Page 114 of Milo

A blessing I might never get to experience.

"Julia, enough.” Milo’s hand finds my thigh and he gives it a gentle, almost reassuring squeeze. He knows. He's seen my medical history. I look up from my plate to find him glaring at his sister. "Please."

Julia frowns, casting me an inquisitive side-eye. "What?—"

"Later," I whisper with a weak smile. "It's fine."

"Oh," she hums warily. "I'm sorry, did I say?—"

"It's fine," I assure her, taking a sip of wine. "So, when is the recital?"

"It's on?—"

Marchello clears his throat. "Kiara," he says, nodding toward the bottle of Bordeaux on the table. "Pass me the wine."

"Oh, sure.” I pick up the bottle and reach across the table to hand it to him. "Here."

"Thank—Merda!" Marchello fumes as I let go of the bottle and it falls on the table, toppling over, spilling on the dark linens, and dripping down the side onto his pants. "Fuck!"

"Oh my God!" I cover my mouth, my cheek burning up. "I'm so sorry! I thought you had it!"

"Clearly not," Marchello grumbles, yanking a napkin off the table and dabbing his lap. "This was the last bottle! Fuck sakes."

"It's just wine, Marchello," Milo says, letting out a sigh. "Relax."

"I'll go get another bottle!" I offer, hopping out of my seat. "If you clean your pants now, they won't stain. I'll be right back."

"Fine." Marchello's lips twist up into a scowl. "There should be one more bottle left in the kitchen."

"I'm on it!" I dip down to give Milo a kiss on the cheek. "Be right back."

Wincing, I clench my fists and scurry off to the kitchen. The man already doesn't like me very much and I do that?! Oh, God. Stupid.

It takes a minute to search the built-in wine cellar, but I find the bottle. Gripping it tightly, I head out of the kitchen. Don't drop this one. As I round the corner, I bump into the plump sturdy frame of Teresa.

"Oh! Teresa, hi. Sorry, I didn't see you there."

She spins around, a silver tray in hand. "Signorina," she swallows, her gaze darting down to the pile of brown mush on the tray. "Good evening. How is dinner? Good?"

"Yeah, it's super delicious," I say, narrowing my eyes. Is that risotto? Oatmeal? I can't tell. Either way, it does not look very appetizing. "Did you uh—want to come eat with us?"

"Oh, no no.” She shakes her head, letting out a nervous laugh. "I go eat in my room. Not feeling well tonight." Teresa blinks. "This is old family recipe. Good for stomach."

I purse my lips, put off by her flustered demeanor. I scan the tray again. Plastic utensils? What? "Are you okay?" I ask, tilting my head, trying to get a read on her. A slight frown. Widened eyes. Tense posture. Guilt?

"I am fine, Signorina! Simply tired is all." She clears her throat. "I go now, yes?"

"Oh, umm...yeah sure," I say, forcing a smile, unease tugging at my gut. "Feel better."

"Grazie mille.” Teresa turns on her heel and heads down the hallway.

What the hell was that? Whatever. I need to focus on the task at hand. Wine.

Exiting the kitchen, I freeze at the sound of descending footsteps. She's going downstairs? Why would she go to the basement? All the estate workers reside on the first floor.

Without thinking, I remove my heels and I follow the pitter-patter of her tiny steps down the staircase. I've officially lost my mind. Why am I stalking our cook? Because she was acting hella suspicious, a voice in my head replies. I roll my eyes. I live in a house full of criminals, everyone acts suspicious. I really need to get over these trust issues.

Keeping my distance, like a lunatic, I crane my neck over the railing as Teresa fumbles to open a lock to a door I've never seen before. I frown. Where is she going?

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