"I LIKE YOUR NECKLACE," says the girl lounging on my couch, clad in designer duds, and twirling a knife in her red-nailed hand. "Is that diamond real?"

The polite answer comes to mind: thanks, it was a gift. My real answer springs out of my mouth before I can stop it. "You haven't answered my questions."

"Answer mine first," she says, her smile dazzlingly bright. She repeats herself, her cadence slower as she spins the knife between her index finger and thumb. "Is the diamond real?"

"You'll have to ask Antonio Cavalli. He's the one who gave it to me." The words spill from my mouth as though plucked from the ground like a flower, the roots hanging in the air. Whether it will live or die is uncertain. Maybe Antonio's name will protect me from this girl whose hands are deftly holding a blade. Something rises in my throat as I touch the pendant, the icy stone's facets cold against my fingertips.

"Hmm. Well, I can't see why a man rich enough to own half the city would bother to buy a fake diamond, so thank you for answering my question." She stands from the couch, dusting off her white dress. The lace cap sleeves and cinched waist remind me of a wedding gown, but she doesn't seem like any bride I've ever seen. "Now, to answer yours: My name is Priscilla Martell, and I am here because you're my sister."

I scour her features for any resemblance, not wanting to find a shred. I find many shreds: the same dark hair. The same nose. Different eye shapes, but we have the same shade of brown. Is this girl really my sister? My fingers shake and I clutch my diamond, pressing the sharp, polished point into the pad of my thumb. The pain keeps me alert. "I can't say I've heard about you."

"I'm not offended." She tucks the knife behind her ear like it's a pencil and she's in a classroom. If it is, this is the worst lesson I've ever learned. "I heard your mother didn't even tell you about our father until recently."

"That's true," I say slowly, wondering how she knows. My eyes dart around the empty apartment, remembering that it's Tuesday and my mother would be at tai chi by now, then out to dim sum afterwards. "So how did you find me, exactly?"

"You have so many questions, Christina." Priscilla's smile is still glittery, as bright as my necklace, but there's something in it that makes me think her pearly white teeth are veneers, and not just in a dental way.

She is out of place in my mother's apartment and my first home, but her je ne sais quoi seems like she'd be out of place anywhere. Her classy white dress, ruby choker, and barrel-waves of dark hair stand out against the backdrop. The old floral couch sits on top of the carpet in a specific pattern of grey that hides stains, and a collection of mismatched barstools are clustered alongside a cheap quartz countertop.

"I like to take interest in the people I'm having a conversation with," I say with an equally bright grin. "It simply seems like the polite thing to do."

"I see." Priscilla's smile drops. "You know, I haven't had the pleasure of conversing with someone so... courteous in a while."

"Well, why not do me the courtesy of informing of the reason for your visit?" I place my hands on my hips, unwilling to look away from her and the knife that gleams in her hair.

"I came here to tell you about my--our father's will," she says. "He's leaving you ten million dollars and a house in France."

"What?" I take a step back. "Is he dead?"

Something clenches in my chest, a fist closing around my heart. It's not like he's a good man. But I never got to meet him. Now I never will? It must be even worse for this girl, my sister, who grew up with her father in her life, to think about losing him forever.

"No, no, not at all." Priscilla shakes her head rapidly, ringlets of dark hair flying around her slim shoulders. "It's only that I wanted to warn you about this. In case... in case he does..."

A glimmer of vulnerability seems to slice through her at that moment as she stares down at her clasped hands. Are those tears welling up in her eyes? Despite her icy, polished surface, it seems like she's on the verge of breaking down in front of a veritable stranger. Her love for her father is palpable, sucking the oxygen from the room.

"In case he does pass away?" I say softly. "Is he sick?"

She points a long-nailed finger at me, stabbing it into my chest. "Don't you dare ask that stupid question like you don't know that your boyfriend shot him after he chose you over me!"

"I--what?" I try to picture Antonio shooting someone. I can imagine it all too easily: his fingers closing on the trigger, not even recoiling as the gun goes off, dodging bullets and firing back. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know..."

"I came here to tell you that you're not getting a dollar of that money or a square inch of that house if my father doesn't die of natural causes." She stands from the couch, brushing off the skirt of her sheath dress. "That's all. So tell your boyfriend to try not to kill him."

"He's not my boyfriend," I say because it's the only ounce of truth I can offer up right now.

She stalks out of my apartment, heels clicking. The door slams shut behind her before she spits out a few more words: "I don't care!"

I collapse on the couch, my head spinning from what she's just told me. What do I do? Should I tell Antonio what happened? Should I stay here and wait for my mother to get home? Out of habit, My feet pace the floor, making their way to the kitchen as I take a glass down from the cabinet and fill it with water. Taking a swig, I pause and choke. The glass is dusty. I glance around the apartment. A fine layer of dust covers the island, the chairs, and other furniture.

A sinking feeling of dread drops my stomach. When I open the refrigerator, a carton of milk is spoiled. The expiry date is from a week ago. Where is she? I dial my mother's phone number with shaking fingers. Five rings and no answer. In the kitchen sink, a single plate with crumbs on it stares back at me.

I peek into my mother's bedroom, the door creaking open with a rusty hinge that makes me wince. The hair on the back of my neck stands up on end as I look around. Cosmetic and skincare products have been left on the vanity. Even one of the bottles is open. In the ensuite, a leaky faucet drips water into the sink basin.

Has she been missing? For how long?

And why?

MY PHONE BUZZES IN my pocket as I'm on the way to lunch with my brother, Sebastian. Christina's name flashes across the screen and I immediately pick up. "Hello?"

"Antonio?" Her voice is shaking. "It's... it's an emergency. Can you come to my mother's apartment, immediately?"

