Milo, p.2
MILO, page 2
This is so fucking stupid. I did this asshole a favor. I helped him! And now he's going to kill me? In an alley? Not even a glamorous death.
How upsetting. How infuriating. How unfair.
Opening my eyes, I find myself teetering away from fear and edging closer to frustration, anger.
"I saved your goddamn life!” I clench my fists and stare into the barrel of his gun. "Is this how you repay kindness? By killing innocent women?"
"Unfortunately, you are incorrect, Kiara," he says, a melancholy smile on his face. "As you so astutely pointed out, this bomb is not real, thus I was never in any real danger."
I glare at him. "A technicality."
Mr. Smith lets out a low chuckle. "A grave one.” He takes a step closer to me, adjusting his grip on the gun. "It is a shame though—" His pitch-black eyes skim my face. "To rid the world of such beauty."
"If that's the case, you can always let me go.” I ignore the rising of my traitorous chest. "Preserve the beauty...so to speak."
"I do not make messes, I cannot clean up," he says, almost apologetically. "And you are, regretfully, a mess."
"I—"
My response is interrupted by his cellphone ringing. He's not seriously going to answer his phone, is he?
"Pronto," he says, lowering the gun as he props the phone against his ear.
Oh. He's answering. Not like he's in the middle of attempted murder or anything. He begins pacing, turning away from me. I look around. Of course, nowhere to run. I guess I'll just stand here and wait for my untimely demise.
What an anticlimactic end to my anticlimactic life.
Several seconds pass by, Mr. Smith's back still turned to me. His attention focused on whoever he's barking orders to on the phone. My gaze snaps to the pistol, hanging so precariously off his index finger. He really is quite cocky, isn't he?
Maybe I could—
Manifesting the energy of a prima ballerina, I gracefully glide toward Mr. Smith, ensuring that my feet make no noise, that I don't breathe, that silence surrounds us. When I'm mere inches away, I suck in a sharp breath and latch onto the gun. His head whips toward me as I snatch the pistol from his fingers, but he's too late.
Holy crap, this thing is heavy. Using both hands, I extend my arms and point the gun at Mr. Smith, a sense of murky pride spreading through my body.
I flex my muscles so that my arms don't shake. "Let me go.”
I'm in charge now. I have the power.
Mr. Smith sighs. "I will see you in five minutes, Marchello," he says in Italian. "I need to solve a little problem first." He hangs up, tilting his head to the side as he stalks toward me. What is he doing? Is he crazy? "Kiara put down the Beretta. It doesn't suit you."
I re-grip the pistol. "Seeing as I'm the one with the gun, I'll be making the demands.” I take a step back as he continues walking toward me. "How do you plan on solving this little problem without the upper hand?"
"Hmm.” He takes three large strides in my direction, forcing me to retreat back further. My back hits the brick wall. "You know Italian?"
"I know a lot of things," I whisper as his chest meets the tip of the pistol.
Oh God, he's a lunatic. Does he think I won't shoot?! I will. I fucking will.
"Is that so?" Mr. Smith chuckles, clicking his tongue. "Do you know what a safety is?"
What?
In the millisecond it takes for my gaze to lower down to the weapon, he's already snatching the pistol out of my hands. He snakes his fingers around my neck, knocking my head back into the wall, his grip restricting airflow, making me choke.
"Such a silly girl.” His calloused thumb grazes along my quivering bottom lip, his sweet breath blowing into my mouth. "You never take your eyes off your target."
"I don't want to die.” His fingers loosen around my throat but he doesn’t let go. "Please."
"You will either die by my hand.” He caresses my jawline, his body flush against mine. The jagged blocks of the fake bomb press into my chest. "Or by the Russians." He pauses, his charcoal eyes meeting mine. "It is better this way, bella. At least I will not torture you first."
"Please..." I fight back tears, defeat washing over me like a tidal wave. My hand grips his, attempting to drag it down. "Per favore. Ti prego. Non farò niente."
"It does not bring me joy to end such a young and beautiful life.” He sighs as he drops his hand and takes a solemn breath. "But begging will not help, even if it's in Italian."
