Page 30 of Milo

He casts me a devious smirk. “Had a rodent problem. It has been taken care of, believe me."

I suck in a sharp breath, shocked by how unaffected I am by his comment. "You killed him?"

"He killed himself. He was foolish to think he could betray my family and live to grow old and grey."

"You're not very forgiving, are you?"

"There is no room for forgiveness in my world, Kiara," he says, pressing me to heed his warning. "It is best that you remember that."

"I'm not a fool, Mr. Di Vaio. I would never?—"

The screeching of tires cuts me off, the car swerving back and forth, our bodies swaying side-to-side.

With a vice-like grip, I latch my fingers around Milo's forearm as my heart drops to my stomach, an all too familiar fear overpowering my senses, blurring my vision.

The car levels out in seconds, but I'm still frozen with trepidation. Our driver rolls down the window and screams profanities into the symphony of honking cars.

"Kiara." Milo's soft voice fills my ears as I stare into nothingness. "Kiara, are you alright?"

"Uh-huh," I murmur between ragged breaths, unable to fill my lungs with enough oxygen.

His warm palm covers my hand, squeezing it gently. "Close your eyes," he whispers. My eyelids flutter shut. "Take a deep breath, Kiara—" And I do. "Good, now hold it for seven seconds. Six, five, four, three, two—" I exhale. "Now inhale for four seconds."

I repeat this process for what feels like hours until the panic fades away, until I can move my limbs, until my mind is clear.

With his large hand still enveloping mine, Milo asks, "Better?"

I swallow, embarrassment washing over me. "Yeah," I mutter. "Thank you. I don't know what happened, I haven't—" I expel a shaky breath. “How did you know what to do? How did you?—"

"My older sister.” His fingertips tickle my palm as he slowly drags his hand away from mine. "She is a psychologist, she's g—" He pauses. "She specializes in panic and anxiety disorders; she sends me a lot of articles."

"Sister? You have a sister?" I frown. “And she's a... psychologist?"

This is the first I'm hearing of her. There are not a lot of portraits of women hanging on the walls of his villa. Granted, I haven't memorized all their faces, but I didn't see women who resembled Milo. Perhaps she was excommunicated. Are mafia women even allowed to have jobs? Maybe that's why there are empty spaces on the walls.

No. Enough. I need more information before I jump to conclusions.

"Yes, I have a sister. She lives in Monaco with her husband and my mother."

"Your mother doesn't live in Italy?" This doesn't make sense. Aren't these types of families supposed to stick together? Or has TV ruined my perception of the real world? "Why?"

"She moved in with Julia after my father passed away.” His body stiffens. "It was too painful for her to be in that house. Too many memories."

"Oh, that makes sense. And your sister, Julia? When did she move to Monaco?"

Milo lets out a cynical scoff. "As soon as she could."

"And that was allowed? Aren't there...rules or something?"

Milo cocks his head to the side. "Of course, she was allowed. She was not a prisoner."

"And she's a psychologist? Why did she go into psych?"

Milo grunts something inaudible in Italian as he closes his eyes, evidently tired of my onslaught of questions. "You can ask her yourself when we go to Monaco in a few days."

We're going to Monaco next? When was he planning on telling me?

I purse my lips. "You know, I wouldn't have so many questions if you just told me things from the get-go."

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