told me.”
“My mother?” she repeats. “Why would she do that? She hates you!”
“First of all, ouch.” I press a hand to my chest. “Second of all, she started
liking me when we attended the same church.”
“You—you go to church now? Why? When?” Now we’re back to deer in
the headlights. Make that an adorable deer in the headlights. She moves
toward me, as if proximity alone will answer her questions.
“Since you left, Christina, I’ve turned my life around. I know it might be
hard to believe, but… I realized I wanted to be a better man. Not for you—
not to get you back, but because… You inspired me, Christina. I wanted to
have what you had, this deep, abiding, unwavering hope in the goodness of
things, in the goodness of life… in the goodness of God.” I take another step
toward her.
Her lower lip quivers. I realize that all of a sudden, less than a foot
separates us. “Did you find it? Did you find that hope?”
“Yes,” I say honestly. “I found God, and salvation, and hope, and all of it.
I found His love, and now… I want to love you, Christina, the way you
deserve to be loved. I’m not perfect, and I never will be, but… if you give me
a chance, I can try to be good. For you.”
 She wraps her arms around herself. “Why don’t we have dinner tonight?”
“Christina Martell, are you asking me on a date?” A smile curves my lips
upwards.
“Why, Antonio Cavalli, I think I am.”
 Chapter 50–The Journey

Antonio Cavalli
“You never know what will happen until it happens,” my mother used to
say.
I used to think that was a complete load of BS.
Well, that’s not true. I still think it’s an entirely foolish statement now.
The only thing is, I almost understand it.
When I made my escape from New York, I had a lot of time to think. It
was easy to think when one was in a jail cell for five days, even if they did
get out on the account that one’s deceased father had been friends with the
Attorney General.
Well, not only had I been keeping an eye on the men Priscilla Martell had
assigned to watch over her sister, but I was also thinking about my life.
Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t stop thinking about the rejection that
Christina Martell had levied against me. It wasn’t as if I’d never been
rejected, but something about that had felt different.
It wasn’t as if I’d seen it coming—well, I hadn’t seen any of it coming.
Which probably said more about my mother’s superfluous statement than
anything else.
No, from my father’s death at my hands; to the desperation that I had felt
at the thought of losing her… all of it had broken me, opening up some
wound inside of me that I had been covering up for so long.
 Not only covering, but ignoring. I’d realized that my life was more than I
had thought it was. It was more than the same old. I’d realized that people
were more than pawns, that she was more than I was. She was so much more
than I would ever be, and I would never understand what she was. I’d never
understood how she could have that peace, that joy, that calm even in the
midst of the most turbulent times. The turmoil that I myself had put her
through—it still hadn’t even touched her.
Somehow, despite all the darkness, she was still a shining light.
And after she’d left me, I realized I didn’t want to live in the darkness as I
had for so long. I didn’t want to go back to that half-life, that bare minimum
of existence. I didn’t want to spend my days stumbling through the dark,
looking for some semblance or glimmer of brightness. I didn’t want to remain
here, as I was, shadowy and broken and drenched in blood.
So I had left. I had left the life I’d spent so long chasing, carving another
path for myself. Or rather, turning back to the one I had always been meant to
follow. The path that God wanted me to reach.
I ha liquidated the family business, and to my surprise, Sebastian hadn’t
objected. After all, he seemed to be eyeing up some kind of restaurant
business in Queens, starting with a bakery, and me? Well, I was left with
legitimizing what few industries we had. I went into luxury car dealerships
since I had a few connections there from when we used to smuggle certain
illicit substances in the vehicles.
The work was fine. It paid well, certainly. It gave me something to do
with myself. But when it was all said and done, I had no reason to work.
There was nothing for me to come home to. I was a single, free man, and I
hated it. I needed a family, a purpose; something to work for, to provide for,
to take care of.
 I thought it might just be missing my family. I’d sent Allie away. My
father was no longer with us. Sebastian was wandering the country for his
new career in the food and hospitality industry. I had no one, no attachments
except for Bianca, and she was busy with her husband and son.
It was loneliness that drove me to church, but it was God that drew me to
the same church as Christina’s mother. She was, for good reason, incredibly
wary of me and all that I had done. I didn’t bother trying to convince her that
I was a good man. How could I convince her when I couldn’t even convince
myself of it?
