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.

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."