I make my way back to Caleb, my feet are still floating, unable to find solid ground. You might think that my mind won't stop thinking, analyzing, but you'd be wrong. My entire being is sluggish and disoriented, and I feel like a mess.

I tell Caleb that I'm not feeling well, and I feel terrible when I see his expression, concerned and convinced that he did something wrong. I give him a reassuring peck on the cheek and he says that he hopes I feel better. By the end I think he can see that I'm clearly out of it, and I promise to call him later, stumbling my way out to my car.

When I get to my apartment, Nero is nowhere in sight, his room dead silent. I'm still reeling from what happened, so it's a good thing I don't have to run into him. Scrubbing off my make-up, I fall into a restless, troubled sleep, replaying the evening over and over, no room for any kind of reprieve.

•§•

next day, unwilling to really think about what happened. I manage until around two, when I run out of sugary things to eat and fall into a hormonal mess on the couch, tears streaming down my face. Pathetic, yes. I have never been the pining type, but there is something different about this, something cold and disturbing, something raw and wrong and impossible to ignore.

I barely know him. At all. In fact, the only things I really know are horrific accounts of his illegal, morally abhorrent actions. I know that he speaks Italian and is in the mafia and is powerful and mysterious. And I know how incredibly earth-shattering his lips are, how his kisses are haunting and addictive and ruinous.

There was a sickening feeling of emptiness when he left, without a word. Why the hell should I care? But as ridiculous as it sounds, I do, and I hate it.

All this is made worse by the fact that I've ignored the call from Caleb this morning, and the sweet, funny, winning messages he sent me too. Looking at them just makes me hurt more, because he's amazing and does not deserve my mess. But then, I don't think I do either.

I know I probably scared you off for good with my dancing, but I hope you're feeling okay. Call me.

And then there's Shauna, whose exuberant, did-you-get-lucky texts are too much to deal with.

My weekly errand run is forgone, as I choose instead to drown myself in pitiable romcoms and a bucketful of chocolate and hot milk and cocoa and whipped cream. At some point, I let myself wonder what the problem really is. That Nero left me behind, wordless, or that he kissed me in the first place? Is it that making-out with two men in one night makes me feel cheap and careless, or that I wish that in my mind, kissing Caleb was as intense and unsettling as kissing Nero, with his fire and ice and danger?

But of course, it wasn't. And that fact makes me sick to my stomach, because Nero should have no place in my future.

•§•

by now, I've had a lot of interesting experiences at Sunday night dinners. But none of them compare to tonight.

When I walk into my parents' place, everything is immediately off. My father and brother are short and rough when they speak, and their faces are flushed with anger. I give my mom a what's-going-on type look, but she purses her lips with a shrug, her eyes telling me that I'll find out soon.

Once we're seated around the table, the tenseness is palpable, suffocating. Everyone is silent, and my mind races with the possibilities, everything from Caleb to Nero to my artwork. Except from the way they look at each other, I don't think it's about me.

Finally, just as it all becomes unbearable, my dad speaks, terse and frustrated.

"Rosalyn," my he begins, "Last night after dinner, a couple men approached Daniel and I." I watch the muscles in his neck twitch, unable to recall a time I've seen my dad so upset.

With a huff, Daniel adds, "We recognized them vaguely from the trial. They were definitely watching in the courtroom."

My heart starts to race, a sneaking suspicion of where this is going creeping up my spine.

"We've been getting so close with this case, Rosy." Daniel's voice is full of anger, and I can almost see him shaking.

My dad glares down at the table as he speaks, not even able to look at us. "Somehow they knew about the research we've been doing. We were going to use some evidence we dug up to prove that the police were manipulated and coerced during our client's investigation."

"We found out that it might have been a rivaling organization trying to pin the blame on him."

It sinks in, the fact that they discovered the truth about the murder, or part of it at least.

"These men," Dad spits, "told us that they knew all about the case."

My head spins as I try to keep up, and I watch as Daniel rests his elbows on the table, his face pressed tiredly against his palms.

Dad takes a deep breath, which does nothing to steady him. "They warned us that if we used what we learned in court, we would regret it."

