Page 20 of Milo

"Thank you.” I gently wrap my fingers around the first edition. "Was he too busy to give it to me himself?"

"He and my father left for Sicily this morning," she explains, gracefully sitting down on the armchair across from me.

"I thought they were leaving tomorrow?" I frown, placing the book next to me, mildly irked that he didn't inform me of his change in plans. Instantly, I scold myself for caring. He doesn't owe me anything.

"Something urgent came up. It happens a lot."

"Right," I hum, unsure of how to continue this conversation.

Luisa is a stranger, someone I know nothing about, someone I doubt I have anything in common with, except for Milo.

And he's a mystery to me too.

An enigma.

A challenge.

"I've been meaning to thank you, Kiara," Luisa says, her tone solemn.

I squint in confusion. "For what?"

"For saving Milo's life.” A pained frown mars on her brows. "He might disagree, but if it weren't for you, he would most likely be dead. He thinks the Russians would have let him go, code of honor and all that shit, but I know they would've killed him as soon as they got their hands on whatever was in that security deposit box."

Does she actually not know it was a USB stick in the box or is she pretending not to know? Either way, her interpretation of the events indicates that Milo might owe me something after all.

"You're welcome," I mutter, wildly curious as to what was on that thumb drive. I hadn't given it a second thought until now. It must have been important. Valuable enough to start a war.

"If we were to lose Milo after Sergio and V—" She freezes, glancing across the shrine of oil paintings hung on the wall behind me. I crane my neck and follow her sightline.

Generations of Di Vaio’s, I presume, based on the facial structures, the strong resemblance to Milo, the sense of power and superiority. On my tour, I noticed a few empty spaces on the walls where a portrait must have hung, the paint was brighter, preserved, like it was hidden from the elements behind a frame.

This family loves their art.

"His brother and father?" I keep my tone neutral so as to not sound too nosy. "They passed away recently?"

Luisa stiffens, wary hesitation dancing around her face. "Santino, Milo's father, passed away four years ago.” She swallows. "Sergio, his brother, nine months ago."

Nine months. Fresh.

I take a deep breath as I nod, my heart aching with empathy. "I'm sorry for your loss."

I want to ask how they died but I'm already overstepping. The fact that she's divulging this much information is surprising enough. Soon, I'll have the whole picture but for now, I'll settle for bits and pieces.

I add, "Were you close to them?"

"I was. They were family. We are all family."

And I'm not.

It's written all over her face. I don't need to be adept at reading people to pick up on her disdain. It's as clear as the sun is bright.

She doesn't trust me.

Fair.

I don't trust her.

I don't trust anyone.

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