A DROPLET OF WATER slides down my water glass and onto the white tablecloth, soaking into it. Soon enough, it will dry as though it were never here.

I wish I had never been here. Unfortunately, it's a wish that will probably never come true. Sighing, I wait for the waiter to return and tell me that Monica is never showing up. Or rather, that's what I hope will happen.

Instead, he just brings the breadbasket. That's not bad, either. The basket contains dinner rolls, mini croissants, and my personal favourite type of Italian bread. Using the tongs, I pick up a slice of focaccia bread, the smell of rosemary wafting toward my face as I shut my eyes and nibble at it.

"You're late," I say automatically, eyes still closed as I hear a chair squeak against the floor and a pair of high heels clicking against the marble tiles.

"Traffic was lousy," Monica says. "Are you finished falling in love with that piece of bread, or...?"

I open my eyes, rolling them as I shove the rest of the bread into my mouth and wiping my fingers on the white linen napkin in my lap. With my mouth still full, I completely disregard manners and speak with my mouth full of crumbs. "I'm done."

Her eyebrows pinch, a line forming between them. In her classy white blouse and black slacks, she looks like she's ready for a boardroom meeting, not a lunch date. "Do you have to be such a slob?"

Monica's critical analysis of everything and everyone around her never fails to grate on my nerves. It's like sitting next to a nagging mother or henpecking wife.

"Nice to see you, too, cousin." I smile before swigging my water. It's carbonated and I almost choke. I hate sparkling water, so it only makes sense that Monica would have called ahead and ordered it. She would be that petty. "How have you been?"

"Fantastic, since you left," she responds, summoning the waiter with a wave of her hand.

He comes scurrying over, a stack of menus in hand. "How may I help you, ma'am?"

"I would like to get some champagne for my companion and I--we are celebrating," she responds.

The waiter falls prey to her gleaming smile, aided by the help of veneers and years of braces. I knew her when we were in diapers, so why is it that she grew into a beautiful swan while I remained an ugly ducklng? "What are we celebrating?"

"Oh, her homecoming," Monica says. She even dares to reach over the table and hold my hand as though we're best friends or something when she's the reason that I left the family in the first place. "She's been away so long, I really missed her. We really missed each other, of course."

The server looks between the two of us curiously. "Were you away for college or something?"

My smile is tight. It feels the same way that having Botox must look. "Something like that."

"Well, I'll be right back with your champagne," he says when neither of us elaborates. Monica's hand is clammy over mine, her engagement ring and wedding band digging into my finger.

"Thank you," Monica says before dropping her mask and turning back to me, snatching her hand away as if I burned her. "Why are you back here, Lucia?"

I shrug, trying to keep a cold facade. It doesn't work. I'm no Monica Esposito, and I'm certainly no ice queen. I wish I could be, but my cousin always has a way of rattling me. We've competed and been pitted against each other in equal measure ever since we were little. Why should things change now? "You're the one who called me up to 'talk.'"

"And talk, we will. But tell me why you're back, first." She takes a sip of her water, red lipstick wreathing the rim of the glass.

I twist the ruby ring on my left hand, the only memento I have of my father. When I was away, I took it off, worried it would give away my identity. Now, my hand feels heavier with it on. "Marco is the one who kidnapped me and brought me back here. I assumed there was some greater purpose I needed to serve. Something that the Cavalli's want from me--some unfinished business."

"Why you?" Monica says, her voice dripping in disdain. And then I realize why she called me up. She's jealous. She can't fathom what use I would be to the family, and so she wants to figure out what I have so she can take it from me. This has been the nature of our relationship for as long as I can remember. Well, no longer. "Why not anyone else? You've been away for years, working as a stripper, of all things. It's not like you were rubbing shoulders with the wealthy and elite."

Her scorn coats every syllable. You were rubbing something else, is the unsaid statement that she would never dare to repeat out loud, too afraid of tarnishing her image as an Esposito princess. But I know she's thinking it.

"I actually got to know a lot of wealthy and elite men," I say. If she wants to bring up my job, so be it. I'm not proud of it, and it definitely wasn't the easiest or ideal path. No, if I could turn back time, I wouldn't have... or would I? I don't even know. I would never have met Lucas if I hadn't taken the path I did. But he hates me now, anyway. I only brought upon myself unnecessary pain. "You would be surprised to know how many men cheat on their wives. Staggering amounts, really. Politicians, stockbrokers, lawyers..."

