Page 36 of Milo

Chapter 12

Price to Pay

I sit perched on the edge of my bed, anxiously fiddling with a fraying thread on my white linen dress. I stare at the light grey door that leads straight into the second circle of hell.

Don't be such a baby. Just go! Rip the damn band-aid.

Closing my eyes, the faces of all the great women that came before me and fell victim to lust in the midst of a power struggle pop into my head.

Cleopatra wouldn't lock herself in her room after an embarrassing encounter with Caesar. No. She would march out, head held high, and grab a fucking cup of coffee from the kitchen.

Helen of Troy wouldn't be humiliated after grinding against Paris in a Trojan nightclub. No. She would play it off as if it were a part of her strategy, a part of her plan.

I wince, remembering that both of these women died horrible deaths; on second thought, perhaps they're not the best role models.

Damn it.

It's almost 12 p.m., I've been awake since 8 a.m. I'm hungry. I'm thirsty. And I'm in desperate need of a fucking ibuprofen. There's a dull ache pulsing against my temporal lobe, my mouth is dry, my throat is sore, and my stomach is grumbling.

Just go. Move your dumb ass and deal with the consequences of your stupid actions. You want to act like a horny teenager? Well, this is the price you have to pay.

I want to blame the cocaine for my recklessness last night, but I can't.

It was me. All me.

I let out a groan, sucking in a deep breath and straightening out my shoulders. Confident. Just act confident. Act like last night didn't happen. Nothing happened. I just won't bring it up. It's just a regular Sunday.

I grab my Kindle off the nightstand and unlock it, pretending to read as I twist open the door handle and saunter down the hallway toward the main living area of the suite. The faint smell of espresso beans permeates the air.

So close.

In my peripheral, Milo and Marchello sit around the dining room table, engrossed in what appears to be a serious conversation. Good. He's distracted. Just don't look up. Keep walking, the heavenly nectar is almost in reach.

"Buongiorno, Kiara," Marchello calls out in a casual tone just as I'm two seconds away from the kitchen. Damnit. “Did you sleep well?"

I force a smile, swallowing my pride as I turn to face the two Italians who are huddled in front of a computer. I can't gauge from Marchello's facial expressions if Milo told him about my behavior last night. He's hard to read, and that irks me.

"Good morning.” I keep my gaze on Marchello and Marchello only. I fear that if I take one glance at Milo I'll spontaneously combust. "I slept great, thank you."

"Really? The cocaina didn't keep you up?" Marchello perks up a salt and pepper brow.

Shit. He knows. But...how much does he know?

I blink. "Nope. I guess it wasn't that potent."

Milo scoffs, drawing my attention, his full lips twisted up in a dubious scowl. "Not potent? I would beg to differ."

Channel Cleo. We are channeling Cleo-fucking-Patra.

"Beg all you want, Mr. Di Vaio," I say, tilting my head. "But that doesn't change the fact that I slept like a baby." Courtesy of my fingers and a very vivid imagination but he doesn't need to know that. "How was the rest of your night with Manuel?"

"Useless," he states curtly. "I left shortly after you did. There was no reason for me to stay behind without my translator."

I cross my arms. "You're the one who forced me to leave. I wanted to stay if I recall correctly."

His lip twitches. "You were not in the right state of mind to be of any use if I recall correctly.”

"Maybe you shouldn't have given me so much coke then. Your fault."

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