Page 148 of Milo

A frantic gust of air slips past my lips. "Shut the fuck up, Marchello!" I look at Milo. "You don't believe me, do you? Why? Why is Vittoria's word more valid and believable than mine?" I narrow my eyes, realization dawning on me. "Oh my God, you did love her, didn't you? You said you weren't sure, but you did. That's the only explanation. It's?—"

"That is incorrect, Kiara," Milo states, his jaw clenching. "I am doing all of this because even if there is a small chance that she is telling the truth, I need to be prepared. There is no room for error. Our family cannot and will not survive another mistake. I need stability, Kiara. I need to reclaim power, and I cannot do that unless I am one hundred percent certain that I am not sending my men to fucking die!"

"I think it is time for you to leave," Marchello says, nodding at the door. "Let the men work."

"Men? Plural?" I scoff. "Funny, I only see one."

"Watch your mouth, woman!" Marchello growls.

"Or what?" I ask. "What are you going to do? Hmm?"

Milo bangs his fist on the table. "Both of you, stop fucking talking!"

"Fine!" I abruptly stand up, my blood thrumming with irritation. "I'll leave you boys to it then." I grab a jacket from Milo's coat rack. "Bye."

"Kiara, where the fuck are you going?" Milo asks, his tone defeated.

"For a walk! I need some fresh air."

"Do not leave the estate," he says as I slip on his trench coat. "Understand?"

"Don't tell me what to do," I snap back. "I'll go wherever I damn well please. I can't stay in this house any longer. I'm losing my fucking mind."

"If you must leave then take Gio or Mateo with you," Milo says.

"Why? Clearly, I'm not in any danger seeing as I'm the mole, right Marchello? Why do I need a guard? I'm the bad guy, right?"

"For fuck's sake, Kiara!" Milo stands up. "At least take your gun."

"Oh, you trust me with a gun? Really? Even though I work for the Russians?"

"I never said that Kiara," Milo sighs. "Why are you being so difficult?"

"Difficult? Me?" I flap my arms. "God, I need to leave before I strangle you."

"Marchello, give her your gun," Milo says. "Now!"

"What?" Marchello frowns. "I'm not?—"

"I said now!"

"Fine!" He reaches into his holster and reluctantly hands me his pistol. "Don't fucking lose it."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I scowl, pocketing the gun. I glare at Milo. "Don't wait up."

"Do not leave the neighborhood, Kiara," Milo warns. "I will know."

I roll my eyes. "Don't you have footage to comb through? Better get to it."

"Kia—"

I don't give him time to finish before I march out of his office, slamming the door. God, I need a drink. This is absurd. Am I the only sane person here? This is how innocent inmates on death row must feel. It's infuriating, blood-curdling, fucking maddening.

I shove my feet into a pair of boots by the front door. Exiting the house, the clear star-infested sky greets me as I make my way out of the gates.

What do I do? Think, Kiara, think! I turn right, walking aimlessly up the block, my fingers curled around the heavy pistol in my pocket. What are the facts? What do I know for certain? Oh my God. Nothing. I don't know anything. It's all a jumbled mess of maybes. How do I solve a riddle with no clues?

God, am I in the wrong here? Am I being paranoid? Is Vittoria telling the truth? I don't know anymore. I don't. I grip the locket around my neck. Nana, help me! Please! Give me a sign, a signal, a crumb!

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