"HOW WAS WORK?" I say as soon as Lucas gets home, hearing the jingle of his keys in the apartment door and the rattle of the lock as well as the clicking of five different deadbolts.

The sense of domesticity that comes with the simple question is unsettling to me. Strange, yet alarmingly familiar but now. This is our routine. Yet he isn't my husband or even a boyfriend. Heck, he's never even laid a hand on me. This isn't a relationship. Yet it somehow is.

"Hello?" I say when he doesn't reply, getting up from the bed and throwing on a robe. I do not want a repeat of the time that his ex-girlfriend had gotten an eyeful. That was painfully awkward not to mention unnecessarily dramatic. "Luke?"

It might not have been him, I realize, reaching into the drawer next to the bed where he keeps his Glock as well as a 9mm. I grip the Glock the way Lucas taught me to and, holding it in a ready position in front of me with both hands, I walk slowly out of the bedroom and toward the apartment's foyer. Halfway out of the bedroom, I remember to turn off the trigger safety, carefully flicking the small switch.

Heavy footsteps make my heart pound and I inch out of the bedroom. You can do this, Destiny. The air conditioning makes the thin material of my waffle robe whip against my bare legs, the fabric billowing in the cool, artificial breeze. I swallow thickly. The weight of the gun is heavy in my hands, and I keep my index finger extended against the length of the gun, not touching the trigger until I'm ready to shoot.

"Who is there?" I try to make my voice sound stern and commanding, but it falls flat. Probably, I sound like a scared little girl. "I have a gun, and I know how to use it."

"What a coincidence, Miss Esposito. So do I," came a cool, serpentine voice from the foyer. I freeze, glad my finger is off the trigger, my thumbs stacked on top of each other as they cradle the weapon. "As for your other question, well, you could call me an old friend."

A burglary, I could handle. Heck, I'd even shoo the guy out the door with the TV or a wad of cash. But an old friend? That, I cannot handle. Because I don't have old friends. I have family members who became enemies years ago when I tried to leave them. Not for a better life, not really--stripping isn't exactly miles away on the morality scale, but it paid the bills when I had them. Now I feel like a mooch, but I can't go back to my old apartment, either.

"I have quite a few... old friends," I say, hoping I don't get blood on the carpet, either his or mine. That would be difficult to explain to Lucas when he gets home. "You'll have to specify which one you are. I was just a regular ole social butterfly back in high school."

"We both know you didn't go to high school, Lucia," the voice continues. I tiptoe around the corner and into the kitchen where he can't see me. After carefully setting down the gun, I grab a knife from the knife block on the counter and tuck it into the belt of my robe, then empty the rest of the knives into a drawer just in case. "There's no need for lies among old friends."

"I don't go by Lucia anymore," I say. That name died three years ago, along with the rest of my life when it went up in flames. If I close my eyes, I can still smell the smoke and feel the heat of the fire.

"Then what do you go by?" he asks.

"Destiny," I say, spinning around and stepping out of the kitchen, my bare feet landing on the soft rug instead of cold linoleum.

Beneath a dark hood, a man leans against Lucas's furniture, his arm resting on the back of the couch. I spy a gun holstered in his belt, probably alongside several more weapons tucked into it. "Il fato. It suits you, Lucia."

"Why are you here?" I don't say, how did you find me? I know the mafia have their ways. I know this man especially well, but I don't want to see his face. I don't want him to lift that hood and confirm that he is who I think he is. "Did you leave something behind all those years ago?"

"Yes." He steps closer, and I keep my gun extended in front of me, one finger on the trigger. The man doesn't even flinch as he touches my face, tucking my dyed-brown hair behind one ear, cupping my jaw. My breathing shallows, my eyes widening in panic. "Tu. You looked better as a blonde, by the way."

"Did I ask for your opinion? Either tell me why you're here or leave." I jerk my chin away from him, stepping back and leaning against the kitchen counter. This is a bad position. I feel trapped and scoot by the cold quartz of the table until I'm in a more open space, my back to the door. "Pick one, or get shot."

"That's no way to talk to an amico, Lucia." He tilts his head back, removing his hood. I suck in a deep breath as the crappy fluorescent lights illuminate his face. It's one I know all too well... One I thought I would never see again.

