Page 144 of Milo

He lowers his arm and reaches for his zipper. "I love it when they squirm.”

It's instinctual. Primal. Innate. The desire to live. To be spared from harm. To survive. There's no time to think or reason or hesitate. And I don't. I don't hesitate. I don't hesitate when I release my grip on the blade and slide it down my arm into my hand. I don't hesitate when I look at Andre in the eyes, the sharp tip of the knife slicing through fabric, skin, muscle, fat. I don't hesitate when he lets go of me and I twist the blade, eviscerating his organs, his agony-infested cries like music to my fucking ears.

Andre drops to his knees, gripping his stomach, blood spurting from his abdomen as he looks up at me. "Help me," he croaks. “Please."

"Why?" I stare at him as I grip the slimy handle of the knife. "Why should I help you?"

"Please." His voice is barely audible as he topples over. "Help me."

I tilt my head to the side, smiling down at him as I press the tip of my boot on his open wound. He cries out in pain. "Does that hurt, kukulka?" Blood pools around him as his body twitches. I stand over him for what feels like hours until he stops moving, until he stops breathing, until I know he's gone for good. With a sigh of relief, I mumble, "Goodbye, Andre."

It's funny. I feel nothing. No regret. No remorse. Nothing. Huh. Interesting. Maybe I'll see him in hell, but something tells me that only one of us will burn for all of eternity. I know I'm not the judge, but I think I'm an excellent candidate for clemency.

I look up heavenward. Right?

"Kiara!"

Shit.

I spin around to find Milo and Marchello standing at the door, both their gazes locked on Andre's dead body.

Milo's head snaps up. "Kiara!” He dashes toward me, scanning the knife in my hand. "What the fuck happened? Why are you down here? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine.” I give him the knife, my movements and tone oddly calm. "I came here to ask him questions about Vittoria."

"Is that so?" Marchello asks, narrowing his eyes at me. "If you came only to ask questions, why is he dead?"

"He attacked me," I explain, speaking only to Milo. "I thought he was handcuffed to the radiator. But he must have loosened the cuffs or something."

"He attacked you?!" Milo fumes. “Did he touch you, Kiara? Tell me."

"He tried.” I wince, running a hand across my midsection. "But he didn't get too far."

"Fucking scum," Milo seethes, peering down at Andre. "If only it were possible to kill a man twice."

Marchello clears his throat. "So, what did Andre say, Kiara? When you asked about Vittoria?"

"Not a lot," I reply, wiping my blood-stained hand on my jeans. "But I don't think he knows who she is."

"You don't think?" Marchello hums. "Well, you are the expert in lying, aren't you?"

"Do you have something to say, Marchello?" I take a step toward him. "Say it. What's on your mind?"

"Oh, nothing," he muses in a flippant tone. "I just find it strange that we came down here to ask Andre the same questions only to find him dead." He glances at Milo. "It would seem like Kiara just murdered the only person who might know the identity of the rat."

"Enough!" Milo glares at his underboss, grabbing my hand. "I do not appreciate what you are implying, Marchello. Not another word, understand?"

Marchello holds up his hands. "It was just an observation."

"Right. You can check the cameras if you'd like. I'm sure they'd corroborate what happened."

"No audio though." Marchello sucks on his teeth. "Convenient."

"I said enough!" Milo spits. "I am taking Kiara upstairs." He looks over his shoulder. "Feed him to the dogs."

"But—"

"Now," Milo orders, leading me out of the room. "I will meet you in my office in an hour." He grumbles under his breath, pulling me up the stairs. "Fucking hell, Kiara. Why would you go down there by yourself? Do you know what could have happened? He could've?—"

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