"What's happened? Are you hurt?" My mind immediately jumps to worst-case scenarios, each one more panic-inducing than the last: her car drove off into a ditch on the side of the road. Someone tried to rob the place and now they're holding her for ransom.

I hear her sniff. "I... a bunch of things."

"I'm on my way there." I shoot off a text to Sebastian, cancelling on him half an hour before our scheduled time to meet. A jerk move, perhaps, but somehow it's not a hard choice to choose Christina over him, the brother I haven't seen in five years. "Give me the address again."

She rattles it off before she ends the call. "Please hurry."

I lean forward and give the address to the driver. He makes a U-turn in the middle of busy traffic, barely escaping a narrow collision with a speeding taxi. "I'll get you there, Signor Cavalli. Don't worry."

"Prego." We make it there in record time, in a more family-friendly area of the city with small parks and playgrounds and less towering skyscrapers and bodegas. "Wait for me and circle the block a few times."

Unless there's a serious problem, I plan on taking her with me. I thought I could let her go, but this emergency seems to only prove that I can't just let her slip between my fingers, unprotected. An OUT OF ORDER sign has been slapped on the elevator and I take the stairs three at a time until I make it to the tenth floor.

"Christina, it's me, Antonio." I rap on the door twice in quick succession. "Can you let me in, sweetheart?"

Footsteps scurry across the apartment. While I wait, I take in my surroundings: nothing seems to be out of the ordinary, but I smell a faint hint of perfume that's familiar to me. It's not Christina's. It's someone else's. What other woman has been here whom I know?

The answer drifts through my mind, like a fish swimming through the lake, briefly surfacing and revealed by the sun, shining patches of scales in shallow areas of the water, before diving deep again. A name.

"Who else has been here?" I say right when she opens the door. My hands curling into fists, I survey her body for any injury: nothing. The muscles in my back relax, uncoiling as I step into the small apartment. Still, I need to be sure. "Are you hurt?"

"I don't know." She chews on her lower lip. "I... My mother is missing. When she didn't contact me after I... After I found out who my father was, I thought she was only mad at me. But now, I don't know where she is. I called all her friends and they said they don't know either... and my relatives... Nobody has heard from her... I don't know what I'll do without her, Antonio. Please. Tell me you didn't have anything to do with this."

Her voice rises, her words becoming more frantic and slurred as she speaks. "Please." She's shaking. Shaking, yet she lifts her chin and looks me straight in the eye. "You have to help me find her."

"Of course." I put my arm around her but she steps back. "What else is there?"

"How did you know someone else has been in the apartment?" Christina asks, looking me up and down with narrowed eyes.

I lean a hip against the door to close it. "I thought I smelled perfume."

"I wear perfume." She tilts her head to one side and regards me like one would a bloodhound. "It could've been mine."

Before I can think of a rebuttal, the name hits me with full force.

"Priscilla Martell," I say. Memories pass through my mind of the brief time we spent together, yet it was long enough for me to realize things. One of them being that she's not a harmless kitten, like other spoiled mafia princesses, but a fully grown cat with sharp claws. A girl who would do anything for her family, and for her father. "She's dangerous. Why was she here?"

"How did you know that?" A furrow forms between her brows and she clutches her denim jacket to her chest, the light blue fabric bunched up between her hands like a makeshift shield. "How did you know she was here?"

"A gut feeling." it's not that I don't want to tell her the truth, but it would be too hard to explain. "This isn't important. I'll help you find your mom."

Christina steps back, her eyes narrowing. She ignores my hasty promise. "How do you know her?"

"I was supposed to marry her," I say bluntly. "But I chose you, Christina. I wanted you."

"To tick off your dad," she says, her voice sharpening into blades that embed themselves into my chest. "Got it."

"Come on, Christina," I say. I know I made a mistake. I know I made many mistakes, but letting her into my life wasn't one of them. The only mistake I could make now would be to let her walk away. "Not this again."

She sits on the arm of the couch, staring up at me with defiant brown eyes, red-rimmed as though she's been crying. "Yes, this again."

A muscle tics in my jaw. "It may have started out like that, but I chose you, Christina. And I'm going to keep choosing you, until you understand."

"What's there to understand, Antonio? There's nothing that you haven't made crystal clear. At best, I'm a fling to you. At worst, I'm a pawn for you to get back at Roberto Cavalli." She plants her hands on her hips, causing her to lose balance and grab onto the back of the sofa for balance. I reach out, gripping her shoulder to steady her, but she recoils and tumbles backwards, her hair splaying out on the couch cushions.

My hand is still on her shoulder. She tries to sit up, her eyes widening with fear as though she thinks I'm going to... what? Assault her? Attack her now that she's lying down? The thought ripples through me like a stab wound, like a betrayal. I would never do that to a woman, especially not to her. Releasing my grip on her shoulder, I tuck my hands into my pockets. Christina scrambles up and off the couch, her eyes narrowed as though trying to see through me.

"Start over with me," I say suddenly. This recklessness may come back to bite me, but I want to tell her the truth. I want to be with her. "We can put this behind us, and act like it never happened. I'll just be a guy, taking you out on a date, for no ulterior motive whatsoever. What do you say, Christina Martell?"

I should've known she would say no. I should know that she doesn't want this. That she's been thrust into this life, this underground cascade of bullets and pain, kicking and screaming. I should know better than to ask for things I'll never have, than to ask for this girl, so beautiful and pure and unstained by the blood and ashes on my hands. Yet I dared to ask anyway. I dared to jump, and now I know I'm going to be spiralling through this fall without a parachute or a safety net.

She studies my face for a moment as though waiting for the other shoe to drop. Christina, like me, knows that this world we live in is too tangled for games of pretend. "Let's find my mom first."