I clench my teeth together. This is it. There's nothing else I can do. I'm out of options. Maybe I'm ready. Yes. I'm ready.
I'm ready.
"Just do i—"
Police sirens blare in the distance and my head snaps toward the wonderful sound.
Oh my God. Yes.
Mr. Smith reaches for his cellphone, a frown marring his brows as he reads a message.
"Cazzo!" He runs a frustrated hand through his dark thick hair. "It would seem that destiny has other plans for you, Kiara." He grabs my arm, leading me out of the alley and toward a parked black SUV with tinted windows. The door swings open, revealing two older men in the front seats, both dark-haired and frightening. "Get inside the car."
"No!" I attempt to jerk away from him, the sirens getting louder by the second. They're almost here.
"Get in the fucking car.” He pushes me inside and hops in, slamming the door shut. "Do not scream or I will cut your tongue out before I kill you."
Waiting for death is exhausting.
"How very Russian of you," I sneer, eliciting a grin from Mr. Smith. Psycho. "I thought you don't torture people."
"I adjust very quickly.” He turns his attention to the man in the passenger's seat as the driver pulls out onto the street. "Did you clean up, Marchello?" Mr. Smith asks in Italian.
"Yes, the manager will erase the tapes and our men will discard the bodies," he replies, briefly glancing at me. "I am sorry this happened, Milo. We should've known what they were doing. I'm so sorry. If you want to kill me, I will accept that fate."
Milo? What the fuck...
"I do not wish to spill more blood tonight.” Mr. Whoever-the-fuck-he-is removes the trench coat, exposing the bomb wrapped around his chest. "We will deal with the Russians later. I would like to take this off now."
"It looks so real." Marchello examines the various crossed red and blue wires. "How did you know—"
"He didn't," I snap. They're talking like I'm not even here! "I told him." I face Mr. Smith, whose eyes are glinting with subtle amusement. "And who are you exactly?"
"How did you know?" Marchello asks me warily as I keep my attention on my annoyingly handsome captor. I have serious issues if I'm fantasizing about a man who's going to kill me. This can't be healthy. “How did you know that it was fake?"
I sigh, trying to read Mr. Smith's blank expression as he unclips the explosive vest off his body. I really hope it is fake. "I speak Russian," I murmur, wincing as Mr. Smith detaches the last wire and flings the vest to the floor. Oh, thank God. Still alive.
For now.
"You do?" Marchello purses his impressed lips. "And Italian as well?"
"And French and Spanish and German and Arabic," I mutter absentmindedly. Mr. Smith's groomed brow quirks up as I list off the languages I've learned over the years. "Plus, a little Korean. Not a lot though."
"Who are you?" Marchello asks.
Me?
"You first.” I cross my arms, my gaze dancing between the two Italians. "Who are you, Mr. Smith? I think I deserve to know the name of the man who will eventually put a bullet in my brain, don't you think? It's not like the dead can talk. Might as well concede to this tiny request."
Leaning back into his seat, he studies me intently like he's plotting something. My death, no doubt. With a quick glance at his associate, he reveals in a smooth tone, "Emilio Di Vaio." He pauses, conjuring up a coy smirk. "But those close to me, call me Milo."
I blanch, his last name ringing in my head.
"D—Di Vaio?" I stammer. "As in..."
He smiles, evidently proud of his mafia ties. "Yes, as in Santi Oscuri."
I nod slowly, realization dawning on me. "And the Russians at the bank...they were...?"
"Bratva," Milo confirms casually with a shrug. "A particular faction of the brotherhood that is causing quite a headache as you might have noticed."
"Uh-huh.” So, he wasn't lying when he said the Russians would kill me. They would probably dismember me if they found out I foiled one of their grand plans. "Well thanks for telling me. At least I'll die with all the facts."
Milo glides his fingertips along his lips, cocking his head to the side. "Perhaps there is an alternative solution.” His amber eyes soften, just a bit. "Instead of death, I am now willing to offer you protection."
"What?" I frown at his sudden change in plans. Marchello looks equally confused but he doesn't question his apparent boss. "Why would you do that?"
