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 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."

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. "Shall we say grace?"