No, all I did was sit in the pews and pray, and soak in God’s presence.
The very thing I had been forbidden for so long, thinking that all the people
there would turn me away, and with good reason to. It was like drinking fresh
water after ingesting nothing but the ocean for years. Finally, I had something
real, something substantial, something that could sustain me, nourish me.
Eventually, I’d realized that it was about more than myself. It was about
more than a relationship with God. It was about God. It had nothing to do
with me, the sinner that I was, and everything to do with the Maker of the
universe, the One who had formed me as He had formed all the stars. It
wasn’t about the hole in my heart or the chasm in my soul that led me to
Him. It was about the awe that God could invoke, the fear, the deep reverence
I had of Him. Of a God who was so just yet loving enough to let His Son die
for me.
Christina’s mother, Linda, talked to me first on one fateful Sunday. I
recalled the first words she said to me. “Christina isn’t here.”
“I’m not looking for her.” And that had been the honest truth. She had
made her decision. I let her go, or at least I had tried to.
“Hmmph.” She’d given me one of those disapproving looks that I’d seen
so many times from the nonnas at Mass all those years ago. “Well, what are
you looking for, then?”
I’d answered her simply, honestly. “God.” Love.
Those could be one and the same, couldn’t they?
After that, well, we hadn’t really become friends, so out of one another’s
orbits as we were, but she had grown to tolerate me, even saving a seat for
me on the old wooden pew as we listened to the preacher.
One day, completely out of the blue, she’d said to me, “I’m going to visit
Christina in a few days.”
Unsure of what to say, so trembling on the edge of fear and hope as I had
been, I’d given a very eloquent response. “Oh.”
“Would you like to come?” she said. “I’m taking some time off work to
go to Paris.”
“We could take my plane,” I’d offered.
She shook her head. “You need to learn how to be a normal person. We’ll
fly economy class like everyone else.”
Unable to convince her to indulge in any luxury, which I suspected she
considered tainted by my prior line of work, I rode for far too many hours in
a plane, legs cramping from the tiny seats that were simply not built to
accommodate anyone over the height of five-foot-four. But I did it all for
love. It didn’t put a smile on my face, perhaps, but it kept a gladness in my
heart that refused to dissipate.
“She’s at the Eiffel tower,” Linda had told me. “I’m going to head to the
hotel first. You can meet her there.”
I’d nodded, though I knew exactly where Christina was. “I’ll see you
soon, then.”
She sighed. “Don’t make me regret trusting you, Mr. Cavalli.”
 I couldn’t blame her for her suspicion. Instead, I found her protectiveness
over her daughter to be assuring. “I won’t, ma’am.”
#
Christina Martell
“You can do this, Christina,” I say to myself in the Shangri-La hotel’s
bathroom mirror. Then I made a face. I am talking to myself. I have never
really thought of myself as one of the people who needed self-given pep
talks, mostly preferring prayer and quiet conviction. But when one’s—ex-
boyfriend? almost fiancé? former kidnapper?—when Antonio Cavalli makes
a reappearance in one’s life, I need all the help I can get.
“Are you talking to yourself, Christina?” Thyra yells through the crack in
the door.
“No!” I shout back. “I mean, yes, but only a little.”
Just then, someone raps on the door.
I exit the bathroom, twisting the backing of my cubic zirconia earring into
place. “Who is it?”
Thyra is usually in her dorm at Sorbonne, but while it was being
renovated, she’d decided to stay with me. “I don’t know.”
To my amusement, she tries to pick up a table lamp, only to find it bolted
to the table. “What are you doing?”
“Arming myself in case of an intruder,” she says, as though her actions
were completely obvious.
“With a table lamp?” I march toward the door and peeked through the
peephole. A black and grey head of neatly bobbed hair… the familiar-looking
pair of tiny silver hoop earrings… “It’s my mom!”
I fling the door open. “What are you doing here?”
Instead of replying, she throws her arms around me. “I’ve missed you so
much, Christina.”
We hug for a few moments, and I breathe in the familiar smell of her
shampoo. She seems relaxed, as though a burden was lifted off of her
shoulders. The dark circles under her eyes have all but vanished, and she
wears a bright coral top with white linen pants.