"It would be highly beneficial to have someone under my employ with your particular skill set," he explains. "It is not every day one meets a polyglot."
I blink. "So, you want to use me as your own personal Google translator?"
He smirks. "I want to use you for a lot of things, Kiara, but yes, translating is one of them."
Chapter 3
Fickle Like Promises
I want to use you for a lot of things, Kiara.
Things: objects or acts that one need not, cannot, or does not wish to give a specific name to. In Milo's case, I'm certain it's the latter. But given his gritty suggestive tone, dilated pupils, and the slight twitching of his upper lip, I can fill in the blanks quite easily, too easily. Subtlety is not this man's strong suit, evidently, neither is timing.
Not ten minutes ago, he had a pistol pointed at my head, ready to shoot without a second thought and now, he wants things? The nerve of this man.
I am offended. Thoroughly, wholeheartedly, undeniably offended. Or at least I want to be.
I should be.
I refuse to be as capricious as a criminal, yet I can't help but find my curiosity piqued by the tempting glimmer of pleasurable promise in his garnet eyes.
Mmm.
What kind of things...?
I blink. Dear God. No.
Yanking my disloyal eyes away from his enticing face, I inwardly cringe at my fickle reserve. I will not succumb to his dangerous charms.
I won't.
"So, in exchange for my...skills, you'll keep me safe?" I ask, refusing to acknowledge his earlier statement. I can analyze his intentions later. There are far more important things at hand right now, like my life. If the only options are to work for him or die, I don't have much of a choice.
Although, working for the Italian mafia does pose its own set of problems. Santi Oscuri are notorious for their constant...turnovers in staffing, at least according to the various European newspapers my Nana hoarded over the years.
No one lasts long working for a criminal organization. But I suppose eventual death is better than imminent death. Everyone dies, it's a given, I just always thought it'd be decades before I was reunited with my whole family. At this moment, I'm not sure which half I'd meet.
"I will ensure that no harm comes to you,” he states with unfaltering confidence. "As long as you are with me, I can guarantee that you will be safe."
"I would prefer if you didn't lie to me, Mr. Di Vaio,” I say, skeptical of his overly assured pledge. "There are no guarantees in life."
"A pessimist, I see." He lets out an amused hum. "You are far too young to be so cynical, Kiara."
I scoff. "And you're far too optimistic for a man who just had a bomb strapped to his chest, fake or not. If you can't guarantee your own safety, I doubt you can guarantee mine."
His jaw clenches. I've hit a nerve. "You would prefer to die than take my offer then?"
"Of course not.” I frown, taken aback by his confusion. "All I'm saying is that you shouldn't make promises you can't keep. I will happily accept your protection, but I don't anticipate a long and prosperous life. You can promise me that you'll try your best but I'm not an idiot. I know how this ends."
"You are a cynic.” He licks his lips. "We will fix that."
"I'm a realist, Mr. Di Vaio," I explain, unbothered by my outlook. "There's a difference."
He smirks, shifting his body toward me. "You may call me Milo.” His rapidly changing demeanor is giving me a headache.
"You said only those that are close to you call you Milo. We just met."
His large, battered hand finds its way to my thigh, his fingers coiling around it slowly, applying minimal pressure. He leans into my ear and whispers, "It seems as though we are very close right now."
I control my breathing, ignoring the fragrant oaky musk of his cologne. Gently placing my hand on top of his, I push it away. "We both know you weren't talking about proximity, Milo.”
"I enjoy the way you say my name.” His lips curl up into a satisfied grin. "It is like you are scared of me. I will not bite you, Kiara." He pauses. "Not yet."
My eyes harden, irritated that he can read me so well already. "If you want something to bite, perhaps you can get a chew toy."
Milo expels a low laugh, his gaze flickering to Marchello who's pretending not to listen. "She is funny, no?"
"Yes," Marchello agrees in Italian, like the puppet he is. "Very funny."
I roll my eyes.
"Allora,” Milo holds out his hand, inviting me to seal my fate, “do you accept my offer, Kiara?"
