Page 93 of Milo

Right. This is part of my life now.

"Oh shit, that would have been really bad," I murmur, passing my bag to Gio as Milo discreetly hands Matteo his Beretta. Gio sighs, holding my black leather satchel like it's a bomb. I inwardly roll my eyes. Men.

"Ready?" Milo gestures to the cathedral. "Lead the way, Kiara."

I eagerly tug on his hand and drag him to the entrance. I stop in front of the paired door, awing at the bas-relief sculptures depicted on the quatrefoils— the crucifixion, Mary and Jesus, the Annunciation. "Ho-ly shit. This is incredible. I can barely make a sphere out of Play-Doh."

Milo snorts. "Perhaps it is best to avoid such language once we are inside." He cocks his head to the left. "It is a church, Kiara."

I cringe, glancing at the attendant standing by the door. "Did he hear me?"

"I think you are safe." Milo places his hand on the small of my back as he fishes out two tickets from the pocket of his black peacoat. He hands them to the older gentleman manning the entrance. "Grazie."

The fact he already had tickets does something utterly annoying to my heart.

It skips a beat.

Shit.

The attendant gives me a careful once over, staring a second too long at my legs.

How inappropriate.

"Go ahead," he says after a moment's hesitation. "Enjoy."

"Did he just check me out?" I ask quietly. "Isn't that against their code or something?"

"No, your skirt was almost too short, tesoro," Milo hums in my ear as we enter the silent cathedral, only the shuffling of footsteps audible. "There is a dress code."

"Oh," I wince. Awkward. "Right."

The interior of this church is almost too much for the human eye to handle. Endless stone carvings, paintings, and golden statues fill every corner. I could spend hours here. Hours. Where do we start? Is there a map?

"Relax, Kiara," Milo chuckles at my overwhelmed expression. He leads us down the geometric tiled floor. "Today I will be your guide."

"Really?" I toss him a skeptical look. "What makes you qualified to give me the tour? I think the audio guide might be more educational."

"I am full of surprises.” Milo gestures at a sculpture. "Prepare to be impressed."

And for the next two hours, he does just that. Impresses me. No matter what sculpture or painting I point to, Milo has a story, an explanation, a factoid. Knowledge. I eat up every word that rolls off his smooth tongue, truly stunned that he's so well versed in the history of this iconic cathedral that took six centuries to build. Six. The patience, the dedication, the craftsmanship, it's mind-blowing.

"What about this one?" I ask, pointing to a statue of an extremely chiseled bald man holding a book. "Do you think St. Bartholomew was really that muscular? Or is it like an old-fashioned version of Photoshop?"

I inwardly wince. I hope that question wasn't sacrilegious. I'm genuinely curious as to the accuracy of these depictions. Sorry, Nana.

"I suppose we will never know, tesoro." Milo expels an amused chuckle, checking his watch. "I am afraid we need to leave now; the sun is setting."

I pout. "But we only covered like a third of the church. There's so much more to see."

"We can always return.” Milo reaches for my hand. "But right now, we need to go up to the terrazza."

"Oh, I completely forgot there's rooftop access.” He starts us toward the staircase that leads to the terrace on top of the cathedral.

"It has one of the best views of Milano," Milo notes as we begin climbing the stairs. "My father used to bring me and Julia here every Spring. It was one of his favorite places."

And now it's one of mine.

"Is that how you know so much about the Duomo? From your father?"

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