Page 28 of Milo

Our families. Where we're born. When we die.

How we die.

In our sleep. From cancer. Murder.

Black ice on the road.

"I guess we can't choose our fate, right?"

"Do not be afraid; our fate cannot be taken from us; it is a gift," Milo says in Italian, reciting a portion of a Canto from Dante's Inferno. "We are all given a path to walk, Kiara. Mine is simply different than yours. But our destinations are the same."

"Yeah..." I nod, sipping on my wine, confused yet relieved by his words. The same. Is that possible? "I guess you're right."

Milo takes a deep breath, a gentle smile on his face. "So, with all of that being said, do not feel discouraged with your training, I have twenty-five years of experience. For a novice, you are excelling."

"You're thirty-one?" I calculate his age in my head. "I thought you were younger."

Not by a lot, but I didn't think he was eight years older than me. Maybe five years max.

Okay...maybe four.

"Really?" he smirks. "Thank you."

I roll my eyes, tossing him a sly grin. Such arrogance. "That was not a compliment."

He lets out a dissatisfied humph. "Tread lightly, Kiara. I can be quite sensitive at times."

I laugh at the absurdity of his statement. "Apologies, I momentarily forgot how fragile a man's ego can be."

He glares at me. "That is the opposite of treading lightly. You are not very obedient, are you?"

I tilt my head. "I can be very obedient, Mr. Di Vaio. Depends on the circumstance."

His lip twitches, his pupils dilating as he lifts up his wine, methodically twirling the red liquid around the curved orifice of the glass. "And what types of circumstances would those be?"

I shrug, casting him a knowing smile, refusing to satisfy his oozing curiosity. "I guess you'll have to find out."

His tongue delicately laves against the sharp edge of the wine glass before he takes a slow sip of Chianti.

"I intend to.”

I swallow, sinking my teeth into my bottom lip. "I'd like to see you try."

"In that case—" A puckish grin clips his lips as he lifts up his glass. "To challenging oneself."

"And to knowing one's limitations.”

Chapter 10

In the Details

For the first thirty minutes of the drive from the airport to Hotel Di Vaio Madrid, I'm so entranced by the beauty of this foreign city that I forget I'm in a Rolls Royce, sitting next to a man with questionable ethics and a murky moral compass.

Madrid is mesmerizing, with the combination of renaissance architecture and flares of tasteful modernization, it's not surprising this city was a muse to so many great poets and artists.

"Over there is Casa Botín," Milo hums, drawing my attention. He gestures toward a building in the distance with a wooden caramel exterior. "It is the oldest restaurant in the world. Ernest Hemingway?—"

"Wrote about it in his novel The Sun Also Rises," I interject his factoid with a smug smile. "Yes, I'm aware."

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