Her eyes narrow as she looks at me. She traces a finger around the diamond on her engagement ring, the sparkly stone almost blinding me as she tilts it this way and that. "Yes, well it's not like you were talking to them, were you?"

"Monica, you have no idea about who I am or what I've done." I square my shoulders, refusing to let her monopolize the conversation with her contempt for me anymore. "Just say what you have to say and be done. Tell me that you're jealous because no one ever cared enough for you in the famiglia to involve you in any important discussions, meetings, or missions. Tell me that you're jealous because all you were worthy for was to be married off, sold like a pig at the market!"

Heads turn in the restaurant and I realize my speaking volume has risen above societally acceptable and polite decibels. Oops.

Her jaw drops. "How dare you!"

"No. How dare you, Monica! You stole from me before I left and made it seem like I was the one who sabotaged that deal. But the truth is, you're the one who messed all of this up. If you had just married Alexander Steele like you were supposed to, none of this would have happened. Your father--my uncle--wouldn't be rotting in prison for trying to shoot the Steele family. We wouldn't be embroiled in this decades-long feud." I fold my arms across my chest. "So there. Do with that what you will."

Monica rolls her eyes. "How was I supposed to marry Alex? The man is a heartless--"

"We all have to do difficult things in life to survive," I say just as the waiter returns with an ice bucket full of Veuve Clicquot.

"Ah, here we are, Miss," he says with a sheepish smile. "And if I could ask both of you to keep your voices down? The other patrons, I'm afraid, have issued some small complaints."

"Of course," we say in unison, equally fake smiles plastered onto our faces.

"Thank you." He pours the champagne into two crystal Lalique flutes and we watch as they foam up. "Enjoy."

When he leaves, I pick up my glass. "You could have married him and we wouldn't need to be at constant war with the Steeles anymore."

"Don't act like this is my fault," she says. "Do you really think the Steeles would back down? Not while Roberto Cavalli has their daughter, their sister."

We both freeze at the acknowledgment of that kidnapping, over a decade ago. "Allie is happy here. She doesn't even remember her old life."

"Maybe, but her old life remembers her." Monica lifts her glass toward mine. "To family."

We clink our glasses and drink. The champagne turns from sweet to sour in my mouth as I look at my cousin. "To family."

"YOU HAVE TO BE kidding me," Christina says. "Mom?"

"Honey?" A middle-aged woman who I assume is Christina's mother jumps up from a chair next to Charles Martell's bed and runs toward her, clinging to her daughter in a tight embrace. "How did you find me?"

"I helped," I say, but both mother and daughter are too engrossed in each other to hear me. I won't begrudge them that much. Instead, I look at Charles Martell. "Monsieur Martell."

His gun is in his hand, having just ejected the bullet that has embedded itself into the wall next to my head. "Signor Cavalli. How can I help you on this fine day?"

"I only came here to retrieve her." I gesture toward Christina's mother.

"She's not a princess in an ivory tower, and neither is your Christina. They don't need rescuing." Charles Martell reclines on his bed, and despite his supposedly weaker, passive position, he reminds me of my father. Both of them are men who have built their empires on blood and crime, on lies and passion. Yet one of them loves his children, and the other... the other left his daughter before she was ever born. "Which is why your presence is not appreciated. The next bullet will land in its target, I assure you."

"If you wanted to assure me of that, why not simply bury the bullet in my skull?" I ask, tucking my hands in my pockets. One of my guards, Filip Esposito, is waiting outside the room. The other has a getaway car ready. "Or are you too afraid to admit that it would miss?"

"If I wanted to have you killed, I would. This is my territory, after all. But I let you live because I would prefer to face you like a man, on my own two feet." He smiles, and it's the grim smile of a skeleton showing teeth, not that of a man expressing joy or affection. "I am giving you one warning. You have five minutes to take Linda and your girl and leave. Or I will have you killed and I will keep both of them here."

"And you say they don't need rescuing. Yet you seem to be the villain locking them up and throwing away the key." Christina and her mother have begun talking in animated Chinese, heavy emotion flooding the space between them as they talk. I tap Christina on the shoulder. "Let's go."