Page 159 of Milo

These people were loved.

And love doesn't die with a person. Love lives on through memories, through stories, through us.

The blood coursing through my veins is historic, ancient. I am a vessel that carries the life, the memories, the love of my family.

I am my nana. I am my grandpa. I am my mom. I am my dad.

We are the dead.

And they are us.

"My family has been buried here since the 19th century," Milo says, linking his fingers through mine as we walk down the dusty path toward the far end of the cemetery. "When I was a child, I would beg my parents to leave me at home when they came to pay their respects." He glances at me with softened eyes. "I was scared of ghosts. Silly, I know."

"That's not silly at all. The laws of thermodynamics state that energy cannot be created or destroyed, so when a person dies, where does all that energy go?" I grin. "Ghosts."

Milo blinks. "Thermodynamics?"

"There's a lot you don't know about me Mr. Di Vaio," I singsong, offering him a coy shrug.

"Clearly.” He lifts an amused brow. "What other secrets are you hiding from me, Mrs. Di Vaio?"

"Plenty," I say as we cut through the grass toward a tall building in the distance.

"Such as?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," I tease, giving him a playful shrug. "I guess you'll just have to force it out of me."

"Is that so?" he grins. "Need I remind you that I am an expert in extracting information. My techniques can make mute men sing."

"Do you plan on torturing me?" I tilt my head to the side. "That seems a bit excessive."

Milo's eyes harden. "True torture is sleeping in bed next to a gorgeous woman who was advised by an idiotic doctor to refrain from any physical activity for two whole days."

I snort. "You poor little baby, how have you survived?"

"A man needs his woman, Kiara," Milo mutters. "It is a matter of sanity."

I scoff. "Maybe that's why all wars are started by men."

"I would gladly start a war if it meant I got to taste you," Milo smirks as we pass a mourning couple.

My cheeks burn up. "I hope they didn't speak English."

Milo shrugs shamelessly. "I hope they did."

"Maybe now's not the time, baby. Let's try to be respectful."

"You started it," Milo murmurs under his breath as we stop in front of the grand white stone mausoleum.

"Wow. It's really big."

"Big family."

"Lucky.” I examine the intricate detailing of the mausoleum. Chiseled into a slate of marble hung above the distressed archway reads Gloria Non Morietur. "Glory never dies?"

"Very good.” Milo casts an impressed smile. "Yes, it is our family motto."

"A little pretentious, don't you think? They just assumed you'd be glorious?"

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