Page 119 of Milo

There is only one thing I didn't try. It's juvenile and not necessarily the best course of action, but I'm out of ideas. According to recent psychologists, Julia being one of them, pros and cons lists are often detrimental to the decision-making process as it leads to over-analyzing. Seeing as that ship sailed hours ago, I don't fucking care.

Nibbling on my bottom lip, my gaze bounces between the two columns jotted down in my notebook.

I inwardly scoff.

This is insane. If I'm basing my decision off this list, then I should leave. I should pack my bags and get out of this fucking house. I should forget about Milo. I should try to start a new life. I should leave.

That's what I should do.

But I can't.

I fucking can't.

I groan, raking my hands through my hair as a knock on the bedroom door draws my attention.

Really? Again?

"Go away, Milo!" I call out, grateful that he hasn't stormed my quarters yet. "I don't want to talk to you."

Not yet. Not when I don't know what to tell him. Marry me. Be my wife. That's his brilliant solution? How? How is that supposed to fix anything? It's like trying to mend a broken dam with a band aid. He's clearly lost his fucking mind.

I refuse to lose mine.

"It's Luisa. Can I please come in?"

What? Luisa? He sent a spy? Typical.

"Uh, sure," I say, heavy hesitation in my voice. "Come in." My brows knit together as she enters my room, her red lips twisted up with mirrored emotions. "Is something wrong?"

"No…” She slowly walks toward my bed. "Everything is fine. I just—" She clears her throat, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. "I wanted to see how you're doing."

"Did Milo send you?" I narrow my eyes at her as I prop myself up against the headboard. "Because I already told him that I'll talk to him when I'm ready, and I'm not."

"No, he didn't send me," Luisa says, picking at her nails. "I came on my own."

"Oh," I hum, shifting uncomfortably. There's no trace of deception in her features, at least none that I can read. "Sorry."

"It's fine." She waves me off, looking around my room. "So, how are you doing? Last night was—" She pauses, finding the right word. "Interesting."

I expel a low scoff. "Yeah, that's one way to put it." I scan her face, attempting to gauge her intentions. "Why are you here, Luisa?"

"I—I did not know either, about Andre," Luisa reveals in a hushed tone. "I was not told that he was still alive. My father—" She shakes her head, her jaw slightly clenching. "He didn't tell me."

"If you didn't know then who knew?" I ask, setting my notebook to the side. I cross my arms. "Milo said only five people knew the truth, who were they?"

"No idea." Luisa shrugs, mild irritation flashing across her face. "You know more than I do, Kiara. Even now, they don't tell me anything."

My blood thrums.

"Why? Why does everything have to be a secret? Marchello is your dad, how does he not trust you? I get why he doesn't trust me, he doesn't really know me, but you're his daughter. That makes no sense."

"I asked him what they are planning, if I could be of help but he told me that he did not need a woman's opinion," Luisa says with a defeated chuckle. "It is always like this. They don't tell us anything." She pauses, letting out a sigh. "This is why Julia doesn't ask anymore, why she pretends she doesn't care because she knows Paolo cannot tell her anything. That he won't tell her anything."

"I wouldn't be able to live like that," I admit. "I don't know how she does it."

"Me neither. Even though I know my father will not reveal to me their plans, I still ask. And I will continue asking until one day, he tells me. And he will...I hope."

"So, you don't know anything about the feud with the Russians?" A frown mars my brows. "At all?"

---