Page 64 of Milo

And that's okay. It truly is. I've had years of practice to deal with it. I have learned how to put out the fire, how to tame it, how to dwindle it into a steady burning ember.

How to conceal it. How to hide it from the world.

And in this world, the one I've been thrust into, emotions can cost me my life. A life that I hadn't ever envisioned for myself. A life of guns, drugs, murder, death. But it's mine. The only one I have. And in this life, those things are normal.

Mundane. Acceptable.

And so, I will conceal. I will hide. I will be strong. I won't let them see me falter.

I won't let him see me cry.

Never again.

He made me into a monster. And a monster I shall be. I'm not scared of this life anymore; I've been hazed, initiated, granted access into his wicked underworld.

With the pull of a trigger, I've become one of them.

And despite the fact that everything hurts. Despite the fact that every time I look down at my hands I see blood—I am safe now.

Safer than I've ever been before.

Because this time, I did save him.

I saved Don Emilio of Santi Oscuri. And they owe me. They owe me a lifetime of protection.

And after killing a supposed member of the Russian Mob, that protection is priceless.

Now only if I had protection against Milo the man, not Milo the boss.

And shit, what a man he is.

I can still feel his hot lips dancing across my body, his skilled fingers curling inside of me, and his tongue, his goddamn magical tongue is engraved into my DNA; it's marked me, ruined me for anyone else. He made me feel like a goddess, like Aphrodite on fucking steroids.

But he left me. He fucked me lifeless and then left. A power move, I'm sure. He wanted to show me just how good he could make me feel, give me a little taste of what could be, what I'd be saying yes to if I took the next step.

I'd be lying if I said he didn't convince me. He did. He showed me everything I needed to see. Needed to feel. To experience.

But unfortunately, the simmering rage I feel toward him right now overpowers my carnal desire to fuck his gorgeous brains out.

Hatred.

That's my power move.

That's what will keep me going. That's what will keep me sane, safe, secure, stable.

Time to start my new life.

The life of a murderess.

With one final coat of ruby red lipstick, I make my way downstairs toward the kitchen, the early December sun shining through the mosaic tiles of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"He's clean," Marchello says in Italian, his harsh tone bouncing off the walls as I approach the kitchen. I pause outside the archway, pressing my body against the coral wallpaper, my ears on high alert. "Henri swears he had no idea Andre was a foot soldier for Igor."

So, Andre was working for the Russians. Confirmed. I knew his accent wasn't German. I should've caught on sooner. If I did, none of this would have happened. Andre might still have ended up dead, but it wouldn't have been by my hand.

Idiot.

"And you believe him?" Milo asks. My teeth clench at the sound of his smoky voice. "How can we be sure?"

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