“Huh, and here I thought it might be the mafia guy again,” says Thyra,
leaning her hip against the console table. “Hi, Mrs. Martell. It’s good to see
you.”
“Hello, Thyra. You look well. What mafia guy?” says my mother. Her
tone seemed far too falsely innocent for my liking.
“We ran into Antonio Cavalli at the Eiffel Tower,” explains Thyra.
“Crazy coincidence, right?”
“Christina, I have something to tell you…” my mother takes my hands in
hers.
“I know that you saw Antonio,” I blurt out immediately. “And you two
are… friends? Acquaintances?”
“We have a shared goal,” she says smoothly.
“You do?” My eyebrows rise. “Did you come to Paris together?”
The thought of them sitting side by side on a commercial flight is
laughable to me.
“Yes, he said he had some business to take care of before he came to
meet us at the hotel for dinner,” she explains. “How have you been? Tell me
everything.”
The three of us, me, my mom, and my best friend, sit on the couch and I
tell her everything that’s happened. From the private jet ride that I thought
was going to kill me, to the time I’ve spent with Thyra, to today, when I
talked to Antonio. By the time there’s another knock on the door, I realize
we’ve been talking so long that it’s now dinnertime.
Something flutters inside of me—apprehension? Excitement? Anxiety? I
haven’t seen the man in well over a month, but it feels like so much has
changed. For all I know, we could be completely different people now.
It’s just dinner, Christina.
The room door swings open. I turn to face my fate.
 Chapter 51–The Martells

Christina Martell
My heart races as I go to answer the door, but my mother beats me to the
punch. Her expression is unreadable as she chats with Antonio, the sight
completely foreign to me. It’s like watching two halves of my world collide. I
smooth my hands over my black skinny jeans, paired with a dark red button-
down. The wine-red button-down is silky and oversized, one button undone
at the collar. Casual, but hopefully it passes as Parisian chic enough to go
unnoticed in the city. After all, despite what I might have said… Well, it is a
date. But I’m not trying too hard—at least, I don’t want to look like I am.
Really, Christina? I think you know this man well enough after going on
multiple dates with him and falling in love with him.
Shut up. I have a right to be nervous. How do you look a guy in the eye
after he killed his father for you, you immediately rejected his marriage
proposal, and took off on his private plane shortly after?
“Christina, Thyra and I are going to go wait in the hallway,” my mother
says, looping her arm through my best friend’s as they exit, despite Thyra’s
muffled protests. I have no doubt they will do a plethora of eavesdropping in
the next ten minutes.
He raises an eyebrow, eyes skimming over my outfit. Antonio studies me,
and maybe I’m only making it up in my mind, but he seems just as
apprehensive as I am.
 I clear my throat. “It’s good to see you. Again.”
“Red looks lovely on you.” He pairs the compliment with a cough into his
fist. I’ve never seen him appear so unsure of himself, rubbing the nape of his
neck.
I tear my gaze away from the gold floral carpet and look up at him,
leaning against the writing desk. The mahogany is cool beneath my palm,
digging into my hip. “Thank you.”
Smirking, he seems to gain back some of his usual suaveness. “What, no,
‘I know’ this time?”
The reminder of what I said to him on that ballroom floor which seems so
long ago, makes me flush. Now that we’re on an equal playing field, I’m not
sure how to feel around him, how to act. “I’ll save that for when I’m mad at
you.”
“I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again, then.” He brushes a hand
through his hair. Against the creamy yellow walls with white wainscoting,
Antonio looks out of place in his black suit and matching silk tie. But I don’t
mind standing out all that much, tonight. The way he’s looking at me fills me
with a sudden surge of boldness, and I release my grip on the desk.
“Never again?” I say, tilting my head back and taking a step toward him.
“That’s an audacious promise, Mr. Cavalli.”
At the expression on his face, the way his eyes take me in, a rope seems
to loop itself snugly around my heart and tug me toward him. Antonio
Cavalli stares at me like I’m the most precious thing in the world; like he lost
me before and would do anything to have me back; like he would die for me
and live for me all at once.
“Come to think of it,” he says. “You’re right. Perhaps I should commit to
making you mad once a day instead. That sounds far easier.”
