I DON'T KNOW WHAT I was thinking.

That easily could go down in history as the worst proposal of all time.

Allie sped away with Christina in the backseat, leaving me holding the gun and standing over my father's - our father's - dead body.

Blood still stains the gravel while the gun sits heavier in my hands than it ever has.

I just shot my father.

He'll never gripe to me once more about the Martells or tell me in his gruff manner to stand up straight. He'll never see what happens with Christina. Which is really nothing.

So many things will never happen. So many things I'll never learn from him. So many secrets I'll never pry from his cold, dead hands.

I toe the sleeve of his suit jacket away from me and bend down before I can stop myself to close his eyes. His face is forever frozen in a rictus of surprise, shock, blending together with betrayal.

He never expected it of me. And somehow that made it all the sweeter, and all the more bitter.

I stand there on the gravel, frozen, for God knows how long. Christina's words echo in my mind, as the world revolves around me endlessly. Something about Jane Eyre and Rochester. The sentences make no sense to me now. Nothing makes sense anymore. Years pass, or seconds. It could be an infinity later that my phone buzzes with a text.

I stare at my father's body crumpled on the ground, so much weaker in death than he was in life. Was I ever really scared of this man?

Checking my phone, I read the message. I took her to the airport. --Allie

Fine. --Antonio

Are you okay? --Allie

I need a favour --Antonio

Anything --Allie

Aren't you driving? How are you texting? --Antonio

Moments later, the text box closes, indicating that she's stopped typing, and the phone rings instead. I don't peel my eyes off of Roberto Cavalli's corpse, instead swiping to answer her call.

"Hello?" I remain rooted to the spot. "Allie?"

"What's the favour, big bro?" she asks, her voice light.

But what I'm about to ask of her is not light at all. "I need you to go back to your biological family."

Dead silence. I fix my eyes on a wrinkle in my father's jacket, right at the sleeve, then let my gaze drop to a lump in his pocket. What's in it? His wallet? He usually puts his wallet in the back pocket of his pants, not his jacket.

Maybe it's a roll of cash. Maybe he was going to pay her off. Maybe my bullets were wasted.

"Allie, are you there?" I say.

"I'm here," she says, sounding winded. "I just, um, didn't expect to hear that from you, Tony."

"I know it's a lot to ask," I say. "And it wouldn't be permanent."

"Would it?" she says with a sigh. "I know how the Mafia works. I know that I'm not a person to our father, but merely his property, just something to be traded like a pawn. But Tony, I thought you were better than this. Better than him."

"Our father is dead," I say, my voice hollow. Someone has to take his place.

She reads my mind. "It doesn't mean you have to be just like him."

"Just this once," I say, hating the way my voice trembles. "I need you to do this one thing for me, Allie. Adelina, you will be forever in my debt."

"Fine." The tone of her voice is like a boot on fresh snow, leaving a deep imprint. "I'll do it, Tony. But only because you asked."

"Thank you." I collapse against the door of a Bugatti. "Come back when you're done at the airport."

"I'm already on my way," she assures me. "Are you making the exchange?"

"Tomorrow," I assure her. "There's someone else I need to pick up first."

I don't know if it's been minutes after I hang up when I hear sirens blaring or only an hour.

Gravel crunches. I make no move to save myself. I don't deserve it.

"Drop the weapon and put your hands on your head!" shouts a cop. I perform the actions mindlessly, obliging.

I have nothing left. No reason to run or hide. Christina Martell is out of my life forever, and I have only my own desperate, idiotic hopes to blame for it.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law," says the cop as he takes my hands from my head, forcing them behind my back. The click of cuffs as the other officer - no, agent, these are FBI - kneels down and picks up the gun, bagging it with black-gloved hands. "You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you."

Silent, I watch the world as they drag me to the car. It keeps spinning around me. Birds chirping, leaves shaking in the spring breeze, and one scrap of black velvet fabric, torn from Christina's dress, flutters over the gravel. I stomp on it, but I have no way of picking it up.

So I let it go. I let the last piece of her go.

THIS IS MY LAST private jet ride for a very long time. Or at least for the foreseeable future.

I try to enjoy it. Allie dropped me off at the airport with a note in her handwriting on Cavalli letterhead, to their pilot. I passed it to him when prompted, and though I have no passport and only a driver's license, he promises to take me wherever I want with complete secrecy.

I can still smell the iron stench of Roberto Cavalli's blood. When I explore the private jet further, I find a closet, fully furnished with black clothing perfectly to my taste. I don't want to wear any of them. I don't want any of his finery or his gifts adorning my body. The diamond necklace still sparkles at my throat and I tear it off in a fit of desperation, fumbling with the clasp. I'd throw it out of the plane if I could.

Everywhere I turn, I see memories. The trips I took with him. That last vengeful, desperate, deceitful attempt to bring justice that went against everything I believe in. But all I can see is my own pride, turned to ashes in my mouth.

I tried to change him, and I failed.

I believed I could be strong enough to bring him to justice, and at that, I failed most miserably.

Am I running away from my problems now, or am I facing up to my failures?

My phone dings with a text. How we have service or wifi when we're ten thousand feet in the air, I have no idea, but I don't question it as I read the message.

We arrested Antonio Cavalli. Good job. --Lucas

Good job. I don't feel like I've done a good job. I don't feel like I've done a job at all. I feel like I've lost the first man that I ever loved, and I will never get him back because our love ate at my insides like acid.

Good to know. --Christina

I shut off my phone and stare off into space. The plane is loaded with as many vinyl records, books, and the latest hit movies, as one could possibly need to be entertained. But the only thing I can do is sink to my knees and confess how terribly I have behaved. How awfully I have sinned, by deceiving Antonio even if I did think it was for a good cause.

I think of Jael, in the book of Deborah, sinking her tent peg into Sisera's skull. After she gave him milk and used her feminine wiles to lull him into a false sense of security. But I'm no Jael, and Antonio, despite everything... he wasn't Sisera.

I don't want a 'good job' from some earthly master. I want to hear, well done, my good and faithful servant from the only Master whose will and opinion matters. There is no God but God, and He is the only one whose approval I should ever have sought.

As I sprawl onto the plush carpet of the plane, planted beneath a nickel wall sconce, I pour my heart out. Regret and remorse and guilt filled me before being washed away by God's grace and His Son's blood.

When I try to stand to make it to my seat, the plane seems to move in a manner akin to a roller coaster. It lurches, rolls, and generally makes me want to vomit.

I stagger to my seat and fumble for the seatbelt as static comes over the intercom. "Miss Martell, we will be going through some difficult turbulence. Please, hold on."

Buckling the seatbelt, I grip the armrests as a roaring sound fills my ears. A scream releases from my throat, my stomach heaving as the plane goes through more turbulence than I've ever experienced before.

Then moments later, my field of vision goes black.