Page 7 of Milo

Leaning back into his seat, he studies me intently like he's plotting something. My death, no doubt. With a quick glance at his associate, he reveals in a smooth tone, "Emilio Di Vaio." He pauses, conjuring up a coy smirk. "But those close to me, call me Milo."

I blanch, his last name ringing in my head.

"D—Di Vaio?" I stammer. "As in..."

He smiles, evidently proud of his mafia ties. "Yes, as in Santi Oscuri."

I nod slowly, realization dawning on me. "And the Russians at the bank...they were...?"

"Bratva," Milo confirms casually with a shrug. "A particular faction of the brotherhood that is causing quite a headache as you might have noticed."

"Uh-huh.” So, he wasn't lying when he said the Russians would kill me. They would probably dismember me if they found out I foiled one of their grand plans. "Well thanks for telling me. At least I'll die with all the facts."

Milo glides his fingertips along his lips, cocking his head to the side. "Perhaps there is an alternative solution.” His amber eyes soften, just a bit. "Instead of death, I am now willing to offer you protection."

"What?" I frown at his sudden change in plans. Marchello looks equally confused but he doesn't question his apparent boss. "Why would you do that?"

"It would be highly beneficial to have someone under my employ with your particular skill set," he explains. "It is not every day one meets a polyglot."

I blink. "So, you want to use me as your own personal Google translator?"

He smirks. "I want to use you for a lot of things, Kiara, but yes, translating is one of them."

Chapter 3

Fickle Like Promises

I want to use you for a lot of things, Kiara.

Things: objects or acts that one need not, cannot, or does not wish to give a specific name to. In Milo's case, I'm certain it's the latter. But given his gritty suggestive tone, dilated pupils, and the slight twitching of his upper lip, I can fill in the blanks quite easily, too easily. Subtlety is not this man's strong suit, evidently, neither is timing.

Not ten minutes ago, he had a pistol pointed at my head, ready to shoot without a second thought and now, he wants things? The nerve of this man.

I am offended. Thoroughly, wholeheartedly, undeniably offended. Or at least I want to be.

I should be.

I refuse to be as capricious as a criminal, yet I can't help but find my curiosity piqued by the tempting glimmer of pleasurable promise in his garnet eyes.

Mmm.

What kind of things...?

I blink. Dear God. No.

Yanking my disloyal eyes away from his enticing face, I inwardly cringe at my fickle reserve. I will not succumb to his dangerous charms.

I won't.

"So, in exchange for my...skills, you'll keep me safe?" I ask, refusing to acknowledge his earlier statement. I can analyze his intentions later. There are far more important things at hand right now, like my life. If the only options are to work for him or die, I don't have much of a choice.

Although, working for the Italian mafia does pose its own set of problems. Santi Oscuri are notorious for their constant...turnovers in staffing, at least according to the various European newspapers my Nana hoarded over the years.

No one lasts long working for a criminal organization. But I suppose eventual death is better than imminent death. Everyone dies, it's a given, I just always thought it'd be decades before I was reunited with my whole family. At this moment, I'm not sure which half I'd meet.

"I will ensure that no harm comes to you,” he states with unfaltering confidence. "As long as you are with me, I can guarantee that you will be safe."

"I would prefer if you didn't lie to me, Mr. Di Vaio,” I say, skeptical of his overly assured pledge. "There are no guarantees in life."

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