Page 3 of Milo

My head snaps up to Mr. Smith's tensed expression. Bomb?! Did he say bomb?! I mentally flip through the employee handbook. Was there a section on this?!

"Sir?" I whisper cautiously, gripping his brass key in my hand. A sense of fear spreads through my body. Oh my God. "Are you here under...duress?"

"What?" he seethes. "Why would you ask such a ridiculous question?"

My all-too-curious gaze drags down the length of his body until I reach his hard chest, the barely noticeable outline of various shapes poking through the large tan trench coat. Holy fuck. My heart hammers.

"Is that a bomb?" My voice is barely a whisper, my palms clamming up, throat dry.

Mr. Smith's entire person darkens. “Just open the fucking box," he spits. "Now."

"What is taking so long?" one of the men calls out. "We are in rush."

Oh God... They're not his friends. Or associates. Or employees. They're?—

"The box," he breathes, a hint of desperation in his voice.

"Mhmm…” I grip the key between my fingers and slide it into the safety deposit box, uncertain of what to do. What the hell do I do? Do I tell him? I should tell him. Or maybe not...

"It's not real," I blurt out as the lock clicks open and I peer up at Mr. Smith with a wince. Fuck. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything.

"What?" His lip twitches. He leans his body toward me, his face an inch from mine. He’s so close I could count the faded freckles on his nose "What did you say?"

"The bomb—" I swallow, my gaze darting over his wide shoulders. They're staring at us. "It's not real."

"How do you know?" he asks in a low hum, expertly controlling his body language. "Tell me."

"I—I understand Russian.” I force a smile in case his apparent kidnappers are sensing that something is wrong. "They said it's not real."

A devilish gleam of relief flashes in his eyes. "You are confident that is what they said?" I press my lips thinly. Why am I telling him this?! "Answer my question."

"Mhmm," I hum my response, unable to lie, unable to look away from his full lips. What am I doing?! I should just let them leave and call the fucking police. Idiot.

He glares at me, clearly not satisfied with my reply. "Yes or no, Kiara?"

My name rolls off his smooth tongue like a damn sedative. “Yes," I breathe. “I’m confident."

Double idiot.

"I see.” Fear dissipates from his frigid features, his shoulders relaxing, like he's reenergized, reborn. He nods toward the box, a ghost of a smile on his scheming face. "Open it."

I hesitate. Why is he?—

"I said open the box."

"Okay," I whimper, my knees weak as I lift the metal lid.

Before I have time to react, Mr. Smith reaches inside the container and pulls out a black pistol with a cylindrical attachment on the barrel. A knowing smirk sprawls across his menacing face.

"Grazie, Kiara."

What the fuck?!

He whips his entire body around, his arm extended, firm, as he states in an unwavering tone, "Per mio fratello."

And without hesitation, he fires two soundless shots: both Russian men collapsing on the ground like dominoes, blood gushing from the holes in their foreheads.

"Oh my God!" I cover my mouth, frozen, unable to move as thick crimson blood flows over their open eyes and onto the marble floor.

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