THE MOMENT I STEP ONTO THE AIRPLANE, my heart drops into my stomach.

Plush red velvet cushions line the seats, with black marble tables separating the areas. It is sleek, sexy, elegant. Yes, the airplane is, in fact, sexy.

At the back of the plane, I see the bathroom and make a beeline towards it. Dominic is behind me, and Angel will be arriving soon.

The plane takes off in twenty minutes. I need to calm down.

After Dominic woke me up this morning, I had an unbearable moment of panic. Where I remembered last night, when Nathan called me and I cradled myself in that burning shower. Then, when Angel kissed me . . . and I left her room, hot, in more ways than one.

I lock the bathroom door behind me and stare at myself in the mirror.

Dull, tired green eyes. Brown hair, blonde at the tips where I dyed it months ago. My face is more tan, thanks to the Italian sun, but there's something missing.

It's the piece Nathan took from me.

After inspecting myself for another ten minutes, I unlock the door and step back out into the common area. All the Mafia men, dressed in their sharp-cut black suits, are occupying the seats.

As I look towards a free spot, I make eye contact with Angel. And I stop breathing.

The seat across from her is the only one left.

With a calm, unbothered walk, I stride to the velvet cushion and sit down as though my insides aren't boiling at the thought of her words.

Not now. Not ever.

That is when another surprise makes me lose my focus.

Dante Rosso is sitting at the back. I had forgotten about him, the way the Mafia had dragged him into Angel's palace, as he thrashed in their arms. The thought fills me with guilt. I'm supposed to be his friend, and I forgot.

"Dante?" I say. He is sitting with Dominic, and he's shackled to the seat.

The plane, full of the Falcone crew, turn to look at me. But I can't stop myself. I'm furious now, more than before. What do they want with Dante?

"What is he doing here?" I demand to Angel.

Her eyes are cold. "I don't need to explain anything I do."

The words are so harsh, so . . . unfeeling. They make me pause. Yesterday, when she knocked on the door and carried me out of the shower, she seemed more sensitive. Compassionate. Understanding.

But it must have been a lie.

Because now, as heat spreads to my cheeks, and I stand up in outrage, she does nothing more than give me a lazy, insolent stare. As though I am nothing to her.

"Are you okay?" I ask, louder than I should. Fine, if she wants a show, she can have one.

Dante gives me a bleary smile. His face is painted in bruises, and he looks hazily over toward me. Both his eyes are swollen shut. He's a university student, I think furiously. He's done nothing to deserve this.

Dominic, who appears to be Dante's guard, narrows his eyes at me. I can see the flex of his thick muscles through the white shirt. Tattoos snake down his arms, and they tighten as he grips the edge of his seat.

I can see a bandage on his forehead. Where I gave him a concussion.

"What's wrong with you people?" I say. "What could Dante have possibly done to deserve this?"

Angel rises to her feet slowly. I see the strong curve of her muscles, and I swallow involuntarily. But I don't need to beat her in a physical fight―only here, right now, in front of the Mafia members she is the leader of.

I remember the way she became angry after I said she was cold and empty.

And I lash out as hard as I can with my words.

"Are all of you nothing more than cold, unfeeling bast―"

Before I can finish she slams me against the back wall. Her face is instantly a breath away from mine. I can still her remember the taste of her lips from last night.

We have the attention of the entire crew.

"Do you want," she whispers into my ear, "to share handcuffs with him?"

"I thought you said that I wasn't a prisoner here," I hiss. She smells like lemon. For a moment, I ache to brush my mouth across the angle of her taut jawline.

"I can change that," she says, so softly only I can hear.

"Maybe," I whisper. "But you can't force me to help you."

Her eyes harden, swirling with liquid wrath. "You're a fool if you think there's anything I can't do."

I swallow. "Why is he here? What has he done?"

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with."

"He's my friend."

"He's a traitor, and he deserves no friends."

I stiffen. "I don't believe you."

"Believe what you want," she says icily, and she lets go of me, returning to her seat.

After the plane takes off, I make my way to where Dominic is sitting. I can't stand to look at Angel, at her cold, ruthless stare. "Switch with me. Angel's orders," I say, absolute stone. I don't brook any time for arguments.

Dominic gives a start. "Angel's orders?"

"What? Are you doubting her?" I snap at him. "Am I going to escape with him? We're 30,000 feet in the air. The most I can do is jump out, and I'm not keen on committing suicide."

With a curt nod, he relinquishes his seat and makes his way over to Angel. The truth is, I don't know what I would have done if he had said no. He'll find out Angel didn't give any such orders, but if I have judged him correctly, he won't put on a show.

That means I get to talk to Dante.

That is, if he's conscious enough to form a sentence.

I relax into Dominic's chair and place my hand over his. His knuckles are split, bloody. Did he put up a fight? I wonder.

I shake his shoulder. Dante opens his eyes, but it's little more than squint. "Dante? Are you okay?"

He nods vaguely. "As good as ever, Princess."

"What happened?"

In a whisper, he says, "I was in my Architecture class . . . interruption . . . two men dressed as police officers came in, said they needed to talk to me . . . as soon as I left, they dragged me into a car . . . next thing I know, I'm in the Falcone mansion."

"Why would they do that?" Not for one second do I believe that Dante is a traitor. A traitor to what, even?

"I . . . I don't know," Dante says. My heart stutters. I know it's a lie, but Dante's eyes shutter again.

Why is he lying to me?

"Okay," I say softly. "Rest."

I lay my head on his shoulder, listening to the staccato rhythm of his breathing. He must have broken ribs. The air isn't entering his lungs properly, as though his chest is compressed.

He needs help. Real help.

Dante needs to be in a hospital yesterday. Today might be too late for him. With a burst of panic, I stand up. "Do you have a doctor here?"

Once again, I have the attention of the private plane. All I receive are cold stares. What is wrong with these people?

"He deserves what he got," says Angel lazily.

"He's going to die because of this!"

For a moment, I see surprise flicker across her features. It is barely perceptible, and I almost miss it. "He'll survive."

"He can't breathe. His lungs are filling with fluid," I snap.

"How would you know any of that?"

It is a battle between me and Angel. The rest of the plane falls away, and I see only her, her glowing hazel eyes, her soft, raven-black hair. "My mother was a doctor," I say. "She taught me."

The most important word being was. Was a doctor.

I don't mention the fact that I went to med school for a year, too.

Instead, I say in the iciest way possible, "If he dies, it will be on you."

>>>

Thought you deserved to know a little bit about Cade's background! Yes, she went to medical school. Yes, her mother was a doctor.

Why did I say the key word is was? With what you know, comment what you think down below! Can you piece it together?

The next chapter gets a little hot again. Just a warning.

To the moon and back,
Sarai