"YOU SAID YOU ONLY wanted to deliver a package," I say to Marco as he drags me by the elbow, out the door, with the gun pressed to my side. Lucas's gun. In all honesty, I should have learned to use firearms way before I reached any supposed high school age. But every time we had training lessons that involved guns or gun safety, I would skip them. I figured I would escape the mafia life soon enough. Clearly, I was wrong. "To Lucas. You're going the wrong way if you want to leave him a package."

"I left him a package. Now you're the package that I'm delivering to someone else." I roll my eyes at the corniness of his message as he keeps his hand on my elbow, the cold press of the firearm making me shudder.

As he leads me through the hall, I see people wandering along the corridor with its faded carpets and peeling wallpaper, and I think about shouting for help. Then, he would probably shoot me and then all the other people, so I smile and pretend that nothing bad is happening at all. "I'm a person, not an Amazon delivery."

"You can be a UPS package," Marco says, as though that's any better.

He never did have the ability to come up with a snappy comeback, even when we were growing up. I remember playing tag with him as children and all he could do was turn the tables back on me so that I was 'it'. The memory almost makes me nostalgic for those times. Marco and I essentially grew up as cousins, since our mothers were best friends who were close enough to be sisters. But we never fell for each other in the way that everyone in the famiglia expected of us. For one thing, Marco's type is willowy, blonde, Victoria's Secret types, while I'm five-three, strawberry-blonde and curvy. For another, he annoys me to no end.

"Where are you taking me?" I ask, then, change my tone when a man passing by gives us a suspicious look. Sounding like a whiny girlfriend, I amp up the drama. "I mean, this is our second anniversary! Can you at least take me some place nicer than Boston Pizza?"

Now it's Marco's turn to roll his eyes. "Lucia, please."

A random passerby chimes in, the blonde woman's eyes disdainful as she glances at Marco with her mouth hanging open. Her cheap blonde extensions hang down her back, her long pink nails looking ready to gouge my fake boyfriend's eyes out. "You only took her to Boston Pizza? I bet you're the kind of cheap guy who says presents don't matter on birthdays and Christmas too!"

"How did you know?" I say, playing along for dramatic effect. Taking a risk, I pretend to wrench myself out of Marco's grasp. "He even asked me to pay the bill on our last date!"

The woman gasps, and for a moment, I think there's some sort of feminine code that universally condemns cheapskates. "No!"

"Yes." Marco sternly yanks me back against his body, the aggravation pouring off of him in waves as we leave, passing by the blonde woman. Too bad. She seemed nice. "Now, if you'll excuse me, we have to go. I made a reservation at Cavalli's, honey."

At the sound of that surname, my heart clenches tightly. This isn't a game any more. The Cavalli's are dangerous. Deadly, even. I escaped them this long for a reason, and I'm none too eager to return.

"I don't want to eat at Cavalli's," I say, a lump forming in my throat. My feet slow to a halt, each step louder than the next against the thinly carpeted floor. "Their food is practically poisoned."

"One. More. Word. Lucia." Marco's patience is clearly thinning, much like his dark hair. He's only twenty-five, why is his hair thinning? I guess a life of crime causes more stress than being an accountant or something. Remembering the time I saw him disembowel a man with his bare hands--back when we both worked under the command of the capo, Antonio's father, Roberto Cavalli--I decide it's a good idea to listen and not snark back at him. For once. "And I swear to Dio, I will not hesitate."

I plaster a cheerful smile on my face and pantomime locking up my lips and throwing away the key as he guides us toward the elevator, each step feeling like another one toward my execution. The bells are tolling already.

SHE'S GONE. DESTINY IS gone.

My eyes comb over the small apartment with familiar movements, checking for broken glass, a smashed door, a droplet of blood. Nothing. No signs of a struggle. Not even a scuffed floorboard or a dead houseplant askew.

The only thing that snags my gaze is the manila envelope sitting on the counter. I snatch it, barely able to stop the haze of rage from consuming me.

My hands shake as I tear the packet open, the yellow paper shredding. It's a glossy photograph and a slip of paper that falls to the floor. I scramble to pick it up, fingers brushing the carpet. As I pinch the paper between my fingers, the rug shifts between my feet and reveals a loose floorboard. Huh.

I pry open the small space, expecting dust bunnies or maybe even a colony of them to meet me. However, despite the small cloud that makes me cough, once I've waved it away it's gone to reveal something far less innocuous than dirt. It's another envelope. Manila. Thick, and padded.

My fingers have stopped trembling, but as I slit it open, I see the bubble wrap surrounding several things. All of them incriminating as I stand up, sliding them out of the envelope onto the counter. I pause before touching them, pulling on a pair of sterile rubber gloves from my work bag.

A necklace with a red stone that winks up at me—not just a ruby, but a red diamond. Thick wads of cash, rubber-banded, and with enough hundreds for me to swipe my thumb over the corner and hear the ruffling noise. And a gun, fully loaded. When I empty its chamber, I find bullets carved with the letter C. C for Cavalli.

Is Destiny really the witness to a murder? Or is she possibly the murderer herself? I stare at each of the items before deciding to focus on the piece of jewelry. The links of its chain are impossibly delicate yet well-made. Despite the possible betrayal that this discovery just revealed to me, I can't help but picture it around Destiny's neck. Its red diamond is princess-cut. The chain is either platinum or white gold. I know these things unwillingly, forced on me as the son of a jeweller who had far too many affairs with his customers.

A name is carved onto the back of the stone's setting in tiny letters: Lucia Anne Esposito. I curse under my breath as I think of the tattoo on her hip, the single work of ink staining her otherwise flawless skin: LAE. I thought it was the initials of a lover, maybe. I thought it was none of my business.

But none of that matter now. All that matters is figuring out this situation. If Destiny—Lucia—whoever she is, is in danger, wouldn't it make sense for me to go rescue her? Yet, if she isn't... if she left willingly... if this has been a months-long con...

I feel that like a punch to my gut. The betrayal. Like I literally pulled the rug out from beneath my own feet. And for the first time I understand how Christina must have felt.

What do I do?