 A laugh escapes me. “My mom and Thyra are waiting for us.”
Violin music plays distantly from under the hotel room door. I think
Thyra is playing a romantic playlist from her phone to “set the mood” as she
mentioned before, and I bite back my snort.
Antonio offers me his arm and we exit the hotel room. Thyra pipes up as
she glances up from her phone, smiling without a care in the world as her
gaze darts between the two of us. “So, Mr. Cavalli, where are you taking us
for dinner?”
Love and exasperation are present in my mother’s eyes as she looks at us.
She chastises my best friend like she’s her own flesh and blood daughter.
“Thyra!”
“Like you weren’t wondering,” Thyra says, tossing her curls over one
shoulder. She’s dressed to kill in a black gown with a high neckline and
thigh-high lace panels in the skirt.
“I wasn’t wondering,” I say, but that might be due to the fact that I’m too
nervous to have much of an appetite.
“The hotel’s rooftop restaurant,” he says. “I didn’t think it would be wise
to go very far…”
“Why is that?” My mother looks suddenly suspicious of him, their
tentative alliance fading quickly as it blossomed.
“Well, for starters, it appears if your daughter is being followed.” He
clears his throat, and my fingers curl around his bicep through the thick fabric
of his suit, feeling suddenly cold.
“What?” Mom turns toward me, one eyebrow rising. “You didn’t tell me
that, Christina.”
“I didn’t think it was a big deal…” I half-shrug. Now that I’m saying it
out loud, it makes my life feel even more surreal. It wasn’t a big deal that I
was being followed by a group of strange men? “I mean, they never
threatened me… or hurt me… I thought they were from you, actually.”
Antonio frowns, shaking his head. “I never sent anyone after you. All my
father’s men—all the Cavallis and their affiliates—have disbanded. I
wouldn’t know where to find most of them now, anyway.”
“Then…” My throat closes up, going dry. “Then, who is it?”
Thyra stares down at her bangle bracelets, avoiding my gaze.
My mom looks like she might murder somebody. Never get on the wrong
side of my mother, that’s for sure. “How could you not tell me that someone
was stalking you, Christina?”
“I think…” Thyra looks up. “It was the Martells.”
“The Martells?” Antonio’s eyebrows shoot up into his hair. He stops
walking, streams of people going around us in the elegantly decorated
Shangri La lobby. “What would they want with you? Isn’t your father dead?”
Thyra glances at her chipped nails. “They may have… made contact…
with me…”
“What?” Now it’s my turn to feel betrayed, and by my own best friend to
boot. “You never said anything.”
“I didn’t think it was that important…” Thyra twists a strand of hair
nervously. “They said they just wanted to keep you safe. Since you’re the
daughter of a French mafia boss… even if he is dead.”
“Who did you talk to?” Antonio demands. As much as I appreciate his
overprotectiveness from time to time, I can take care of myself. Mostly.
“Yeah, was it Priscilla?” I say, leaning against an armchair in the lobby.
“I don’t know her name.” Thyra sighs. “She had brown hair, brown
eyes… she was kind of scary-looking…”
“Definitely Priscilla Martell, then.” But why would she care about me?
Am I special to her, or is she waiting for me to make a wrong move and
she’ll send her men to kill me?
“What do these men look like, Christina?” Antonio scans the lobby, his
expression hardening as though he’s about to find an assailant and beat the
living daylights out of them. I eye his suit jacket, wondering if he has a gun
under it.
“One of them has a tattoo of a heart on his neck. The other one has a
really long beard…” My voice trails off. “They’re hard to miss, and they’re
not here. Actually, they haven’t made an appearance since you two showed
up.”
“Antonio must have scared them away.” Thyra’s voice is painfully
chipper, with an undercurrent of nerves.
I survey the lobby: a few armchairs in rococo style are scattered around,
clustered next to dark mahogany tables. The centre of activity is focused on
the front desk, where the concierges are helping people check-in and take
their luggage to their rooms.
“I don’t see them.” My stomach twists. “Maybe they disappeared. And
we’re going to dinner—why let them ruin that?”
My mother scowls. “The dinner would be ruined if you were shot in the
head by a Martell assassin.”
“If they follow us to the rooftop, we’ll see about that,” Antonio offers. “I
have a gun.”