I gaze heavenward, shaking my head, incredulity bouncing between neurons. I can't believe I'm doing this. He killed two men in front of me today and now I'm supposed to work for him? Yes, they were bad men, horrible probably, but does that make it okay? Is a life less important if it's corrupt?
If I were a good person, I'd hold steady in my principles; I'd choose death over selling my soul to the devil. But evidently, I'm not a good person. I choose life. Even if that life kills me; perhaps not physically, but morally, which might be even more terrifying.
With a heavy sigh, I extend my arm forward, his hand encircling mine slowly, a ghost of a smile on his face.
"I accept.” The heat from his palm radiates through my body like he's filling me with the flames of hell.
"Excellent.” He smiles, knowing that he's marked me, that he's chained me to a new life, that my very existence rests in his hands. "We will go over further details at my estate."
"And where is your estate?" I rub my hands together, trying to scrub away the invisible filth. "Manchester?"
"In Genova.” He types out a message on his cellphone. "We are going to the airport right now."
I blink. "Right now? We're going there right now? B-But I don't have anything with me! I don't have my wallet, phone, laptop, Kindle, clothes." I pause, panic setting in. Oh shit. "My locket. I need my Nana's locket; I can't leave without it." I tap the driver on the shoulder. "Excuse me, you need to turn around—"
"Please relax," Milo sighs, as he types out another text. "My men have already collected your belongings from the bank—"
"But I need to go home!" I insist, my voice rising. "I need to get—"
He peers up at me from his phone, eyes dark and stern. "Shh.” I begrudgingly snap my mouth shut. "I already have people going to your home to retrieve your requested items. Where is your passport located?"
"In the nightstand by my bed.” I attempt to keep my tone even, relaxed. "My locket is there too. It's a silver sphere." I pause, frowning. "Wait, how do you know where I live?"
"Your wallet.”
"You went through my wallet?" I cross my arms. "Such an invasion of privacy."
Milo expels a soft laugh. “Get used to it, Kiara. There will be eyes on you all the time now."
Dread washes over me. What did I do? Why did this happen? Why did I accept that banking job? Why didn't I take a later break? Why did he have to choose my till? Why did I tell him about the bomb?
Why?!
"Perhaps you would like a sedative," Milo suggests. “It will take the edge off. You have had an eventful day."
"I'm fine," I breathe, my hands shaking. "I'm fine."
"You are not.” He nods toward Marchello who passes him a black tin. He slides open the container and picks up a rectangular pill and snaps it in half, holding out a piece. "Take it."
"No, I'm not going to take random drugs from someone I just met. Are you crazy? I'm fine."
Milo lets out a sigh, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment. "It's Xanax and it will help you sleep. We have a two-hour drive to the airport and then a two-hour flight to Genova. You should rest, Kiara." He puts the pill in my hand. "It is pure, I promise."
I purse my lips, eyeing the benzo warily, my heart thumping with anxiety. "I'm surprised you're not forcing me to take it.”
"I do not force women to do anything.” He shrugs. "I have no need."
"Well, that's comforting.” I hesitate for a second before popping the Xanax into my mouth, the sharp edge of the pill scratching my throat. He's right, I need to relax. "How long does it take to work?"
"It will be quick. Just close your eyes and enjoy."
And I do.
With the stress of recent events and the potency of the sedative, I drift off to sleep effortlessly.
At first, everything is serene.
Calm.
Quiet.
Light.
But not for long. It never lasts long.
It's dark now, too dark, thunderous growls echoing all around me; screeching screams, piercing howls of demonic forces surrounding me. The air is thick, heavy, painful to breathe. My feet are bare, my heels digging into shards of obsidian glass, penetrating my skin, cutting through veins, sending spikes of agony through my core.
No, where am I? Help! Help!
Mounds of wasted earth rise all around me like it's breathing, gasping for air. And then I feel it, the magma oozing through the cracking molten rocks behind me, gushing down my body, burning it. I can't run. I can't— My head snaps down to the ashen ground, a decaying hand emerging from the volcanic debris, and another one, and another one, and another one.
