SIRENS SOUND AND LIGHTS flash, an all-too-familiar situation for me. But definitely not a familiar one for the girl with glossy hair and milky skin, with red lips and a look of determination mingled with fear on her face, the girl whose hand is in mine.

"What now?" she asks softly.

The question startles me. By now, I've doubtless proven myself to be a criminal or at least involved in some sketchy business since I just ran away from the DEA, which no law-abiding citizen would do. Heck, I'm surprised she even agreed to come with me instead of throwing her the contents of her glass in my face and storming out—which is what my last date did when she found out about my... lucrative side business.

"Hey, you two! What are you doing here? Don't you know there are authorities in that restaurant?"

I whip my head over, a scowl darkening my features. Of course, it's Hortensio Filipetto, the new 'busboy' we hired recently. I had a feeling the Filipettos were on the verge of betraying us, but I didn't know how deep that treachery would run. Far enough to tip off every authority in the New York area, by the looks of it.

I see a few members of those authorities hot on Hortensio's heels right now and think on my feet. Whispering two words I rarely say—I'm sorry—I lean down and press my mouth to Christina's.

She smells sweet, like some kind of flower, and her lips are soft. Her body is pliant, yielding to me, fingers tentatively twining in my hair. Even in four-inch stilettos, I'm still too tall and she has to tilt her head back at an awkward angle to reciprocate, to go along with my dishonourable plan. It's a chaste, close-lipped, first-date type of kiss. But I doubt it would convince the handful of officers watching us that we ducked out of the restaurant because we were overcome by passion and lust and all manner of unholy feelings. So, I reach down and slide my hands to cup the backs of her knees, easily lifting her up to my height.

Someone wolf-whistles after a second and I set her down just as rapidly as I picked her up. She staggers back slightly. A world of emotions swims in those deep brown eyes: shock. Indignation. Anger. Desire? She lifts her hand and for a moment I think she's going to slap me, but she brushes her hair over her face instead, hiding her expression. She doesn't meet my gaze.

Before I can process what I just did, a voice jars us both from our daze. "Excuse me, sir, but are you aware that a drug raid is being conducted inside this restaurant?"

"Oh, is that what the commotion was about?" I remain nonchalant, holding Christina to my side as a car whizzes by and splashes muddy water into the sidewalk. "The lady and I were just finding a place to..." I grin sheepishly, knowing that expression conveys more than any words ever could.

"I see," one of the officers says, distaste in his tone. His mustache bobs up and down as he speaks. "Well, don't let me keep you."

He gestures to the other cop, and I tense. The other guy isn't a policeman after all, but according to his bulletproof vest, he's FBI. And his eyes widen at the sight of us."Christina?"

Her mouth, now smeared with her previously perfect red lipstick, falls open. "Lucas?"

"You're... on a date." He says the fact like he can't quite believe it. I tuck her slightly behind me, out of his line of sight.

"Well, I couldn't have stayed single forever, no matter how much you hurt me." Her shoulders square, her spine straightening. I edge in front of her protectively. She feels like mine even if she's not.

"I—" he steps forward, about to say something

But I cut him off. "Christina, sweetheart. We need to get to that thing, remember? Or else we'll be late."

She nods and walks with me, not even waving goodbye to the man I now know to be her ex.

"Are you okay?" I turn to her, concerned.

She nods again, dark eyes now blank, and clutches the cross necklace at her throat silently. Her voice is soft, gentle when she speaks. "Let's go, right? We have somewhere to be?"

The limo screeches to a halt in front of us before I can say anything more to her and before I can sort through my thoughts. Who else betrayed us? Hortensio is too foolish, too short-sighted--he couldn't have done it alone. Was it Monica, the new hostess we just 'hired' from the Espositos, that so-called textile family with a much darker underbelly? My mind spins.

"Where to now?" Christina asks, staring warily at the car. I collect my thoughts.

