IT'S MY SECOND TIME leaving the country in as many months, and I have to say... a girl could get used to this.

I convinced Antonio, with what took a surprisingly small amount of eyelash batting and a lot more wheedling than expected--rom-com writers do not know what they're talking about, it seems--to take me to Monte Carlo. Beforehand, though, I had a plan. Lucas didn't like it, but he's also not the boss of me, so... there. Okay. I did convince him. Somewhat. He's kind of mostly persuaded, but he's also in the throes of a brand new relationship with Destiny (Lucia?) so he was extremely distracted when I told him that I was flying to Monte Carlo with Antonio so that I could investigate what Thyra told me about.

Now that we're in Monte Carlo, I realize that may be a bit more difficult than expected, considering I have no idea which casino Antonio was gambling in, and... Monte Carlo is basically the Las Vegas of Europe.

"So, have you been to Monte Carlo before?" I say, hoping I sound like I'm asking a casual question and not interrogating him for details of what he was doing last summer. "Or did you just decide to come with me because you want to re-enact Casino Royale?"

Dressed in what I've deemed his official resort wear--a white linen shirt and the surprising addition of beige cargo pants that have more pockets than all my skinny jeans combined--he has added aviator sunglasses and a straw hat that I saw at the airport and couldn't resist buying for him. He looks incredibly relaxed, once more stunning me. "You mean, you would be Vesper? I don't think I'd enjoy killing you and I doubt you have a death wish."

"Maybe I would be James Bond and you would be Vesper," I joke, holding his hand as we stroll down the cobblestone streets. I'm wearing the same hat with a ribbon that ties under my chin, along with a black wrap dress with a ruffled hem.

"You look better in a dress," he says, completely deadpan. "And to answer your question--yes, I came to Monte Carlo last year on business."

"What business?" I ask, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear that escaped my French braid. "Or is it top secret, not allowed to tell me?"

His chest puffs up a little as if I've touched on something that caters to his ego. These past few days, he's seemed kind of down, so it's actually a relief to see him seem to enjoy himself. "I negotiated a pretty good deal for the chain of Cavalli's restaurants."

Huh. "A supplier? Or would you be opening a restaurant here?" I ask, gazing at the beautiful sandstone buildings with slate roofs and little wrought-iron balconies everywhere.

"A mix of both," he says vaguely. "There's our hotel."

Checking in leaves me in a blur, flopping onto a king-size bed in a penthouse suite that cushions me. I'm alone now since Antonio actually has something to do--some business to take care of, again stated in that veiled, hazy, completely opaque way that could mean killing someone in a back alley with a dagger or taking out the trash. Giving me the perfect opportunity to sneak down to the casino, and talk to people about Antonio.

I should be... I don't know what. Scared? Excited? Wanting to play the part of a spy? Yet none of those emotions, none of those feelings, washes through me. I feel nothing. Not a single thing.

All I can think about is that I have no idea where to start, and I don't even know if I should be doing this. Maybe coming to Monte Carlo was a mistake. Maybe I should just go to the pool and sunbathe until I meet Antonio for dinner, instead of going on a fool's errand when Antonio likely has guards watching my every move. How the heck am I supposed to get away from them?

It's not even the guards that worry me the most. What worries me the most is what I might find. I am scared of the unknown. If I remain in it, in this blank space of questions and mystery and confusion. I will never have to know. The worst will be only a figment of imagination, a febrile fixture of my mind's eye. The best will be what could be possible, that this was a legitimate business dealing that happened last year.

But if I find out... if I find out what this man has done, he might be too horrible for me to love. He might be an arms dealer. He is a drug dealer. Or at the very least, a mafia lord, who totes guns and has the feds hot on his tail. He is a bad man. I know it, I know, I know too much and yet I know also, that I'm falling for him. And he's going to break my heart.

Not just because he's a playboy. Not just because he's been with at least a dozen girls before me. But because I'm going to have to leave him. I'm going to betray him, this man who may not always have been good to me, but has treated me with some kind of strange tenderness, some kind of affection that feels like helping me to find my mother while also warning me away from his father. A sort of care that involves giving me diamond necklaces and keeping secrets from me. I don't know what to believe about him, and maybe that's what he wants.

Maybe he wants to hide things from me. Maybe he wants me to live this half-life, knowing only the fact that he shows to me, only seeing the good parts of him, like watching him dole out affection with one hand and deal out blows with the other. I can't live like this.

I can't stay in this uncertainty. I have to make a decision. I came here to find out who he was, and it's high time I did it. God would want me to do this... wouldn't He? Wouldn't it be good and holy to make the right decision, not to associate with people who are wicked and immoral? After all, I can't change him. He can only change himself.

That's it. I'm settled. I get up from the bed, smooth out my dress, and then get out of the room, walking towards the elevators. There are things to be done, and people to be seen, after all.

A few discreet inquiries in the casino in my rusty French allow me to find what I'm looking for, always keeping an eye on the two bulky men in black who are trailing after me. I'm about two hundred percent sure they only speak Italian, which is reassuring.

"Pardon, mademoiselle. Savez-vous cet homme?" I ask a girl who is dealing out cards at a baccarat table. At least I think it's a baccarat table. Gambling isn't really my forte. Showing her a picture of Antonio that I snapped on the plane, I watch as her eyes widen.

