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.

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."