"You have a choice, sweetheart," I say, low enough that only the two of us can hear. I hold her brown stare with my grey one, and let the car idle. The driver, Roberto, steps out and holds open the door for us. "You can leave, and pretend that this never happened, that we never met. Or, you can get in, and your life as you know it will never be the same."

I hold my breath in spite of myself. She's just a girl. Just a girl that I took on a date, just a girl with more money than she knows, just a girl that I kissed. She's just a girl. So, really, I don't care if she gets in or gets shot. She steps into the car. I sigh and get in after her, hearing the door click shut.

"I guess I know your job description now," she murmurs, still clutching the necklace at her throat. "Drug dealer."

Crossing one leg over the other, I laugh gruffly. "Sweetheart, you don't even know half of it."

"Well, I suppose it's my own fault," she says with a chuckle that sounds almost unhinged. "I should have specified in my bio, no drug dealers or any other kinds of criminals."

"I think drug dealers don't usually peruse Tinder, browsing for dates." I point out, opening the mini fridge and taking out a sprite.

"Peruse?" A frown knits her dark brows together. "What kind of drug dealer uses the word peruse?"

The kind like me, I want to say. "The interesting kind."

She starts laughing and doesn't stop.

I LITERALLY CANNOT KEEP myself from laughing. The sound pours out of me, panicked and half-hysterical. Of course, I have the worst taste in guys. First Lucas and now this. Now him.

An actual drug dealer. An actual drug dealer just stole my first kiss on our first date, which ended with us on the run from the actual police and God knows who else. If I were the kind of person who cursed, this would be the time to do it.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it wasn't God's voice, telling me to trust Him, telling me to go with this man. Maybe it was my own voice, wanting danger, wanting excitement. Maybe it was someone else, the heat of the moment getting into my head. Would God ask this of me?

My fingers curl into fists and unfold one by one, over and over. I feel my mouth move silently, and realize I've stopped laughing. Just one phrase sits on my tongue: trust Him. Not the man sitting across from me that is speeding away from the restaurant, to an unknown destination. But the God who watches over everything and everyone. I bite down on my lip when I sense Antonio watching me and my slight mental breakdown.

"What?" I snap out, a little too harshly. He takes something out of his pocket—a handkerchief?—and holds it to my face.

For a moment I think that it's probably chloroformed and that I'm going to pass out any moment now. Then, he gently wipes the messy lipstick off of my face and sets the handkerchief in my lap. "There."

His touch is soft, yet firm. But for all I know those same calloused hands could just as easily hurt a man, fire a gun, hold a knife. For all I know, he could kill me and make it look like an accident.

I try to figure out how I should respond, and go with politeness. "Thanks."

Antonio nods in response, opening his can of pop. It fizzes. He must really be fine with not drinking because I see an array of alcoholic beverages in there too that he could have picked. Which is kind of how I feel--there is probably a veritable army of girls that he could have chosen to go on a date with. A girl out there who would be better for him, than me.

Someone okay with breaking the law, someone fun and spontaneous and exciting... Someone who's used to going on the run from the FBI, DEA, and police. I picture this imaginary girl in my head for a moment: a leather jacket, probably wearing black from head-to-toe, an edgy haircut more exciting than my stick-straight, way-past-shoulder-length-and-should-probably-get-a-trim-style. A bad girl. Not someone like me.

"We're here." He interrupts my interlude.

I uncross my ankles and try to look out the tinted window, not letting him see the thoughts that are probably written on my face. "Okay."

We get out of the car. My jaw immediately drops open at the sight before me. It's an actual house, in New York City, on the Upper East Side. Those rarely exist, and this one... the word 'house' doesn't do it justice. It's a literal mansion.

"Where are we?" I gaze at him. We can't still be inside the city. There's too much green space, too many beautiful, sprawling houses dotted across lush fields.

Antonio gestures a hand over the whole estate. "Welcome to Twin Peaks, Southampton."

"Wait... who owns the limo you picked me up in?" I immediately question him.

"I do, sweetheart. I own all of this."