Page 21 of Milo

I only trust facts. And the fact is...I need Milo. And it seems like he needs me too. So unfortunately for Luisa, and I'm assuming the rest of the family, they'll just have to deal with it.

I tried to research as much as I could about Santi Oscuri last night, but my efforts were in vain. There is no concrete evidence of any of their illegal activities, just conjecture, speculations.

The Italian government had tried to arrest them several times but to no avail; key pieces of evidence disappeared, recanted testimonies, missing witnesses.

Shady shit.

In the eyes of the law, Milo really is just a businessman.

But in these walls, he's Don Milo, and his word is final. And if he wants me here, I'll stay here, no matter how uneasy it makes Luisa.

"Well, I'm sure they're in a better place," I say, mimicking her inauthentic sweet smile.

What a ridiculous phrase to say to someone in mourning. Even those who aren't religious use it. It's lost all meaning, all novelty, all genuineness.

It's like saying bless you when someone sneezes, have a good weekend to your coworkers on a Friday, Happy Birthday on a Facebook wall.

It's meaningless. A socially constructed response. A platitude.

But it works.

"They are," Luisa agrees, standing up with a sigh. "Tomorrow we begin your training, yes? I will introduce you to Giovanni and Mateo, your trainers, they will also be your security detail if you ever choose to leave the estate."

I'm allowed to leave? How generous of the Don.

"I look forward to it."

"Alright, I will see you later.” She tilts her head, lips pursed. "Will you be joining us for dinner tonight?"

She'd be a terrible poker player. Atrocious. Why ask if you don't want me to join? Courtesy? An order?

"I'll take it in my room," I reply, relief donning her sharp features as I turn my attention to the book Milo lent me. "But thank you for the invitation."

"No problem. I will have Teresa bring it up to you," she says and walks away.

I glide my fingers along the textured front of The Divine Comedy. I could use a little break from Russian lit. Flipping open the hardcover, my gaze darts to a handwritten note placed against the spine and my lips quirk up into an amused smile.

It's a quote from the poem. I know it well.

"The devil is not as black as he is painted."

Don't fold the pages, Kiara.

–Milo

I expel a soft laugh. I suppose even the devil was once an angel.

"Again!" Gio commands in Italian. He holds out his fists which are wrapped in boxing gloves, a sheen of sweat on his bald head.

The European Mr. Clean is starting to get on my nerves. We've been training for the last five days; I deserve a tiny break.

"Just give me a minute to breathe!" I snap. Snickers from Mateo and the other men sound through the gym.

My audience has gotten progressively larger in the last week. Even though Gio is almost three times my size, I've managed to get him to his knees...once.

When Milo said self-defense training, I didn't think he meant full-on kickboxing lessons. I assumed I'd just learn the basics of how to fend off an attacker, not pummel them to the ground.

I push back the damp baby hairs sticking to my forehead and tighten my ponytail.

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