Page 6 of Milo

"Such a silly girl.” His calloused thumb grazes along my quivering bottom lip, his sweet breath blowing into my mouth. "You never take your eyes off your target."

"I don't want to die.” His fingers loosen around my throat but he doesn’t let go. "Please."

"You will either die by my hand.” He caresses my jawline, his body flush against mine. The jagged blocks of the fake bomb press into my chest. "Or by the Russians." He pauses, his charcoal eyes meeting mine. "It is better this way, bella. At least I will not torture you first."

"Please..." I fight back tears, defeat washing over me like a tidal wave. My hand grips his, attempting to drag it down. "Per favore. Ti prego. Non farò niente."

"It does not bring me joy to end such a young and beautiful life.” He sighs as he drops his hand and takes a solemn breath. "But begging will not help, even if it's in Italian."

I clench my teeth together. This is it. There's nothing else I can do. I'm out of options. Maybe I'm ready. Yes. I'm ready.

I'm ready.

"Just do i?—"

Police sirens blare in the distance and my head snaps toward the wonderful sound.

Oh my God. Yes.

Mr. Smith reaches for his cellphone, a frown marring his brows as he reads a message.

"Cazzo!" He runs a frustrated hand through his dark thick hair. "It would seem that destiny has other plans for you, Kiara." He grabs my arm, leading me out of the alley and toward a parked black SUV with tinted windows. The door swings open, revealing two older men in the front seats, both dark-haired and frightening. "Get inside the car."

"No!" I attempt to jerk away from him, the sirens getting louder by the second. They're almost here.

"Get in the fucking car.” He pushes me inside and hops in, slamming the door shut. "Do not scream or I will cut your tongue out before I kill you."

Waiting for death is exhausting.

"How very Russian of you," I sneer, eliciting a grin from Mr. Smith. Psycho. "I thought you don't torture people."

"I adjust very quickly.” He turns his attention to the man in the passenger's seat as the driver pulls out onto the street. "Did you clean up, Marchello?" Mr. Smith asks in Italian.

"Yes, the manager will erase the tapes and our men will discard the bodies," he replies, briefly glancing at me. "I am sorry this happened, Milo. We should've known what they were doing. I'm so sorry. If you want to kill me, I will accept that fate."

Milo? What the fuck...

"I do not wish to spill more blood tonight.” Mr. Whoever-the-fuck-he-is removes the trench coat, exposing the bomb wrapped around his chest. "We will deal with the Russians later. I would like to take this off now."

"It looks so real." Marchello examines the various crossed red and blue wires. "How did you know?—"

"He didn't," I snap. They're talking like I'm not even here! "I told him." I face Mr. Smith, whose eyes are glinting with subtle amusement. "And who are you exactly?"

"How did you know?" Marchello asks me warily as I keep my attention on my annoyingly handsome captor. I have serious issues if I'm fantasizing about a man who's going to kill me. This can't be healthy. “How did you know that it was fake?"

I sigh, trying to read Mr. Smith's blank expression as he unclips the explosive vest off his body. I really hope it is fake. "I speak Russian," I murmur, wincing as Mr. Smith detaches the last wire and flings the vest to the floor. Oh, thank God. Still alive.

For now.

"You do?" Marchello purses his impressed lips. "And Italian as well?"

"And French and Spanish and German and Arabic," I mutter absentmindedly. Mr. Smith's groomed brow quirks up as I list off the languages I've learned over the years. "Plus, a little Korean. Not a lot though."

"Who are you?" Marchello asks.

Me?

"You first.” I cross my arms, my gaze dancing between the two Italians. "Who are you, Mr. Smith? I think I deserve to know the name of the man who will eventually put a bullet in my brain, don't you think? It's not like the dead can talk. Might as well concede to this tiny request."

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