“And we have several trained on you.”
My blood freezes over at the sound of that voice. I spin around, and look
Priscilla Martell in the eye.
 Chapter 52–The Reunion

Antonio Cavalli
“We’re late for a dinner reservation,” I say, but my words taste like a
desperate, last-ditch attempt to shield Christina and her mother and friend
from a danger that is already barreling toward us at full speed.
“Are you having the tasting menu?” Priscilla Martell says. “At the
rooftop restaurant of Shangri-La?”
Christina bites out the word, “Yes.” She clutches my hand, her face
whitening, her knuckles matching the pallor of her skin.
“We’re having the same.” Priscilla gestures between herself and a shorter
brunette behind her, whom I haven’t noticed. Priscilla seems to be keen on
doing most of the talking for the two of them. “My sister, Joanna.”
“We’ve met,” I say, recalling the botched marriage arrangement at her
father’s house.
“I don’t remember that,” Joanna says. She’s clad in a gold dress, the satin
draping over her slender form. The twin sun to her sister’s moon since
Priscilla wears silver. “It must not have been very eventful.”
Planting my hand on Christina’s upper back, I lean in and said, “You and
Thyra and your mother should go to the elevators. I’ll join you in a moment.”
She shakes off my hand. “I’m staying here and you can’t stop me.”
“It was worth a try,” I say wryly. “What do the two of you want?”
 “To enjoy a lovely dinner,” Joanna says, folding her arms over her chest.
“Is that so wrong?”
“It’s a crime,” Thyra says, bouncing toward them in her heels. “I’m
Thyra, Christina’s best friend and clearly the best-looking and best-dressed
here. Is that dress last season’s Prada?”
“Versace,” Priscilla says, but instead of taking the insult to heart, she
laughs, almost seeming amused. But it is amusement in the way that a cat
would play with her food, toying with a mouse before it pounces. “I like your
get-up, too. Elie Saab?”
“You have a good eye,” Thyra says. Christina shoots her a look like, why
are you fraternizing with the enemy?
“Shall we all go to dinner together, then?” Linda, Christina’s mother,
says, to my surprise. She seems to be eerily calm for a woman who’s
watching her ex… husband? lover’s children interact with her own child.
“I’m sure we have loads to catch up on.”
“A wonderful suggestion.” Priscilla smiles, adjusting the sunglasses
perched on top of her head despite the fact that the sun is setting in half an
hour. “Let’s go.”
As we march through an alternate corridor that leads to the rooftop, all
gold and marble and ornate statues, I keep close to Christina. Surveying the
inhabitants of the cramped hallway, I notice Linda adjusting something under
her tweed jacket, and realize it’s a Glock. No wonder she was so calm. The
sight almost makes me smile.
“So, how have you been since we last saw each other, Christina?”
Priscilla says.
“I saw you at the reading of our father’s will,” she says, and gestures
between her and her mother. “We all did. And then you sent men to stalk me,
which put a bit of a damper on our relationship.”
I stiffen at the mention of anyone following Christina Martell around,
bodyguard or not.
“Stalk you?” Joanna says, pressing a hand to her collarbone. “We sent
those men to guard you. A lot of people would be hunting down the daughter
of Charles Martell, illegitimate or not.”
“A little warning might have been nice,” she snaps, fidgeting with the
pearl pendant on her necklace. “I thought I was about to be killed. And I
don’t need bodyguards.”
“We all have them,” Priscilla says with a shrug.
“I’m not one of you,” Christina says, her grip on my hand tightening.
“I’ve never truly been a Martell.”
“But you were happy enough to take our father’s money?” says Joanna,
raising an eyebrow.
I feel as though we’re being backed into a corner by two catty Beverly
Hills Desperate Housewives. “Why are the two of you here?”
“This isn’t any of your business, Cavalli.”
“Answer my question and maybe I’ll consider letting you leave alive.”
The threat falls from my lips too easily. I may not be willing to follow
through on it, but I’m too used to letting threats slip from my mouth.
Christina stiffens, something like hurt flashing across her face. Betrayal. I
read the words on her expression easily: I thought you’d changed.
