I AM LISTENING TO the man in front of me drone on and on about stock prices, gambling chips, and other things that would normally be somewhat interesting to me, but coming from his mouth with a wispy goatee attached beneath it, are utterly boring. As I sit on this leather barstool, all I can think is: Monte Carlo shouldn't be like this.

I should be showing Christina around the city, telling her all about my favourite haunts.

You should be telling her what you did here last summer. That would really scare her off.

But is that what I want? Is that what i should do, or is it some part of me that yearns to sabotage this relationship, that longs to push her away because I believe that she's too good for me? I do believe she is too good for me, but only in the sense that this world is too dark for her. My life has already tainted her too much.

But I can't let go of her. Not yet. I don't know when I'll be able to, when I'll ever be able to cut ties with her, if ever, but it's not now. Not yet. I can't. Not yet.

God, you've given me this girl. Don't take her away from me, just yet. Yet I know I should let her go, push her out. I know I should let her go to some guy with a boring life, or at least a morally and legally untampered life. Someone like Lucas Black, though preferably not a cheater like he is. Someone who can take care of her, protect her from this darkness instead of pulling her into it.

Someone who would treat her with respect, who could always be honest with her about what he did that day instead of saying, I took care of business. Is she going to be the one to drag me into the light? I don't think so. Not literally. Not figuratively. I have to be the one to be brave enough to expose my own shadows, my own sin, into the light.

Yet other things hold me back. My father. My family. My whole life has been spent living in the dark, and yet I've stuck around her long enough, past the sunset, waiting for dawn to come and yet praying that it doesn't.

"Listen, I'm sure that's nice and all, but I hear a game of baccarat calling my name," I say. "Why don't we defer this discussion to a later date?"

Dante Silva nods. "Noted, Mr. Cavalli."

I do feel bad. Maybe. Not really. Yet another reason I'm not the guy for her.

Pushing off of the barstool, I head into the crush. I think Christina said she might be here. Stopping at the baccarat table, the dealer places a hand on my forearm. I'm about to shake it off and refuse her flirtatious advances before I realize the panic in her eyes is anything but seductive. "Quoi?"

"Monsieur, a woman was here asking about you," she says in a low voice before removing her hand from me, dealing cards. To anyone else, we would just look like we're chatting about the game. "She asked if anyone had seen you from last summer. I told her no, but I don't know if she believed me."

"A woman?" I frown. Who could be looking for me? That summer was such a blur... A fevered haze of too many drinks and bad decisions that had somehow ended up with my father and the family becoming a good fifty million richer, thanks to a deal that we had made with some bigwigs in Monte Carlo. I could scarcely remember the faces I had seen or the people I had met, let alone the things I might have done to cause a woman to come after me. What if...?

No. Surely, I would have known. Wouldn't I?

"Yes, a woman," she says impatiently. "It was probably nothing."

"Most likely," I say. "Thanks for letting me know."

No longer in the mood to gamble, I slide off of the leather stool. I need to find Christina. What if this person who is looking for me is looking for? She could be in danger? I check my phone for hourly updates from the two guards assigned to follow her. She's safe. At the pool. --Hortensio

Something inside of me relaxes, unclenches, releases, like a bowstring pulled taut to release and watch the arrow find its mark. I go back to the room, ready to change into more pool-friendly attire and find Christina. Having attired myself in swim trunks and a white t-shirt, feet shod in flip flops, I head upstairs in the elevator. The warning from the girl at the baccarat table sets me on edge--well, even more so than usual, if such a thing were possible.

Every pair of eyes that lands on me feels like a gaze made of tattoo ink, sinking into my skin. Every person that enters the lift and so much as glances at me has the muscles in my abdomen coiling and uncoiling, despite my previous more relaxed state upon hearing about Christina's safety.

I need to get a grip. Why am I so anxious all of a sudden?

Is it because maybe, just maybe, you know that if you get caught, you wouldn't even know what for?

Is it because your sins have piled up sky-high, and you know the wrong breath will send them tumbling down in a house of cards, only these cards are razor blades, ready to destroy you?

Is it because you wouldn't know if someone is hunting you for the crimes of the heart or a crime of life and death?

My hands curl into fists and I have to force myself to breathe deeply. Perhaps too deeply, because the woman in front of me steps forward to get away from me, a disgusted look etched onto her pristine face, her blonde hair falling in waves over her shoulders. She's standing with a man who looks too similar to her to be anything but her brother, their heads bent close together as they whisper about something.

I catch snippets in a Southern drawl--something about oil and investors--but I brush off their conversation, breathing a sigh of relief when they walk out of the elevator a floor before mine. The pool is a rooftop one, all marble and statues and fountains and neatly trimmed hedges, reminding me of the inferior counterpart, the Venetian on the Las Vegas Strip, a mere shadow of an imitation compared to this grand hotel. It's not Italy, but it's close enough that I feel at home.

I haven't felt at home in a long time. It's been even longer since I've felt at peace. But when I spot Christina, her cover-up discarded on a beach chair in one of the private cabanas, swimming laps in the pool, I feel both at peace and at home. What an odd sensation, so at odds with my day to day life that I have to stop and wonder if someone hasn't slipped something into my drink.

"Christina," I said when she pulled up at the pool's edge, resting her head on her folded arms, her elbows on the ground next to the pool.

She pulled herself out of the pool, wearing a black one-piece suit. It was more of her than I had seen before, yet less of her, at the same time. She seemed guarded. Different. Less open, less vulnerable. And I knew I had done that to her. I knew that I was responsible.

"How did you know I was here?" she asked, picking up a towel to wrap around herself with a shiver. Then her expression changed from delighted surpris to resigned bitterness. "Oh, right. The stal--I mean, the guards, right?"

"You're very astute." I didn't comment on the tone she used, that resentment simmering beneath the surface. She wrapped the towel more tightly around her shoulders, her dark hair dripping wet and plastered to her face, her eyes big and brown as she looked up at me. "And no, they're not stalkers."

"I didn't say they were." She folded her arms across her chest. "I said they were guards."

"It's for your safety." I sighed. "Especially since I just found out that someone's been asking questions."

She stiffened. Frightened, it seemed. Her breathing quickened. "Asking questions?"

"I was in the casino, and the dealer at the baccarat table told me that she had seen someone asking questions about me and the business I was conducting here last summer." I rubbed at my temple. "I don't know what she could want, but it can't be good."

Christina tugged at the edge of the towel, wrapping it around her throat. "Do you think she wants something from you? Money?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. It could be worse. It could be revenge or something that I don't even know about."

She frowned, biting her lip. "Well, I hope it's nothing."

I hoped so too. But I knew better than to be optimistic.