Page 94 of Milo

"Everything I know is because of my father. He made sure that my sister and I received the best education. Oftentimes he would conduct the lessons himself if he found our tutors to be inept." He lets out a soft laugh. "Which was quite frequently, if I think of it."

"It sounds like you had a really caring father," I muse as we step out onto the terrace. “Not many children are blessed to have such involved parents."

"That is true.” Milo smiles down at me. "I was very lucky."

"I was too," I sigh as we stroll by rows upon rows of statues resting on top of ornamental pinnacles. "My parents were wonderful."

"They must have been," Milo whispers as we reach the vantage point. "Come here." He wraps his arms around my waist. A sorbet sunset and an unobstructed view of the city greets us. “What do you think?"

"It's amazing.” I relax into his hold and let out a melancholy breath. "I love sunsets. They remind us that even endings can be beautiful."

Milo rests his chin on top of my head, his arms tightening around me as we watch the vibrant colors melt into each other. "My father used to tell us that if we looked hard enough, we could find beauty even in the most peculiar places."

"Your father sounds like an Italian Dumbledore.” I crane my neck up and cast Milo a small grin. "Just a little?"

He closes his eyes, a slight rumble in his chest. "I will take that as a compliment."

"As you should," I smile, biting my lip. "My dad wasn't as um...articulate as yours. I think the most poetic piece of advice he ever gave was: roll with the punches unless you got a mean right hook."

"Was your father a fan of boxing?"

"No," I snort. "He was a fan of pretending he was a philosopher. He actually taught philosophy at the local high school. I think it was the closest he could get to being Socrates."

"An admirable aspiration," Milo notes, the sky darkening around us. "What did your mother do for a living?"

A forlorn pang grips my chest. "She was a hospice nurse.”

"Hmm… It all makes sense now."

I turn around in his arms, tilting my head to the side. "What makes sense?"

He peers down at me, his eyes softened as he caresses my cheek. "You."

"Oh." I manage a small smile as I lean into his palm, a flurry of comforting warmth spreading through my body. "If only you were that easy to figure out."

"Trust me, tesoro, I am not as complicated as you think.”

He arches down, his lips brushing against mine like a tacit promise that he'll let me in. That there's hope. That I should have faith. And I want to believe him. I really do, but a zebra can't change its stripes no matter how strongly it believes it's a horse.

"You are the definition of complicated," I breathe, pulling away, my lips tingling. "That's a fact."

"No, Kiara.” He expels a weakened sigh. "That is a hypothesis."

My gaze flickers across his face, searching for hints of falsity. "So, prove me wrong then.”

Even though we're standing inches away, I still feel like we're miles apart. But that can change. He can close the distance. We're so close. Just not close enough.

Milo shuts his eyes, ripples flowing down his neck as he swallows. "We should head back to the hotel now," he says, checking his watch. "A ball awaits."

"Right.” I walk past him, not wanting him to see the disappointment plastered all over my face. "We wouldn't want to be late."

The walk back to Hotel Di Vaio Milan is silent, charged with a duality of frustration and satisfaction. Of calmness and fear. Of hesitation and resolution.

Complicated.

Marchello and the rest of our entourage are dressed and drinking by the time we step foot into the suite. Well, they're starting early. What else is new?

"I will get ready out here," Milo says, laying his tuxedo out on the white sofa. "The bedroom is yours."

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