My skin goes cold as Daniel looks at me, the color drained from his face. "They pointed over to where you were dancing with Caleb and said that we would be putting your life and ours at risk."

I stare back at him, my mouth falling open in disbelief. Their words hit me like a ton of bricks, knocking the breath from my lungs.

I hear my mom make a small, strangled noise, her distress evident in the glassiness of her normally cheerful eyes. The mess of it all, the sheer volume of wrongness, gets me right where it hurts, filling me, for a moment, with a paralyzing amount of dread.

"Did they say anything else?" My voice is low and quiet, barely a breath.

My dad shakes his head, inhaling in an effort to calm down. "They said that they know we'd make the 'right decision', so that no one gets hurt." I hear the disbelief in his tone, the intensity of it.

"And they warned us not to go to the police," Daniel adds. The defeat all over his face makes wrinkles in his smooth forehead.

I just sit there, reeling, unable to accept the things they are telling me. We are normal, ordinary people. We do not get threatened or coerced. Our lives are usually not at risk. At least, not until now. It's incredible, really. In the period of a couple months we've gone from innocent and happy to corrupt and shattered; we're completely, one hundred percent messed up.

Nero. The bastard's face flashes across my mind, making me see red. Who else would threaten us, besides him and his group of thugs? Who else has motive, has reason, to make sure the truth doesn't get out?

Suddenly, I feel sick to my stomach, and I hurriedly excuse myself, rushing off to the bathroom where my empty stomach heaves in the toilet, my mouth filling with bile.

The bitterness reflects my inner turmoil, sour and overwhelmingly unpleasant. Did he order his men to threaten us before or after he kissed me? Did he somehow think I wouldn't find out?

And what about Natalia? My head spins with all of it, and I remember how suspicious it seemed last night, her and Nero, knowing each other like that. Whatever she's involved in it can only be trouble where Nero is concerned.

When I return my dad apologizes to me, and I insist that it cannot possibly be his fault. He brings up the fact that I did warn them to be careful, and his words make me so guilty, because the entire thing isn't his fault—it's mine.

I ask about Caleb and they say that they already told him a couple hours ago, and the thought of him makes me hurt, deep, right where it hurts the most.

•§•

ounce of focus and control that I possess to drive safely back home, my eyes threatening to spill over, my throat raw. Everything is a daze, and when I lock myself up in my apartment, I can't bear the idea that he lives right next to me, ruining my life and everyone else's, yanking away all my security and normalcy and innocence and peace, replacing them with chaos and disorder. Everything seems tainted by an impenetrable, looming darkness.

Melodramatic, maybe. But that's exactly how it feels, weighty and crushing, and I feel like, if nothing changes fast, I might explode.

In my anger and frustration, I work up enough nerve to call Caleb, and my face is hot as the phone rings.

"Rosalyn." He sounds relieved as he breathes my name into the phone, and his voice is low, sending sparks down my spine. "Here I was, worried that I'd scared you off forever." He doesn't sound too bad, but his normal care-free tone is deflated, dejected, though he tries to be upbeat.

"Hey, Caleb." I sound apologetic, infusing my voice with as much sincerity as I can muster. "I am so sorry I didn't call you back sooner, it's been kinda crazy."

I hear a small chuckle on the other side, and he sounds tired, though I know he's making an effort. "I know, Ros, don't worry about it." I hear a long sigh, and I know that the news has taken a toll on both of us. "So you heard?"

"Yeah," I breathe.

"Yeah." He sounds so tired, and I feel somehow like it's my fault.

"Listen, Caleb..." I try to figure out how to say what I wanna say, because I haven't done this in a long time.

I hear him breathing on the other end, listening, waiting, patient.

"Is it too late for me to invite you over?" My voice is low and soft, and I can almost see his expression through the receiver, surprised and slightly amused.

He lets out a deep chuckle, and the sound sends a sharp jolt of want low in my gut. "If you still want to have me over, I'm all yours." There's a smile behind his words, and his cheerfulness in spite of everything is why I need him right now.

"Caleb."

"Rosalyn."

Once I give him my address, he promises to be here soon, and when we hang up, the smile that makes it's way onto my face is real, just for a moment.

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