"Just tell me what you want." I keep my finger on the trigger, trying to steady my breathing. "Or else."

He smiles, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants. "You couldn't kill a fly, Lucia."

"People can change, Marco." Whether it's for the worse or the better remains to be seen. I smell his expensive cologne, with an undertone of something metallic, like blood or gunpowder. Knowing him, it's probably both. "What. Are. You. Doing. Here?"

Marco holds up both hands like he's saying, calm down. My heart still pounds in my ears, blood roaring. "I just came here to deliver something." He pulls an envelope out of his jacket pocket and lets it thud onto the kitchen counter. "Deliver that to your boyfriend for me, why don't you?"

As he exits, walking past me hurriedly with a slam of the door, I yell, "He's not my boyfriend!"

TONIGHT DEFINITELY TOPS THE list of the worst dinners of my life. Maybe it even makes it to number one, after the Christmas party last year where my drunken uncle threw up on my lap and my aunts spent all night pestering me about why Lucas wasn't there. That definitely wasn't fun, and neither was the exorbitant dry-cleaning bill I had to pay.

We've moved from the dining room to an even grander ballroom. For a house in New York, the vast amount of space in this place is obscene. Chandeliers and candelabras glitter around the room, lit with real flames. A few French, leaden-glass windows are cracked open, draped in amber velvet curtains that lead to small balconies outside with marble banisters. Bouquets of lilies and orchids in vases are scattered around the room. Gentle chatter in Italian and French as well as heavily accented English reaches my ears. I can smell the candles, faintly scented with sandalwood, and Antonio's cologne cloaking him as I enter on his arm.

"Nervous?" Antonio leans down and asks me, his lips brushing my ear. I hold in a gasp. His expression is unreadable, as it has been all night. Well, except for when his father's friend kissed my hand. Then, I could definitely read jealousy on it.

"No," I say, too quickly not to be a lie. My pulse is too fast and my hands are too shaky for him to accept the denial as plausible, but he doesn't say anything. I feel underdressed for this mansion, unprepared for this life. Yet I'm in it anyways. "Why would I be?"

Music begins to play in the corner before he can answer. He changes the subject anyways, facing me. "Dance with me, Miss Martell."

"I..." I swallow thickly. Dancing ranks very low on my list of marketable skills, mostly because I have two left feet and actually find it easier to punch someone than to dance with them. Wrestling was my favourite module in gym class, not dancing. But I notice the stares around us, the eyes of these Mafiosi like those of hungry wolves, bent on devouring us. "Of course, Mr. Cavalli."

"Thank you." He pulls me into his body, one of his hands sliding to my waist and settling there, just above my hip, while his other hand grips mine firmly. My fingers feel dwarfed by his. I've never considered myself particularly short--I've always been tall for an Asian girl--but even in heels, he makes me feel small. Not insignificant, but... overwhelmed. Dominated. "I must say, you look lovely tonight."

I look up at him, craning my neck to do so. I can predict a crick in it by the end of the night. Biting my lip to keep from smiling, I resolve that I'm not about to forgive him so easily. "I know I do, Mr Cavalli."

A smirk plays on his lips as he gazes down at me. The contrast between the dark curls at his nape and the starched white collar of his shirt is startling. He reminds me of Dracula, raised in a creepy mansion by bloodsuckers. Did Dracula have a father? I'm suddenly not so sure. "That's very humble of you," Antonio says, raising an eyebrow.

My mother, in fact, raised me in her Asian way never to accept a compliment, ever. She taught me that the Western way was to say thank you for compliments. The Chinese way was to say, no, you are (insert the same compliment here).

"I never claimed to be some shrinking wallflower," I say. Or is wilting violet the right word? Everything I say gets called into question when I'm around him, though not always in a bad way. He spins me away from him before catching me again, dipping me low so that my hair falls from my shoulders, hanging from my head in a long rope and baring my neck to him. Maybe he is Dracula.

"No, that would be too boring," he says, bringing me back into an upright position.

"And God forbid the girl you are using to anger your father be boring," I say, my words biting.

He sighs. "Christina..."

But he never gets the chance to finish his sentence as a noise startles us both. We turn toward the door and Antonio's mouth drops open in shock.

"Lucia?"