"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."

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.