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, Ruth: 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?