Her face pales, her blonde ponytail swinging as she shakes her head rapidly. Somehow, I get the feeling that she's lying. "Non."

"Parlez-vous l'anglais?" I say, trying to probe more deeply into what she might be keeping from me. Considering I'm not a skilled interrogator with torture skills and I have the language barrier between us, it's not really working.

She sighs, and then, in French-accented English, begins to speak. "I don't know this man. Now if you will excuse me, I have customers. Get some chips or leave."

Well, that was rude. I go off to find someone else, before bumping straight into one of the guards. At least I think he's my guard unless I have a stalker.

"Excuse me," I say stiffly. Maybe I should gamble so that I would at least have something to do.

Ten minutes later, I'm back at the baccarat tables, losing all of Antonio's money.

At least, that's what it feels like. The object of the game is apparently to have the highest hand, but I keep being dealt fours and threes. God must be frowning on my gambling.

"So, are you sure you don't know him?" I say as I lose all my chips.

She shakes her head, clearly fed up with my probing as she deals everyone another hand. To my right, a woman in a stunning red dress with bombshell blonde waves styled to cascade over one shoulder sits in the seat next to me. Her winged eyeliner and red lipstick are perfectly applied, and her dazzling smile is movie star-white. She flashes me a grin.

"Who are you looking for? Trust me, honey, if he's cheating... he's not worth it." Her voice is syrupy-sweet yet genuine, with a Southern drawl that makes me feel like I'm at home, even if I'm from New York. "Just leave him."

"I appreciate the advice, but I'm not looking for a guy," I say, taken aback by how her advice would have applied to me a year ago. "Well, I am, but... it's kind of a long story."

She extends a graceful French-manicured hand to me. "Delilah Sutherland."

"Christina Martell." I shake her hand. "Nice to meet you."

"How do you feel about grabbing a drink with me at the bar? I'd like to make a friend," she says. "Monte Carlo can get pretty lonely if you don't know the right people. Plus, it's nice to see a fellow American again."

"Well, seems like you're one of the right people to know, and I was about to mortgage my house if I kept at it," I joke. "Let's go, then."

Delilah is sweet yet incredibly charming. She's an Alabama transplant on vacation in Monte Carlo with her brother who struck it rich in Texas oil, now sent here to charm his investors.

"So, tell me about this man you are... or aren't looking for."

I sigh. She's a complete stranger, yet somehow, I feel like I can trust her.

"That bad, huh?" She pats me on the back. "Don't worry. Who is this guy? A brother? Boyfriend? Dad? I won't judge."

Picking at a hangnail despite all my mother's warnings against doing so peppered throughout my childhood, I start to try and unwind the complicated thread that is my and Antonio's relationship. "He's... I want to... He's my boyfriend, I guess. I'm with him on vacation right now, and he does some... I think he's involved in some shady business. Kind of a legal grey area. I know he was here last summer, doing some less than legal things, and I want to know what he did. But so far, I haven't been able to find anything out. And I guess maybe he paid them off, or they're all scared of him to speak?"

My voice cracks. The resolve I summoned to get myself into this casino is rapidly dissolving like ice on a hot summer's day, and I don't know how to get it back. "I know it sounds really bad, and I know I should leave, but..."

"You want to save him?" Delilah's voice is soft, sympathetic, as comforting as a warm blanket against a blustery December day. "Or you want to be his guardian angel, and guide him to the right decisions? You think that maybe, if you say the right things, or if you do the right things, or you're just good enough for him, he'll magically decide to be a good guy. Am I right?"

My knee-jerk instinct is one of denial. No, that's not it, you don't get it, that's not how I feel... But isn't it? Isn't it true? Haven't I harboured this fantasy about changing him for the better, reforming him? "I mean... it's complicated."

"Of course it is, honey." I don't know why she's being so nice to me. It's like she's an older sister that I never had. "A guy like that, these things are bound to be complicated. But you know what I've learned? It's that in the most complicated scenarios, usually, the answer is pretty simple. You just don't want to do it, because it'll hurt too much. It's like when you break a bone and it heals wrong, and you have to break it all over again or your leg will be crooked. You know what needs to be done. But you just don't want it to be done."

"I have to..." I shake my head. Monte Carlo is making me crazy, and it's nothing like the Selena Gomez movie made it out to be. "I'm not trying to change him. Or maybe I am, but I don't mean to, I swear. I want to turn him over to the feds. That's why I'm here."

Delilah's red lipstick smile turns from empathetic to... excited. "Gosh, well, if you want my help with that, I'd be more than happy to take your call, Christina."

She slides me a business card across the bar before pulling writing her room number across the back of it with a gold fountain pen. I pocket the card with a grateful smile. "Thank you so much, not just for this but for listening."

"Of course," she says, and before I can stop her, she's pulling me into a hug. This must be a Southern thing. The New Yorker in me stiffens, but the lonely, vulnerable part of me gives in. "Have some faith, girl. It's all going to be okay."

She squeezes my shoulder as she pulls away, before gracefully sliding off the bar stool in a whirl of floral perfume and what might as well be gold dust, glamour rolling off of her in waves.

God, show me what to do.