“Aww,” Priscilla says, her tone dripping with caustic acid. “Did you hurt
your girlfriend’s feelings? Did she think that you were a better man now?”
“I am,” I said, too quickly. I wanted to be one. It was too easy to fall into
my old habits, but I wanted to.
“This matter doesn’t involve you, Cavalli, as I said before. Go scurry
along to promote your brother’s restaurant or something. We’ll have no
dealings with you, unless you’d like to stick your nose where it doesn’t
belong.”
“Christina is my concern,” I say,
The girl in question steps out from behind my shoulder, dropping my
hand. It feels like a rejection. “Antonio, you and my mother and Thyra can go
ahead. This between us… between the Martells.”
“Christina, you don’t know what you’re getting into—”
“I didn’t know what I was getting into when I dated you, but I survived
that, didn’t I?” Her voice is dry.
My heart squeezes in my chest, a twinge of pain radiating through my
body. “You make a good point.
“I’ll be fine, Antonio.” She reaches up and kisses my cheek. “I can handle
myself.”
I don’t want to let her go again. I can’t lose her. But I have to trust that
she knows what she’s doing. With the faint smell of her rosewater perfume
and warmth still clinging to me, I walk away.
#
Christina Martell
“What is it?” I say, resisting the urge to say, why can’t you Martell’s just
leave me alone?
“We’re all sisters—“Priscilla starts to say.
Joanna interrupts her. “Oh, drop the friendly charade, sis, just tell her why
you’re here.”
“The guards,” Priscilla says, stepping forward. “They’re for your
protection, Christina. Not to harm you.”
The two of them back me literally into a corner. A nice corner, with
crown moulding and fancy wallpaper and a fake potted plant, but a corner all
the same. Maybe I should have kept Antonio around, but I can’t hide behind
him forever, even if he is well over six feet tall.
“I’d like to believe that,” I say cautiously, and it’s true.
“We’re only here to warn you, Christina. Antonio Cavalli isn’t the kind of
man you should be getting close to.”
A spasm of doubt like a splinter of ice wedges between my ribs, spilling
cold air into my chest. “He’s changed. He told me that.”
“And you believe him?” Joanna scoffs.
“Am I supposed to believe the two of you?”
“They’re not good people. The Cavallis hate the Martells.” Priscilla
tosses back her hair.
I twist the bracelet on my wrist. “Then why did his father want him to
marry one of you?”
“Call it a Romeo and Juliet match.” Priscilla says. “Whatever it is, you
can’t be with him. Once a Cavalli, always a Cavalli.”
I remember Antonio’s words, and despite everything, I choose to believe
him. Even my mother, one of the most mistrustful people I know, believes
him. I believe in God, most of all. I believe He is using Antonio for the good.
“You don’t know him.”
“That’s what they all say. Christina, aren’t you tired of defending him?
The man is a. murderer. He used to deal not just in drugs but in death,” says
Joanna.
“He’s different!”
“How do you know he’s changed?” Priscilla snaps. Her black-lined eyes
are wide, imploring.
“Because I believe God changed him! Something neither of you seems to
be capable of understanding.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Now if you’ll
excuse me, I have to go. I have a dinner reservation that I can’t miss.”
“You’ve made your choice.” Joanna shakes her head. “Don’t take this
wrong way, but… you’ll regret it. Men like him never change.”
No. Bad men don’t change. God changes them. Christ redeems them.
 Chapter 53–The End

Christina Martell
Champagne fizzes on my tongue as I lift the flute to my lips, tilting it
back. Comfortably full, but not to the extent that I feel as if I’m ready to take
a long nap, I set the glass down and glance at Antonio. My mother and Thyra
begged off dinner a while ago, finishing their tartes tatins and heading out to
explore the city together. Now it’s just me. And Antonio. Along, after so long
being apart.
He glances at his watch as if he has somewhere to be afterwards. My
heart twists. I said he was a changed man. He’s spent tonight proving it to
me, and we managed to scare off the Martell goons that have been following
me around. Well, he did most of the intimidating. I think I just did a lot of
ineffectual shouting. What if he has some appointment after? Maybe he’s not
just in Paris to see me.
Right. Because he flew economy class next to your mother to come and,
what? Do another drug deal?
“I had a great time tonight,” I pluck up the courage to say, breaking out of
my own reverie.
