Page 19 of High Stakes

I steal a glance at Milo. His stare lingers on the closed door when he finally exhales, a breath he seems to have been holding since Leone spoke. He stares at me, his eyes raking over me where I stand nervously.

“Come on,” he murmurs. Milo’s hand hovers in the air, a silent offering of assistance. His bitten lip and the hesitancy in his eyes mirror my own trepidation. Is this another test? Surely, he doesn’t want my hand when it’s covered in blood.

“You watched me cut Marcel into pieces; blood doesn’t bother me, least of all yours,” Milo tells me. I wonder if he doubts whether I’ll accept the gesture or recoil from it, but eventually, my fingers curl around his. He pulls me closer with a gentle tug, and I follow him out of the basement.

We climb the stairs, leaving behind the chill of the concrete for the unfamiliar warmth of the mansion. I expect him to lead me to the bathroom next to the kitchen. Instead, he takes me to the third floor and to a bedroom I’ve never been in before. Milo’s bedroom. The door creaks open to reveal a room shrouded in shadows, the scant light filtering through heavy curtains casting everything in an ominous hue. It’s stark, almost barren, with minimal traces of a life lived here. Everything is clean and crisp and doesn’t look like it has been lived in. My gaze skims over the tidy bed and the nondescript furniture, however, it’s the array of weapons dominating the room—guns and knives meticulously arranged— that sends a tremor down my spine. His room looks more like an armory than a bedroom.

I don’t linger on them because Milo is guiding me toward the attached bathroom. He starts the shower, and the sound of running water fills the silence. He turns on the shower, steam rising and fogging the mirror. There’s no flinch from Milo at the sight of blood staining my skin, making me wonder how accustomed he must be to such sights. However, after what I witnessed in the basement, I wouldn’t doubt it’s an everyday thing for him if that is anything to go off. His cutting into Marcel made it look effortless, though I know it would be anything but. I’ll never forget the look of horror on his face when Leone grabbed my head and made me watch. Milo wanted to removethe body. Leone wouldn’t let him. Leone wanted to show me exactly what would happen to my father if I betrayed him again.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says, his voice devoid of judgment or disgust as he reaches for the filthy shirt I’m wearing.

The fabric of my shirt peels away from my skin as Milo lifts it over my head, and I place my hand under the stream of water from the shower head, testing its temperature. When I look up, Milo is removing his own clothes.

He nudges me into the shower and reaches for the soap, though I can see he is tense. So am I as we wait for Leone to hunt me down and drag me back to the basement. Yet one thing has constantly played on my mind down there, and that is Dad and Emma. “Is my father…” I begin, the question dangles, incomplete as Milo remains mute, sparing me neither comfort nor despair. His silence makes me wonder if Leone has told him not to answer about my father.

“You ran off with another man,” he states.

I swallow thickly. “It wasn’t like that,” I murmur, reaching for soap. Milo takes it from me and starts washing me.

“Did Marcus know that?” Milo asks, and I blink back tears, knowing Marcus died because I was stupid enough to agree to run with him.

“What was your plan, anyway? Run and pray Leone forgot about you or gave up hunting you?” Milo asks.

“I needed to try.”

Milo shakes his head. “You played us,” Milo states.

“No, I did what anyone else would do. I ran because I never chose this,” I answer, but I am careful with how to word things, knowing the violence he is capable of. Even if not directed at me, I’ve seen how Leone handles his anger, so I have no doubt Milo is the same if set off. Milo doesn’t add anything.

“What about Emma?” I press, needing to know if she’s safe, and Leone at least let her live.

“Emma’s fine,” Milo finally answers. “She’s doing well.”

Relief floods me, albeit briefly, as he pulls me under the water to rinse me off. The water sluices over us, washing away the grime and the gore but not the weight of the unspoken words hang between us. Silence envelops us like a cocoon, a fragile peace which feels like it could be punctured at any second by Leone’s return.

After what feels like an eternity, Milo breaks the spell. Water droplets cascade off him as he steps out, reaching for a towel.

“I’ll find something for you; hopefully, one of the maids has something,” he says, referring to the sanitary products I briefly forgot I still need.

“Thank you,” I whisper, watching him leave. I finish showering and step out. The hot water’s embrace leaves as I step onto the cold tiles, wrapping a fluffy towel around my shivering form. I’m clean, but the room’s chill reawakens the dread which never fully washes away, knowing I’d soon be dragged back to the basement. Milo’s bedroom feels foreign, yet it also has a balcony, which matches Leone’s. It is only slightly smaller and seems darker than Leone’s room. I wander cautiously, my bare feet brushing against the floor, while my eyes scan the dimly lit space.

The starkness of the room is interrupted by scattered weapons—a satchel lies partially open, filled with knives, each handle glinting at me. I reach out, trembling as I grasp one, lifting it from its leather confines. Why would he bring me into this room where I had access to weapons? A morbid curiosity urges me to weigh the knife in my hand. It’s an unsettling thought, while escape is theoretically within reach, reality would cut hope down just as swiftly as any blade here. Knowing itwould only lead to my sister being killed and me probably tortured.

Replacing the knife, I move toward the nightstand, drawn by the faint light illuminating the collection of photos arranged there. I pick up a photo framed in simple black, my fingertips tracing the edge of the frame. It’s Milo; he’s holding a baby wrapped tightly in a blanket who is hooked up to numerous wires. His expression is unreadable, caught between joy and something harder. Behind him stands a woman, her back to the camera, her identity obscured.

At first, I wonder if Milo has a child, then I remember him mentioning he can’t have kids.

I set the photo back down, my heart heavy with unspoken questions. Who is the child? And the woman? My hand moves to the gun on the nightstand; it hovers over the sleek, cold metal of the gun. Curiosity overtakes caution, and I gingerly lift it, feeling its weight. As I begin to lower it back to its place, a warmth floods my back, and a shadow looms over me on the wall. The familiar scent of Leone’s cologne invades my senses, unmistakable and intimidating.

I freeze, the gun now a trembling weight in my grasp. My mind races with the potential consequences of this moment. Slowly, I turn my palm up, offering the weapon to him, hoping he didn’t think I was planning to use it. Leone’s strong hand brushes mine as he takes the gun, his touch surprisingly gentle as he places it back on the nightstand. In exchange, he places sanitary products into my still-quivering hand. I don’t dare move, fearing any sudden action might provoke his temper.

The silence stretches taut between us, filled only by the sound of my ragged breaths. Unable to stand the quiet any longer, I muster the courage to ask, “Where’s Milo?” My voice is barely above a whisper, betraying the anxiety knotting my stomach.

“I’m unsure. I didn’t see him on my way up here,” Leone replies, detached. He doesn’t step away. He reaches past me, taking the photo of Milo cradling the baby.

“Milo had a baby?” The question slips out before I can stop it, confusion lining my voice as I recall Milo’s assertion of how he cannot have children.

“No, his Godson, Angelo, my son,” Leone clarifies without looking at me. His voice is a low rumble, devoid of the warmth one might expect from a father speaking of his child.

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