Page 70 of Milo

"Thanks.” I slip on a pair of flip-flops and head to the door. "I'll think about it."

We walk down the first two flights of stairs in awkward silence before she veers off toward another room. She's been sickeningly nice to me this week, gentle with her words, smiling all the time. It's creepy. Off-putting. I seem to have gained her respect.

All of their respect.

With my hand on the iron railing, I round the corner, booming Italian bickering in the distance.

I freeze on the stairs.

"You can't, Milo!" Marchello barks. "We talked about this. Think about the possible consequences. We can't trust?—"

"What consequences?" A loud thump echoes through the halls. "What is the harm, Marchello? What could possibly happen?"

"You are not thinking rationally!" His baritone voice sends a chill down my spine. "This is a delicate situation! For once we are one step ahead! You cannot do this."

"I can do whatever I fucking please," Milo spits. "You are not the head of the family, Marchello. I am."

"Then start acting like one," Marchello states. "I am here to make sure you don't make any mistakes. And this, Milo, is a mistake."

"No, the mistake was listening to you in the first place.” His deep sigh fills my ears. "Fucking hell!"

"It is already done.” Marchello’s tone softens. "Everything will be fine. Just give it time."

"I am not a very patient man. And time has never been a friend to me."

"It is for the best, my boy. I promise."

I narrow my eyes. What in the fuck are they talking about?

Without context, I'm lost. One step ahead? Time? Mistakes? They have information on the Russians? Maybe? But why are they at odds with each other? Don't they want the same thing? What is going on?

Nothing makes sense.

I grind my teeth, irritation flaring my sinuses. Fuck this. I'm not in the mood to play Nancy Drew.

This isn't my problem. I shouldn't even care.

I descend the last stair, craning my head toward the office, the door ajar.

Shit.

The moment I come into view, Milo's eyes snap up. His hardened gaze skims the length of my body, his eyebrows furrowed, his lips twisted up with a murky kind of sadness.

My chest rises as our eyes lock, the tips of my fingers buzzing with electricity; the voltage so high that I nearly collapse.

I need to leave. I can't look at him. I can't be around him.

As if sensing my desperation, Marchello's head appears at the doorway. His expression sours as he glares at me for a second before slamming the door shut.

I let out a sigh of relief.

Thank you.

The overpowering sensation of nervous energy slowly withers away as I make my way to the indoor pool situated in the west wing of the estate.

The scent of chlorine fills my lungs as I step into the modern-day Roman bathhouse. Warm light from the opulent chandeliers reflects off the crystal-clear teal-hued water.

Tossing the towel on the cream marble tiled floor, I slip the cover-up over my shoulders and drop it by my feet. Dipping my toe into the warm water, I suck in a deep breath and dive in.

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