“So did I.” Antonio toys with one of his cufflinks, and I realize he isn’t
impatiently waiting for the night to end. He’s… nervous? “I’m glad you
enjoyed it, because the night isn’t over yet.”
“That so?” I choke on air. “What are… we… doing?”
 If I had any lingering doubts about Antonio caring for me, he stands up
from his seat with a look of alarm, crossing the table to pat me on the back.
“Are you okay?”
Now I finally manage to regain my composure when he reaches my side.
His cologne wafts toward me, the scent of something musky mingled with
sandalwood. It’s nice. I cringe at my own awkwardness: my face is red, I’m
sure, and I’m out of breath and sweaty. “Fine. I just… choked.”
“Are you sure you’re fine?” He frowns.
“Just fantastic,” I say, taking a sip of water. It goes down smoothly, thank
God. “What are your plans for the rest of the night?”
Antonio keeps his hand on my shoulder, warming me through my satin
top. “Well, I thought we could go for a stroll by the Seine, if you’re feeling
up to it.”
Not what I expected, but it does sound perfectly romantic. “I would love
to.”
“Excellent.” He drops his hand from my arm, tucking both of his into his
pockets, before thinking better of it and extending a hand toward me. “Then,
let’s be on our way.”
Coquettishness is not my strong suit, and so, when I spy a roughly square-
shaped block in his pocket, something seizes me to ask him, “What’s that?”
Probably because the last time he proposed, it was with copious amounts of
blood, gunfire, and a dead body in the vicinity.
Antonio glances down in the direction of my gaze. “My… phone
charger?” He pulls the white square cube from his pants pocket. “I left it here
after the plane ride. What did you think it was?”
Very sure that if I wasn’t already blushing, I would become an even
deeper shade of red, I stutter out, “Nothing.”
 “Alright then.” He still offers me his arm. I take it, ignoring the
presumptuous nature of my interrogation. Of course he didn’t fly to Paris to
propose to you, Christina. He’s just discovered you’re alive.
Love is in the air, indeed.
Lord Jesus, come quickly.
I blow out a long breath. It’s just a walk by the River Seine. Nothing
more, nothing less.
#
Antonio Cavalli
It’s not just a walk.
Well, it may be a walk, but it’s one of the most momentous walks of my
entire life.
On the plane ride here, I asked Linda for her permission to marry
Christina. When she noticed the charger in my pocket—thankfully, I stashed
the ring in an inner pocket of my suit jacket—I nearly had a heart attack,
however.
What if all my plans were to fall apart right now?
“Wow,” Christina breathes, looking at Paris at night, the lights sparkling
over the water, the star-studded outline of the Eiffel Tower. “It’s so
beautiful.”
“Yeah.” My eyes land on her for a moment, her flushed cheeks and awed
expression. “It really is.”
We walk hand-in-hand in silence for a few moments, the smells of
cigarette smoke, baking bread, and something sweet and delicate filling the
air as we stroll past other couples and families, children darting forward and
backward between their parents. Barges float by on the water, some laden
with tourists and their flashing cameras, others with cargo.
 “Christina,” I say suddenly. “Thank you for defending me to your—to
Priscilla and Joanna.”
She glances up at me, craning her neck. “Of course.”
“You didn’t have to. Lord knows I’ve given you no shortage reasons to
believe the worst of me, but… thank you, for believing better. For believing
that I could be a better man.”
Christina slows to a stop. People flood around us like salmon swimming
upstream, but as she takes my hand, we might as well be the only people on
this cobblestone path. “Antonio, I believed you’d changed, but more than
that, I believe that God is capable of changing you, and transforming you,
and teaching you, just as He has done for me.”
Something warm melts in my chest, spreading through my body.
“Christina… I believe that, too.”
She beams. The expression touches me in ways I can’t articulate, and I
lean down. “Do you remember the first time we kissed?”
Christina nods, her face a breath away, a heartbeat away from mine.
“How could I forget? It was my first kiss.”
I blink slowly. “I never knew that.” I wouldn’t have kissed her so
suddenly, so rudely, so abruptly, if I had known that it was her first time.
Certainly not in a back alleyway of Cavalli’s, with the DEA hot on our tail.
