Page 5 of Milo

"Turn around.”

I close my eyes, turning toward him, my breathing ragged, uneven.

This is so fucking stupid. I did this asshole a favor. I helped him! And now he's going to kill me? In an alley? Not even a glamorous death.

How upsetting. How infuriating. How unfair.

Opening my eyes, I find myself teetering away from fear and edging closer to frustration, anger.

"I saved your goddamn life!” I clench my fists and stare into the barrel of his gun. "Is this how you repay kindness? By killing innocent women?"

"Unfortunately, you are incorrect, Kiara," he says, a melancholy smile on his face. "As you so astutely pointed out, this bomb is not real, thus I was never in any real danger."

I glare at him. "A technicality."

Mr. Smith lets out a low chuckle. "A grave one.” He takes a step closer to me, adjusting his grip on the gun. "It is a shame though—" His pitch-black eyes skim my face. "To rid the world of such beauty."

"If that's the case, you can always let me go.” I ignore the rising of my traitorous chest. "Preserve the beauty...so to speak."

"I do not make messes, I cannot clean up," he says, almost apologetically. "And you are, regretfully, a mess."

"I—"

My response is interrupted by his cellphone ringing. He's not seriously going to answer his phone, is he?

"Pronto," he says, lowering the gun as he props the phone against his ear.

Oh. He's answering. Not like he's in the middle of attempted murder or anything. He begins pacing, turning away from me. I look around. Of course, nowhere to run. I guess I'll just stand here and wait for my untimely demise.

What an anticlimactic end to my anticlimactic life.

Several seconds pass by, Mr. Smith's back still turned to me. His attention focused on whoever he's barking orders to on the phone. My gaze snaps to the pistol, hanging so precariously off his index finger. He really is quite cocky, isn't he?

Maybe I could?—

Manifesting the energy of a prima ballerina, I gracefully glide toward Mr. Smith, ensuring that my feet make no noise, that I don't breathe, that silence surrounds us. When I'm mere inches away, I suck in a sharp breath and latch onto the gun. His head whips toward me as I snatch the pistol from his fingers, but he's too late.

Holy crap, this thing is heavy. Using both hands, I extend my arms and point the gun at Mr. Smith, a sense of murky pride spreading through my body.

I flex my muscles so that my arms don't shake. "Let me go.”

I'm in charge now. I have the power.

Mr. Smith sighs. "I will see you in five minutes, Marchello," he says in Italian. "I need to solve a little problem first." He hangs up, tilting his head to the side as he stalks toward me. What is he doing? Is he crazy? "Kiara put down the Beretta. It doesn't suit you."

I re-grip the pistol. "Seeing as I'm the one with the gun, I'll be making the demands.” I take a step back as he continues walking toward me. "How do you plan on solving this little problem without the upper hand?"

"Hmm.” He takes three large strides in my direction, forcing me to retreat back further. My back hits the brick wall. "You know Italian?"

"I know a lot of things," I whisper as his chest meets the tip of the pistol.

Oh God, he's a lunatic. Does he think I won't shoot?! I will. I fucking will.

"Is that so?" Mr. Smith chuckles, clicking his tongue. "Do you know what a safety is?"

What?

In the millisecond it takes for my gaze to lower down to the weapon, he's already snatching the pistol out of my hands. He snakes his fingers around my neck, knocking my head back into the wall, his grip restricting airflow, making me choke.

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