Page 117 of Milo

"For fuck's sake! Not everything is about you, Kiara!" Milo shouts, his booming voice sending a shudder down my spine. "It is not about you or me or us, it is about everyone else! This feud with the Russians transcends our relationship. I am responsible for so many fucking lives! They are my responsibility. Mine! So yes, I listened to Marchello when he told me not to tell you, because my brother, who is dead now, did not listen to advice. Ever. You can say that I lied to you or that I broke your trust, but I did what I had to do to ensure that my family would be safe, that we would remain in power, that no one else would fucking die!" He takes a ragged breath, closing his eyes as he adds in a softened tone, "Put yourself in my shoes, tesoro, try to understand. Please."

"I understand." I nod my head, biting the inside of my cheek. "Your loyalties lie with your family, with Santi Oscuri. Not with me. I get it."

"No—"

"Milo!" Marchello calls out, barging into my bedroom. "I need you downstairs. They are asking questions." He glares at me. "Deal with her later."

"Her?" I expel a low, defeated chuckle. "See? This would never work, Milo. I will never have respect in this house. I will never be one of you. I'll always be an outsider, always." My eyes well up with tears. "Sometimes love isn't enough."

Love isn't a cure. It's a disease. It's a sickness. It hurts. It kills. It's painful.

So fucking painful.

"You want respect? Is that what you want, tesoro?" Milo stalks toward me, his intense gaze packed with determination and resolve. He nods his head, scanning my face. "Alright, I will give it to you."

I blink. "What?—"

"Marry me.” He combs his fingers through my hair, my knees weakening, my brain on the verge of complete shutdown. "Be my wife."

"Emilio!" Marchello barks, his lip twitching, his face red. "What are you doing?! Have you lost your fucking mind? She is a nobody! She is?—"

"Enough!" Milo turns around, reaching for the Beretta that's tucked into the back of his pants. He points it directly at Marchello. I cover my mouth, letting out a frightened gasp. "Leave, right now or I will put a bullet between your fucking eyes."

"Oh my God, Milo, stop.” I tug on his arm. Is he insane?! "Stop!"

"Emotions are dangerous, my boy," Marchello states, his gaze darting toward me. "Remember that."

"Get the fuck out of Kiara's bedroom.” Milo readjusts his grip on the pistol. "I will not ask you again."

"Fine." Marchello swallows, a tight-lipped smile on his aged face. "I am leaving. We will talk later when you have calmed down."

Milo's features harden. "Do not provoke me, Marchello. Remember who is in charge. Leave."

Without another word, Marchello turns around and storms out of the room. When he's out of sight, Milo lowers his gun, staggering to the edge of my bed. He sits down, burying his face in his palms, his fingers rigid, tense.

"Marry me," he whispers, his tone hoarse, husky, heartbreakingly pleading. "Marry me, Kiara. I promise to never lie to you again. I will give you everything. I will give you the world. I will give you the fucking universe and all of its stars. Please, do not leave me."

"You're crazy…” I take a seat next to him, my pulse racing, my heart so goddamn conflicted. "You're fucking crazy."

"I love you," he whispers. "I am crazy because I love you." Taking a deep breath, he lifts his head up, his eyes red, glossy, full of emotion. "I am sorry, tesoro. I have failed you. I said I would stop your tears and yet you cry because of me."

"You hurt me. You broke my trust."

"I know," he breathes, dwarfing my fiddling hands. His touch is like a drug, a sedative, forcing my mind to slow down. To relax. To hear his words. Really hear them. For the first time. "I will never do it again." His thumb caresses the underside of my wrist. "I will dedicate my whole life to rebuilding that trust. I will make it whole, Kiara. I promise you that."

I stay silent, unable to respond.

Our relationship has grown on tainted soil. Everything that's sprouted, blossomed, flowered is covered in lies and deceit. And yet, when I look at his fucking face, it's still beautiful. It's the same face that fills my dreams. The same face that's stamped on my heart, my mind, my soul. But stamps fade. They're not permanent.

They don't last forever.

"Say yes," Milo whispers, interrupting my reverie as he leans his forehead against mine, his sweet breath fanning against my lips. "Be my wife, tesoro. Let me love you under God."

I close my eyes, my breath hitching. "Do you believe in God?"

"Yes.” He cups the side of my face, his thumb grazing the damp apples of my cheeks. "He brought you to me. He brought me an angel."

"Sometimes God is cruel. He gives us things just to take them away."

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