Page 2 of Milo

"Welcome to Hawthorne United, my name is Kiara.” I swallow away a ball of nervousness in the back of my throat as he scans my face intently, his gaze dim, almost scared. "Identification and account number please."

"Of course," he says in a thick Italian accent. He reaches into his pocket slowly, carefully, and pulls out a black leather wallet. He slides a driver's license and bank card across the counter, his tattooed knuckles bruised, dry, speckled with...blood? What the— "Here it is, my identification."

I blink, grabbing his ID and angling it against my keyboard. I frown as I type his name into the system. "Alexander Smith?" I raise an inquisitive brow. "Not a lot of Smiths from Northern Italy."

"I beg your pardon?" Mr. Smith asks, his voice hoarse.

"Northern Italy? That's where you're from, right?"

He doesn't look pleased or impressed. "What is it that makes you think I'm from Northern Italy?"

"Your accent.” I pull up his file. "I take it you're from Milan? Turin? Genoa?"

"I do not believe that is any of your business.” He taps his fingers impatiently against the counter, a sudden air of urgency bouncing between our bodies.

"Apologies," I say quietly. Maybe that was rude. Hopefully, he doesn't file a complaint. I need this job. "So... how can I help you today, Mr. Smith?"

He cranes his neck toward the burly men hovering behind him, his teeth clenched. "I would like to access my safety deposit box."

"Oh, okay.” I bite my lip. He should've gone to Evie. "I can go get my manager for you. It's my first day, I'm not really sure how to?—"

"No.” His deep voice startles me as he fishes a brass key out of his pocket. "I would prefer to keep my business here as discreet as possible. That is what this establishment offers, is it not? Discretion?"

"Yes, but—" I pause. "I haven't accessed the vaults before, so I don't?—"

"It is quite simple," he says in a low hum, methodically rolling the key slowly between his long fingers. His dark eyes flicker across my face. "You take this key—" He holds it up. "Insert it into a lock—" He points it at me, licking his lips. "And twist."

"Oh." Is all that escapes my lips, my breathing shallow.

"So easy—" He pauses as his icy gaze pierces mine. "Unless you are an imbecile, that is."

Wow. I scoff inwardly, ignoring the fact that my cheeks are burning up. Who is this man? So fucking condescending.

"Fine.” I snatch the key from his cocky fingers, angry at myself for finding him so alluring. "Follow me."

I round the corner, waving for Mr. Smith to follow me down the white hallway that leads to the secure vaults, two sets of heavy footsteps echoing behind us.

I pause. "Only authorized personnel can enter the vault, your...associates must wait out here."

Mr. Smith stiffens. "They go where I go," he states in an assertive tone, almost challenging me to refuse him. "I grant them permission."

"Fine," I sigh, clicking my tongue. "But they have to wait outside the vault in the hall. That's the best I can do. I don't want to be fired on my first day."

Mr. Smith glances over to his two friends who toss him a begrudging nod. Maybe they're his bosses. "That will do.” He motions down the hallway. "If we can hurry this along, time is of the essence."

"Big Thursday night plans?" I ask, leading him to the secure section of the bank.

"Yes," he says distantly. "Big plans."

Alrighty then. Not a talker I see. We stop in front of a vaulted metal door, and I scan my security badge before entering my employee code. The door releases pressurized air before opening.

"After you," he says and I step inside, scanning the sterile surrounding. Hundreds of stacked silver mailbox-like slots sit in the middle of the room. "It is number 406."

"406?" I search for the correct section, acutely aware of the whispers coming from the two men lingering outside the vault door that's propped open. They're speaking...Russian?

"This is going better than we thought," one of the men snickers in a language I learned last year. I narrow in on the correct box and unclip my set of keys, opening the first slot and removing a rectangular box. "He is an idiot like his brother."

"Igor will be pleased," the other man replies. "And to think we almost used a real bomb."

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