Page 15 of Milo

"Yes, Dr. Giardini, only condoms," I sigh, hopping off the table. I'm sensing this is the end of the line of his intrusive questioning. "My previous gynecologist told me I only have a 4.4 percent chance of getting pregnant, those aren't great odds so no, I'm not on birth control."

"Very well.” He averts his prying gaze as he flips through the pages of my past. "Alright, we are finish?—"

I exit the medical office before he can finish his sentence, my blood thrumming with irritation as I march up the stairs toward Milo's quarters. Again, he must think I'm an idiot. If he was curious about my sexual past, he could've just asked. He doesn't strike me as a timid man, but I suppose he doesn't want to show his hand this early in our...arrangement.

Not wanting another confrontation, I take a leveling breath before knocking on his door. "Mr. Di Vaio?"

"It is open," he calls out and I turn the handle, peeking my head into his lavish office. My mouth hangs open as I scan the grandiose interior. So much fucking velvet. Milo's eyes follow me as I enter the room, trailing up and down my body as he purses his cunning lips. "I think I prefer the towel."

I roll my eyes, gliding toward the rows upon rows of tattered books sprawled along the far wall. "I'm sure you do.” I tilt my head to read the names of the titles. "Do you enjoy reading?"

"When time permits.” The smoky timbre of his voice buzzes through my bones as he joins me by his extravagant collection of European literature. "Do you?"

"Mhmm.” I pull an old copy of The Divine Comedy off the shelf and handle the bindings and pages with a delicate touch, amazed that I'm holding such an iconic piece of art in my hands. I flip to the first page, my eyes widening. "Oh my God, this is a first edition."

"Most of them are first editions," he says casually, like they're not worth millions. "Would you like to read it?"

I flicker my perplexed gaze toward the frustratingly handsome man in front of me. "I would, thank you," I say hesitantly, unsure of what to make of his sudden kind countenance.

"Of course." He gives me a stoic nod, gesturing toward his desk. "Please sit, Kiara."

Oh, time for more intrusive questions.

Milo pulls a folder out of a drawer once we're both seated, flipping it open. "So, tell me, Kiara…” He scans the documents. "Why was my investigator barely able to find any information on you? You have no social media accounts, no educational history, no employment. Nothing. Who are you? The truth."

Carefully placing The Divine Comedy on his desk, I recline in my seat, crossing my legs. His eyes dart to the exposed creamy flesh of my thigh. I inwardly smirk. Shameless.

"It's not that interesting," I say, looking over this shoulder toward the oil painting of two Italian men, both possessing a strong resemblance to Milo. "Who are those people?"

Milo's lip twitches. "Where were you born? Tell me."

I sigh. Clearly, we're not moving past this. "I was born in Virginia, in the States. When I was thirteen, my parents passed away, so I moved to Hawthorne to live with my grandparents."

"My condolences," Milo says. "May I ask how they died?"

I close my eyes, memories of that day still so painfully vivid.

"Daddy, drive faster!" I whine, squeezing my bladder tight. "I have to pee!"

"We're almost home, sweetheart," Dad says, smiling at me through the rearview mirror. "Ten minutes."

"Honey! Watch out!" Mom screams as rays of winter sun reflect off the black ice on the highway. "Slow down!"

"Shit!" Dad turns the wheel, our bodies flinging side-to-side as the car skids, slides, screeches.

"Kiara, hold on to something!" Mom orders and I do. I grip the handlebar as our car spins out of control, nearing the edge of the highway. My temples pulse from the speed, the fear, my heart racing as my dad tries to reclaim control of the car.

But he can't.

"Mom!" I shriek as our bodies lift up into the air for a brief second like the first drop of a rollercoaster. The car veers off the highway, through the railings, and plummets into the tree scattered ravine, the impact bashing my head against the window.

And then nothing.

Buzzing. Dull buzzing. The odor of leaking gasoline. The smoky smell of fire. Muffled voices. Tapping. Clawing. Shattering. My back scraping against shards of glass.

"Can you hear me?"

I groan, my eyes fluttering open. I'm in a stranger's arms. I don't know you. Who are you?

---