Page 136 of Milo

I was mistaken. I was so fucking wrong.

There's always a tidal wave.

Always.

Chapter 35

On the Surface

Until the water subsides, and the debris is cleared, it is difficult to see the damage caused by a tidal wave. Nana taught me to never make assumptions, she taught me to be logical, rational, calm. It's easier said than done. But I'm trying, I really am.

Although their embrace lasted for only a second before Milo pulled away and ordered everyone inside, I still can't gauge the extent of the damage. He won't look at me. Or her. Or anyone. But I don't need to see his face to know that he's conflicted. It’s in his body language, it's in his footsteps, it's in his clenched knuckles. He's struggling, and frankly, I don't blame him. I know exactly how he's feeling. He's relieved. He's angry. He's confused. That's how I felt when I found Andre. Milo blamed himself for her death. But she's here. In the flesh.

Vittoria is alive.

But how? And why? It doesn't make sense. Curiosity is outweighing dread. Faith is outweighing doubt. And my love for Milo is outweighing all the fear thrumming through my veins.

I made my decision and it'll take more than the return of a dead ex-girlfriend to make me leave. I won't let her drown me. Us. Not after everything we've been through. This is just another hurdle. It's taller, longer, wider than the rest but this time, we're stronger, faster, and more capable of making the jump. At least, I hope. I have to believe that. I have to believe that we will survive. There's no other option. None.

The living room is silent as Milo paces back and forth in front of Vittoria who is seated in the center of the couch, a hot cup of tea in her hands. I glance at Marchello, Julia, and Luisa who are scattered around the room. No one dares to make a sound. We're flies on the wall, observing, studying, holding our breaths.

"Milo," Vittoria whispers in a timid tone. "Say something."

Milo's jaw clenches as he stops in front of her. "I thought you were dead. We received a rose, Vittoria, it had your name on it. I thought Pravda took you. I thought?—"

"They did." Vittoria looks down, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "I was at the beach when they took me."

"And yet you are alive," Milo says, the tiniest glimmer of hope in his voice. "Is Sergio alive as well? Is he?—"

"No." Vittoria swallows, unable to look at him. "He is dead."

Milo swallows back reality. "And why are you not dead, Vittoria? Hmm? What did you do? What did you tell them?"

Vittoria snaps her head up, her lips curled into an offended frown. "You think I betrayed you? You think I sold you out?" She lets out a low scoff. "How? What would I tell them, Milo? Your favorite flavor of gelato? Where you buy your shoes?! I know nothing of value."

Milo runs a frustrated hand through his hair. "Then how is it that you are here? What happened, Vittoria? Explain it to me because I have never heard of anyone surviving Pravda."

"They were—" She clears her throat, lowering her head. "They were going to kill me but then—" She sniffles. "Igor changed his mind. He said that I was too beautiful to die, so he—" She glances up at Milo, tearing up. "He made me his mistress."

"He what?" Milo spits.

Vittoria dabs the corner of her eye with a napkin. "He brought me to his brothel. He made me do things, Milo.”

Earth-shattering guilt flashes across Milo's face. "What kind of things?"

Vittoria lets out a small shaky breath as she goes into further detail. The story slipping out of her mouth is devastating, disgusting, demoralizing. And I feel ill. Nauseous. But the unease stirring in my stomach is not from her words, no, it's from the disconnect between her words and her face.

The frown between her eyebrows is over-exaggerated, the trembling of her lips is theatrical, and her eyes lack any emotion; they're empty, blank, disconnected.

The pain in Milo's voice breaks my heart as he asks, "Why did he let you go, Vittoria?"

"I don't know." She shrugs, taking a sip of tea. "Maybe his wife found out about me? Maybe she wanted to kill me?" She clears her throat. "Igor, he uh—he said he loved me. He fell in love with me. The last thing I remember is going to my room and the next moment, I woke up outside your house. I don't remember how I got here."

On the surface, she looks like she's been through hell; ripped black nylons, smeared mascara, wild unkempt hair, a few streaks of dirt smudged on her face and hands. Yet, examining her with a critical eye, I notice that her manicured nails are spotless, that the rings on her fingers are glistening under the yellow light of the chandelier, that her fur coat is mink. Nana loved mink.

I've spent my whole life studying emotions in order to be able to read people, in order to be one step ahead of liars and cheaters, in order to shield myself from pain and hurt. I've learned that the surface is easy to fake. I've done it. I still do it. But there are some things that cannot be hidden. That cannot be faked. And Vittoria, she's a shiny counterfeit bill.

She's lying. She's fucking lying. But unfortunately, based on Milo's aghast expression, he doesn't see it.

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