THERE IS A WHITE-CLOTHED TABLE WAITING ON THE ROOFTOP. LIT BY candles, with two gleaming plates and a bundle of roses, it overlooks the city lights. It looks like one of Vincent Van Gogh's paintings, and I feel like I'm wading through a dream as I walk towards it.

"Angel, this . . ." Romantic. Beautiful. Incredible.

She gives me smile that is almost nervous, and my heart melts. "I love it," I finally say, kissing her cheek.

She pulls out a chair for me and brushes away the rose petals from the seat. Lifting the fabric of my black gown, I sit down and wait for her to reveal the menu.

There is a silver tray in the middle, and Angel uncovers. Roast beef, lamb, pasta and grilled vegetables.

"I figured you might be sick of eating hotel food," she says with a wry grin. After the last two weeks on the run, not being able to order anything more than room service and granola bars, this is heaven.

"I can't believe you set this up." The setting is so romantic, with the flickering candles and the gleaming red petals. We could be in a movie now, at the climax of an epic love story.

For a moment, she looks guilty, but why? She hasn't done anything wrong.

Dominic's words come back to me. She's going to betray you. Run, run now, and don't look back.

I shove thoughts away and take a bite of roast beef. Across the table, Angel's face is lit with candlelight. Her powerful, attractive features remind me of the Grecian era of sculpture, and the urge to paint her is so compelling I almost stand up right then.

Instead, I swallow. A pressing question is on mind, and I know I need to ask.

"Angel," I say tentatively. She looks up, her hazel eyes awash in amber. "The treasure, the wealth, the Jewels . . . I know it's a lot of money, and I know you could do a lot of things with it, but why do you need it?"

And I know she must need it. No one who doesn't need money like that will go chasing it across the world. But why?

Icy cold drips down her face like a sheet, and I tense, worried she's going to be furious, that she'll scowl at me and tell me I don't need to know . . . but then her expression loosens. As though she is making a conscious effort to be open.

"After the Genoveses slaughtered my family," she says, her eyes rimmed in shadow, "they stole all we had. Everything. Which means someone in the Falcone group must have snitched, in order for them to know where our money was. So they emptied the treasury, and all that's left now is what's in the vault. What I've been using for us to get around the world."

"You don't have to tell me if it's too hard," I say, but she waves me off.

"No, I . . . I should have told you sooner." Her face is grim. "There's nothing left. We're almost out of money, and no one knows, no one besides me . . . and Dominic. I've tried to keep it that way, because I don't want to lose power and the respect I've earned in the past two years. So this chase for the Jewels has been mostly kept a secret from the other Mafia families, except for the Genoveses, who managed to find us."

This when I remember the phone number that I left in the heel of my shoe. Why would a Genovese just give me his number? But I don't bring that up―it's too late now. Even though I memorized the number, I'm sure I could never use it.

"That's why the Jewels are so important, why I need them so much, because without them, the other families will realize we're weak, and we'll be slaughtered."

I can see there is something she's not saying, but I don't pressure her. Instead I ask softly, "What was it like, seeing your parents dead?"

She told me before in a rare moment of vulnerability that she had slept through it. I know how badly that would haunt me, so I want her to be able to let it out.

"I thought," Angel says, drawing in a breath that is choked, "I thought it was my fault. If only I had been awake. Why did they spare me? Why did they leave me? They should have . . . they should have killed me instead."

"No!" I exclaim. "Don't you dare say that. I never knew your parents, but I know they wouldn't want that for you."

Again, a guilty look flits across her face.

"I know," Angel says. "I know, and it makes it worse. But sometimes, running the Mafia . . . it's so overwhelming. The worst part is garnering respect. I need to ruthless, cold, cruel . . . everything I rebelled against when I was younger. But now that it's up to me, I understand why my parents were so distant. Killing people, living this life, it changes you."

I remember how, when she killed the man in the library, I turned away from her. I was disgusted by the dead body, shocked, and when she looked at me, desperate for any kind of affection, I didn't return it.

Now, I realize that what Angel needs is to feel like she is worthy. That she can still be good, despite what she's done. That I still love her, regardless.

"Let's admire the view," Angel says once we're done eating. The bitterness leaves her features and I smile at her and press a kiss to her neck. We lean against the edge of the roof, and I move as close to her as possible, trying to feel her warmth.

The tattoos on her forearms are beautiful and artistic. A sudden thought makes me smile.

"What is it?" she asks.