She smiles, a soft, secret thing playing at the corners of her mouth. “Do
you regret it?”
“Well, now that I know it was your first time, I think we should rectify
that.”
Tilting her head to one side, Christina raises an eyebrow, her red lips
parting. “What do you mean?”
“I mean… we should have a do-over.”
 “Well, it is the perfect setting for a first kiss,” she says, but she’s not
looking at the surroundings, her brown eyes fixed on me. She takes a step
forward, the toes of her shoes brushing mine.
I pull her closer to me, one hand resting on her waist, and the other
twining in her hair as I bend down, touching her mouth to mine. She smells
like roses, tastes like fine wine and sugar, and this kiss is everything I wish
our first could have been. I want to make a thousand promises to her,
everything I should have said before, everything I should have done before,
the man I should have been. The man I want to become. The man I will be.
I wrap my arms around her, and her fingers twine behind the nape of my
neck. When we finally break apart, I hear soft violin music. A busker has set
up shop a few metres away, playing the soft strains of La Vie en Rose.
Christina is flushed, toying with the strap of her watch. She glances up at
me. “That was a great first kiss.”
I smile. “It is the City of Love.”
“It’s not just that.”
“No?”
“It was you. It’s always been you.”
We stay there, hands interlocked, looking at one another, for an
interminable moment, until La Vie en Rose ends and the violinist takes up
another song. I recognize the chords faintly: Amazing Grace.
It feels like a sign. I take a deep breath and drop to one knee, pulling out
the ring box from my jacket. “Christina… will you do me the honour of
becoming my wife?”
She claps a hand to her mouth and uses the other to smack me on the
shoulder. I barely feel the sting of the impact. “You-!”
That wasn’t exactly the reception I was hoping for. “What?”
 “I thought you weren’t going to propose! Who keeps a charger in their
pants pocket?” She’s half-laughing, tears in her eyes. “It was all a decoy?”
“I didn’t put it here on purpose,” I say. “I asked your mother for
permission on the way here if that’s what you’re so worried about.”
She laughs harder. I’m not sure this proposal is going any better than the
first.
“It’s a real ring?” Christina finally says. “This isn’t some… elaborate fake
proposal?”
“Christina Jane Martell, I flew to Paris, with your mother, all the way
across the Atlantic, to ask you to marry me. But if it’s too soon, for you, I
completely understand—”
“Yes! Yes, I’ll marry you.”
Want to read more about Katerina and
Alexander?

Then go check out their story in The CEO & The Christian Girl, and their
companion novella, Renewal!
THE CEO & THE CHRISTIAN GIRL
EXCERPT:
“What the heck is wrong with you?” He was breathing hard, his face
white and shocked, his hair dishevelled.
My heart raced. I was both scared and oddly excited to see him in such a
state, so unlike his typically controlled self. “I - I don’t know.”
“You hate me,” he said firmly, as though trying to make it true. “You -
you hate me. So why the hell would you risk your life for mine?”
“Because,” I stammered, and of course, he was asking questions I had no
answers for. “I might not love you. You might be an awful, despicable
person, but… that doesn’t make it right for me to stand by and watch you die,
not when I could do something about it, not when-”
There were no answers, no words left in my mind or my mouth when he
crossed the room and kissed me.

***
ALEXANDER STEELE: Cold-hearted. Hard-headed. Absolutely jaded. And
he doesn’t believe in love—or expect that any of the above will change with
the marriage contract he signs.
KATERINA DEVEREAUX: Gentle. Selfless. Just as stubborn as her
future husband. She doesn’t know if she can change him—but she has faith
that God will.
 Want to read about Abigail and her
prince?

Check out their story in THE ROYAL & THE RICH GIRL, available on
Amazon and Kindle Unlimited!
 About the Author

Nicole Lam is a Canadian university student and a lover of God, literature,

and her family. When she is not writing clean and/or Christian romance, you
can find her reading, playing piano, and crafting a 40-page thesis on 18th-
century amatory fiction (aka the first romance novels). Come say hi to her on
Instagram @nicole_lam_author and on Twitter @nicolelamauthor! You can
also find her on her website www.nicolelamauthor.com and sign up for her
newsletter at https://landing.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/x1m7x5.