Page 21 of High Stakes

At that moment, any illusions I had about escaping this world were shattered. I am in the presence of a man who has been forged by vengeance and hardened by loss. And somewhere deep down, I understand there is no limit to the depths he would sink for those he considers family, it also makes me wonder about my family.

“That’s why you paid for Emma’s heart, isn’t it?” My voice trembles slightly, and I force the words out, a desperate plea for understanding. “And why you let my father live.” There’s a pause, heavy and laden with unspoken truths.

Leone’s expression doesn’t change; he’s a master at concealing his thoughts. After what seems like an eternity, his lips part, and his voice, a low rumble, breaks the quiet. “Yes,” he admits, the single word carrying the weight of grudging admission. “I couldn’t save my son, but I could save her.”

I absorb the gravity of his confession, the layers of pain and guilt lace every syllable. “I was unable to hate your father for what he did,” Leone continues. “Had our roles been reversed, I would have done the same thing for my son.”

I nod slowly, not because I accept the twisted logic but because I recognize the raw humanity bleeding through the cracks of his hardened exterior, the humanity he tries so hard to hide.

My trembling fingers clutch the edge of the towel wrapped around me, my heart pounding against my ribs as if it’s trying to escape the confines of my chest. The air in Milo’s room grows thick, suffused with tension and the scent of gun oil from the weapons lining the walls like a macabre gallery.

“Is my father alive?” I whisper, hating how small and vulnerable my voice sounds. My gaze is fixed on Leone, searching for any sign that would indicate if he is or isn’t.

His jaw clenches—a subtle movement, one that reveals the storm of emotions he keeps leashed within. For a moment, silence stretches between us, ominous, until he finally speaks.

“Yes, for now.” His words are clipped, edged with a warning that chills me. “As long as he doesn’t get in my way.”

Relief crashes into me with the force of a tidal wave, so potent my knees threaten to buckle. My father is alive—breathing, existing somewhere beyond these walls—a sliver of hope, I’m willing to endure whatever twisted fate lies ahead.

The relief is still washing over me when footsteps echo from the corridor, drawing closer until Milo appears in the doorway. He begins speaking, oblivious to the charged atmosphere he’s entering. “One of the maids has—” He trails off abruptly as his eyes land on Leone, the sentence left unfinished in the air.

The room feels smaller somehow. The presence of these two men suffocates the space.

Milo’s confusion reflects my own.

Milo’s mouth snaps shut, his eyes darting from Leone to the sanitary products clutched in my trembling hands.

“I went to the store; I already got her some,” Leone states, his voice slicing through the static silence hovering around us. Milo holds his gaze for a moment longer. Leone’s attention shifts, the weight of his stare settling on me like a leaden cloak. “She isn’t sleeping here,” he declares, and the finality in his tone brooks no argument.

Milo’s shoulders tense ever so slightly, his eyes narrow slightly, and some emotion I can’t decipher is present in his gaze.

Milo’s mouth opens, the words perched on the edge of his tongue, ready to fly out in my defense—or perhaps his own. But I can’t let him. Not for me.

“It’s fine, Milo, don’t,” I murmur quickly. The protest dies in his throat, and he turns to look at me, confusion etched across his face.

Leone’s stride doesn’t falter as he makes for the door, but his voice booms back to us, echoing off the walls, carrying the weight of command. “I don’t want her in your room; it’s a fucking armory in here. I don’t fancy my throat being cut in my sleep. Bring her back to our room.” He pauses in the doorway, casting a shadow that stretches across the room, enveloping Milo in its darkness. Leone half-turns, his profile sharp against the light from the hall. “Your sympathy for her is becoming a liability, Milo. Remember where your loyalties should lie.”

The words hang heavy between them, a threat wrapped in velvet, soft to the touch and suffocating in its stranglehold. