I stare at my phone screen, reading and re-reading Damon’s reply multiple times. It’s only three letters, but . . . what does he mean?

Is he saying . . . he’s doing me tomorrow? As in . . . sex?

If that’s the case, that’s really presumptuous of him. Never mind the fact that I want it, too.

But is it presumptuous of me to presume that’s what he meant?

Maybe he just means that he’ll be spending the day with me if I want to? That would be a pretty sweet answer . . .

Or could it be that he just hasn’t finished typing yet?

Perhaps he typed the three letters, then he got distracted by something. He could be at the check-out counter with the cashier demanding him to pay now and the other people lined up behind him just glaring at him.

My heart races in my chest.

What do I say?

It had been hell, holding myself back from texting him the past couple of days. Even right after the date, I was tempted to send him a quick, good-night message.

But Damon doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who likes texting. And he did tell me to get in touch with him whenever I’m ready to sneak out to his place—not sooner.

I was worried I’d say something to turn him off or change his mind about it. If we were in the midst of an online conversation and he told me to forget about his invite, I’d never forgive myself.

It took me ages to come up with the perfectly casual opening message. But now . . . Now, what do I do? I can’t take days crafting a response like I did before.

I need to write something now. He can see on his screen that I’m online right now, for God’s sake.

Okay. Think. I only have one goal: go to his place for another—hopefully hotter—date.

So I’d better get right to the point.

I hold my breath as I wait for Damon to respond. It shouldn’t take long now. He’s online. And . . . he’s typing now.

I squeal out loud. If I didn’t have to continue this chat, I’d be jumping on my bed to celebrate.

Oh, wait. He’s typing again.

Oh, God . . . Is he saying . . . Does he want me to stay the night?

Of course he does. That’s what people do when they date, right? When they like each other and they want to . . . go all the way, they spend the night together.

My original plan was to leave work early, spend a few hours at Damon’s, and then go back to the office, where I’ll be picked up as usual. I was going to tell them I’d work overtime to buy myself a couple of extra hours.

But staying overnight . . . That’s . . . I won’t lie, that sounds tempting.

Sleeping in Damon’s bed, with Damon lying next to me all night? I mean, yes. Nothing could be better than that.

And if we have sex, then he’ll be naked, too. I can finally see his six-pack abs and find out what he’s packing in his jeans. So far, I’ve had to rely on my powers of observation and imagination.

And now . . . Now, there’s a chance my dream might come true.

More than anything in the world, I want to spend the night with Damon.

I don’t know how I’ll pull that off, but I’ll make it happen. I don’t care if my dad kills me afterward. I’ll die happy.

I can’t make any promises to Damon, though. I don’t want him to think I’m flaky.

At the very least, I can skip work and spend the day with him.

* * *

“What? Why is it so sudden?” Mom asks, following me as I walk across the house toward the front door.

It’s still early in the morning but she’s already wearing a pink, sleeveless blouse and a white pencil skirt, ready for another brunch with her socialite friends and the wives of my dad’s associates.

Socializing is super important for my dad’s business so that’s what my mom does when she’s not shopping for the latest designer clothes.

I wonder if my dad writes off the costs of throwing their social events on his taxes. As a tax consultant, things like that intrigue me.

In fact, there are a lot of things concerning my dad’s business I wonder about but he keeps his lips tightly sealed. That’s just another thing that makes me feel like I’m being treated like a little girl in this house.

“Is it sudden, though? I told you we were having problems with our foreign accounts and I’d have to work overtime tonight,” I say without slowing down.

A piece of French toast dangles between my teeth to make my act seem more convincing. I’m playing the role of the overworked office drone who’s late for a business flight today.

“Yes. You said ‘work overtime.’ You didn’t say ‘fly to the other side of the world.’”

“Mom. It’s Canada. It’s hardly the other side of the world.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I know she’d hate that.

I deliberately picked Canada because it’s the least dangerous, least threatening country out there for me to fly to on a business trip. It’s completely believable, too, because my company does a lot of business with our neighbor to the north.

“It’s still an international flight.”

“Honestly, Mom. Vancouver is way closer than New York from here. I’ll still be on the same coast.”

My mom taps me on my back. “Stop for a minute. I need to talk to you.”

“I’m running late.” I turn around, terrified that she’ll see signs of me lying.

“I know.” Mom puts her hands on my shoulders. “I know you’re a busy career woman on the go. You’re climbing up the corporate ladder, yadda yadda . . . Look. I may have never worked in an office my whole life. But I know what it’s like to be young.

“I know I’m old fashioned. Back in my day, women stayed home until they got married and moved into their husbands’ homes.” Mom lets out a deep breath. “I’m trying to understand.”

“Wow, Mom . . .” I’m so touched by her speech I have to stop myself from blurting out the truth.

“I listen.” Mom smiles. “When you told me your friends’ parents weren’t treating their kids this way, I listened.”

“Thanks, Mom. I really appreciate that,” I say sincerely.

“I’m realizing that maybe our way isn’t the best way. Look at your sister,” Mom says, gesturing upstairs, where Rosa is probably still asleep. “She hasn’t turned into a model citizen.”

I want to tell her that she shouldn’t blame herself for the mistakes that Rosa has made, that maybe Rosa is to blame for her own mistakes.

But, I mean, look at me, sneaking out to meet a guy I know is dangerous. I’m hardly a model citizen myself. And my brothers are in the mafia, just like my dad.

So, I don’t know . . . maybe it is somewhat my parents’ fault.

“You’re doing your best, Mom. I know that. Don’t worry,” I say finally. I put my hand on her shoulder and look into her eyes. “I’ll text you, okay? I’ll let you know when I get to the airport, when I board the plane, and when I land in Vancouver.”

As my mom nods, I suddenly notice how old she’s become. There are more lines on her face than I remember, especially around her green eyes. Her skin sags despite annual trips to the cosmetic surgeon and random areas of her body seem hollow.

She’s a beautiful woman for her age, for sure. I used to hate bringing my male friends home because they’d always check her out, and I’d be all grossed out.

Secretly though, despite her faults, I’ve always been proud to have her as my mom. I feel the same way about my dad.

I walk past the front door, down the marble steps, and get into the car.

As usual, Dad’s men are driving me. But instead of taking me to my office, they’re taking me to the airport. There’s even a small, yellow, carry-on bag in the trunk.

Sorry, Mom and Dad. I know what Rosa did hurt you. But she’s not the only one who needs to break the rules to stay sane. It’s my turn now.

* * *

My luggage is safely stowed in a locker.

I can bring it along with me, of course, but I feel like that’s going to send the wrong message to Damon. It’ll make it seem like I’ll definitely stay over at his place.

I mean, maybe it won’t be the wrong message . . . In fact, it’ll be a little too honest than I’d like.

I really like Damon, but I can’t seem too eager, can I? All the dating tips I’ve read online tell me I should play it cool and not rush into bed.

If Damon does invite me, though, I don’t know if I’ll be able to resist . . .

But regardless of whether I’ll sleep in Damon’s bed tonight, my chauffeur and bodyguard will pick me up here, from the airport, so it seems like a bad idea to drag the suitcase all over the city.

Besides, even though it’s just a small, carry-on bag, it probably won’t fit on Damon’s bike. What if I have to take a separate cab just to be able to take my bag with me?

Imagine me in a yellow taxi, telling the driver to follow a mean-looking, big guy on a Harley. I resist the urge to giggle to myself as people walk past me in the bright, crowded airport. The driver would think I’m on some kind of a crime-solving quest . . . which wouldn’t be all that inaccurate because Damon is a criminal.

I pull out my phone and send Damon a message.

As my heart races, I wonder . . . Can I really trust Damon? Does Dad actually have a good reason why I should stay away from him?

Yes, we’ve known each other since childhood, but how much do I really know him? I don’t even know what he does for my dad.

The women in my family aren’t involved at all in my dad’s business operations.

Somehow my mom seems okay with not knowing, content to enjoy the big house, the luxury cars, and the European shopping trips.

Rosa seems less content than our mom is, but she knows full well she’d have to get her own job if our dad were in any other line of work. Instead, she spends her time getting high on drugs her bodyguards procure for her.

She also flirts a little too much with my dad’s employees and business partners, often embarrassing herself in the process when she gets rejected or dumped.

Doubt creeps into my heart. Am I doing the right thing? Am I essentially doing the same, embarrassing thing that Rosa has been doing?

But Rosa flirts indiscriminately, sometimes with men our dad’s age and sometimes with junkies who have obviously lost their sanity.

Damon is the furthest thing away from those men. He’s tall, strong, clear-headed, and intelligent. Maybe he’s not book-smart, but he used to win every little argument he had with Matteo just because of his superior power of reasoning.

He’s got a good head on his shoulders. Had he been born into a wealthier family, he would’ve accomplished big things, like starting a successful company or making a killing in the stock market.

Yes, Damon’s a bad boy. Obviously. He works for my dad. That’s not why I like him, though.

Damon’s not an idiot. He’s not content being a small-time criminal. He’s got smarts, and he’s got ambitions. He’s got a plan. He’s going somewhere. I can tell.

I admire that about him. That sheer determination and resilience in the face of a brutal world that doesn’t care whether he lives or dies.

My phone beeps and I almost jump from the surprise.

A smile plays on my lips. I didn’t like it when he called me “princess” the first time. It felt like he was mocking me. But it’s growing on me. It makes me feel special when he calls me that.

I look around me at strangers pulling their wheeled luggage past me and lining up at the check-in counters.

Nobody knows me here. Nobody cares who I am or what my last name is. Nobody cares that a twenty-three year old adult is doing things without her dad’s supervision.

This is it. No turning back now. I’m officially pulling a prison break from Dad Penitentiary.