Page 27 of Milo

And he's wrong.

For the next hour, we sit across from each other in silence. He reads the newspaper and I read Dante's Inferno.

Hell.

Based on the headlines of worldwide newspapers and the political and social turmoil across the globe, perhaps Hell is not such a foreign place after all.

Although Mr. Alighieri's prose is quite thought-provoking, it's also emotionally draining. When I reach my daily limit for allegorical narrative, I shove The Divine Comedy back into my purse, opting to switch to a lighter tale, perhaps Cold Comfort Farm— Nana's favorite.

As I attempt to fish out my Kindle, my fingers glide across the pistol at the bottom of my bag. It's unnerving that something so small holds so much destructive power. I pull the gun out of my purse, twisting it in my fingers, examining it carefully.

"I would prefer if you did not point a loaded weapon in my direction when we are thirty thousand feet in the air," Milo says, peering over his newspaper.

I frown. "How do you know it's loaded?"

"A party trick," he smirks, mocking my words as he lowers the paper.

"Hilarious." My frown deepens. "But, seriously, how? I'm curious."

He sighs, clicking his tongue. "I can tell by the way you're holding the gun, Kiara. The tiny muscles in your wrists are a dead giveaway."

"Oh.” I twist my wrist around, the gun waving back and forth as I examine how my hand clenches. This doesn't make sense. How can he?—

"Kiara! Put down the fucking gun. This aircraft is not bulletproof. You shoot, we die."

"Don't worry. The safety is on." I roll my eyes, lowering the pistol. He shoots me a dubious look. "Yeah, that's right, I know what a safety is now. Thank you very much."

If only I knew sooner, then maybe I wouldn't be here right now.

He expels a low chuckle. "Still, put it away." He pauses. "When did you load the gun? I don't remember inserting a clip when we left the range."

The range.

I shiver, tracing my fingers along my neck, remembering Milo's strong grip, his touch, the way my insides knotted from his warning, the way every fiber of my being wanted to revolt against it.

"I couldn't sleep last night so I went back. I loaded it before going to bed." I let out a small laugh, banishing all thoughts of Milo's lithe body ravaging mine out of my head. Not today, Satan. "Honestly, it's trickier than it looks. It took me a few tries to figure it out."

"There is a learning curve, that is true.” Milo takes a sip of red wine, a faint grin on his face. Why is he smiling? "It will get easier over time."

"I don't know...” I glance at the flight attendant. I could go for a glass of wine. Or ten. It's nice to see that I'm not the only one who drinks before noon. "You make it seem so effortless."

Milo snaps his fingers, catching the immediate attention of the blonde woman. "Another glass of Chianti," he states, silently verifying the order with me. I nod. I guess he's somewhat useful. "You must understand, Kiara, I was taught how to load, take apart, and reassemble a gun before I learned how to ride a bike."

"What?" I blink at him as a wine glass appears in my hand. "How old were you?"

"Six, I think. It was a long time ago." He shrugs, unbothered. "My father ensured that my siblings and I received the proper training from an early age."

"Wow," I hum, shocked by how casual he sounds, as if children handling firearms is normal.

But maybe in his world, it is.

"Kiara," he says softly, “this was the life I was born into. It is all I have ever known so do not look at me with sympathy. I do not need it."

A child. He was just a child. An innocent, pure soul. How can I not feel sympathy? How can my heart not ache for him? When other kids were going bowling, riding skateboards, he was learning how to shoot. How to kill. How to carry on the legacy of his family's name.

But I get it. I do.

Some things are not up to us. They're above our pay grade.

---