"Will you get a tattoo of one my artworks one day?" I ask. "You don't have to, I―"

Before I can finish, she pulls me into a tight embrace. I feel so safe, protected, with her body guarding me from the chill wind. Her lips are on my head and I feel her breath rustle my hair. "Of course I will, Cade. Anything you draw, I would put on my body."

My cheeks redden, the blush tingling through me. "Angel . . ."

But then I feel her hesitation, her reluctance. She's not saying something, and it's eating away at her. I twist away from her arms so I can look up into her face. "Angel? What is it?"

"Nothing," she says blankly.

I shake my head. "I'm not buying it. What aren't you telling me? Please, I can tell it's bothering you . . ."

Angel turns away, her face contorting into something like anguish. "There's something else I need to tell you."

"Anything."

"When I said before, that I've used money to travel around the world . . . well, it wasn't my money. It was someone called the Grim Reaper."

Distantly, I recall that name. Dominic described him as the biggest, baddest boss. Who all the Mafia answer to.

"And I made a bargain with him," Angel says. There are tears in her eyes, but she doesn't look at me. "He lended me the money I needed to find the Jewels, and all I had to do was return him a favor."

I stop breathing.

"So I agreed to the deal. At the time, I was badly broke," she says. "That was around the time we stole the Desperate Dancer painting, I needed it. Not for me―but to provide for the Falcones. My family. What's left of them. I told the Reaper yes, and I told him . . . I promised him I would deliver."

I pull away from her, blinking tears out of my eyes. Distantly, I can hear the first bell chime. Midnight is only moments away.

"Cade, you don't understand, I . . ." She swallows, tears sliding down her cheeks. "I had to. I had no choice. Without that money, we could never have chased down the Jewels, and you found them, you did. I couldn't have done it without you."

"Why don't you just give the Reaper the money he gave you once we have the Jewels?"

Angel shakes her head desperately. "No, it doesn't work like that. Once you make a deal with him, you can't go back. If I don't deliver, he'll slaughter my family―Dominic, Maria, Andre, Gru, everyone. I can't let that happen."

I don't want to ask. I don't want to ask, but I have to. I need to know.

My voice is a whisper as I say, whisper-soft, "What did you promise?"

Angel reaches out for me, and Dominic's words ring in my ears: Run away and don't look back. Run away, now, Cade! But it's too late, because the clock strikes midnight, and the sound echoes throughout the whole city.

"What did you promise, Angel?" My voice is hysterical. I back away from her, but her hand curls around my wrist. I freeze, waiting, wondering―no, no, no.

Angel shakes her head, real tears dripping down her jaw.

"Please," I breathe. "Please, tell me. Just tell me the truth."

"You," Angel says at last. She looks ashamed, her eyes downcast. Her grip on me slackens, and I pull away, I stumble back.

"Me? Why me?" My voice rises to a shout. "What could the Reaper want with me?"

But Dominic educated me on the horror stories. Torture, rape . . .

Angel is still looking at me, silent, tears streaming down.

"How could you do this?" I cry. My heels wobble on the gravel of the rooftop. "How? I thought . . . I thought you loved me."

And then I see them. The men that spill in from the stairs, dressed in dark clothing and tattoos and heavy muscle. They rush towards me, their faces blank and uninterested.

It occurs to me then.

"You brought me here so by midnight, they could take me," I say softly.

Angel doesn't reply, but I know this must be true. I know it, because how else could the Reaper's men have found us?

They wrestle my arms behind my back, and I scream and lash out. "How could you do this!" I say to Angel. "How could you!"

My arms are twisted, and I feel helpless, hopeless.

"You told me you loved me, goddamn it," I say quietly. I know she can hear.

"I do, Cadenza, I―"

My laugh is bitter. I struggle against the men, but I know it's futile: all I'm doing is wasting energy, so I relax into their arms. Letting them take me . . . it feels like I'm ripping a piece of myself away. Ripping such a crucial, vital piece of my heart into ashes that I sag into their arms.

"You don't betray the people you love." My whisper is as soft as the wind.

"Enough," barks one of the men, and one of his hands covers my mouth. Now, I can't help the flow of tears, and they fall, do they ever―the salty tang of my own sorrow is on my tongue, and I try to savour it. I try to do anything but think about the fact that Dominic was right.

I should have run.

I should have listened.

Then a man ties a blindfold over my eyes, and someone presses the stench of chloroform to my nose. The world goes dark.

I've been kidnapped twice in two weeks, I think deliriously.

But this time . . . this time, it won't be Angel waiting on the other end.

This time, I'm going to Hell.

>>>

No author's note is really necessary, but please keep voting, commenting, because I love all of your support. I could not have done this without you.

From the moon and back,
Sarai