Page 149 of Milo

A wave of nausea washes over me. Oh, God. Feeling lightheaded, I sit down on a random bench, nestling my head between my knees. Breathe. In and out. In and out. In and out. My phone rings. Milo. I ignore the call. It rings again. I ignore it. And again.

"What do you want?"

"You've been gone an hour, Kiara," he says in a gentle voice. "Come back, tesoro. I'm sorry for yelling at you. Please."

"I'll be back in a bit, okay? I just—" I close my eyes. I can't go back until I have a plan. Until I have something to go on. I need to figure out what's happening, otherwise, there might be nothing to go back to. "I need to think."

"About what?"

"Just everything," I whisper, hanging up.

Slipping my phone into my pocket, I stand up, continuing my journey. According to researchers, walking increases creativity by sixty percent. That's a lot. And I need to be creative. This problem isn't a linear equation. It's complicated, complex, with so many variables. Vittoria. Igor. Enzo. The Russians. Arabic. The rose. The Mole. Andre. God, that's too many variables. Too many variations of the truth. Too many possible answers. I can't do it. I can't solve it. I can't.

I circle a corner, entering a dimly lit street, the humming of an engine behind me. I twist my neck toward the slowly moving vehicle. Too slow. I can barely see it, no headlights. I pick up my pace as my brain stem activates survival mode. The car follows me at a distance.

Trepidation seizes my insides as the car speeds up and a man jumps out of the passenger's side door.

Fuck! I start running, my heart racing as I fumble around for my cell phone. The man follows me, only a few feet behind. My vision blurs, panic setting in as I try to dial Milo's number, my legs heavy as I sprint. As I'm about to press call, I trip on the uneven pavement, my body lurching forward, the phone flying out my hands and smashing on the ground.

No!

I scramble to get up as the man approaches me. I study his face, reaching for the gun. I don't know him. He's not familiar. I raise my shaking arms, the pistol heavy in my hands. Too heavy.

"Who are you?" I ask, pointing the silver revolver at the six-foot-tall man. "Who sent you?" He raises his hands in the air, the SUV stopping behind him. They probably have guns as well. Shit. "Who are you?! Let me go or I'll fucking kill you!"

He doesn't say a word, but I know something's wrong. He smiles as he looks over my shoulder into the distance. And that's when I hear it. Footsteps behind me.

I spin around but it's too late.

A blunt object hits the back of my head.

Game over.

Chapter 39

The Big Picture

Bolts of thundering pain pulsate through my brain, every one of my nerve endings activated as jarring cold water collides with my face. I gasp, receded grey edges hindering my vision as I struggle to open my eyes.

Fuck. My head.

I wince, another flood of freezing water crashing against my face, jolting me awake into a state of confused consciousness. I blink, my hazy vision coming in and out of focus.

"Who are you?" I croak, my throat dry as I try to make out the man in front of me. "Where am I?"

He doesn't reply.

"Let me go.” Abrasive material burns my wrists and ankles as I writhe in the cushioned chair, attempting to stand up. Shit. Come on. Focus. Focus! Slowly, like a dial-up connection, the fog stifling my ability to think, to see, to process, begins to lift.

The man watches me as I look around the room, frowning as I take in the upscale and sophisticated design of my surroundings. The walls are slightly curved, blinds rolled down on all the windows. The white furniture and sleek marble accents cause a sharp pain in my eyes.

Where the hell am I?

The floor beneath my feet is unstable, swaying, subtly rocking my body like I'm floating.

A boat? I glance around the room again. No. A yacht. A marina. We must be at a marina. That means there might be people. There might be help.

As if sensing that I'm about to scream, the man moves his coat to the side, revealing a gun. No words. I don't need words to heed his warning.

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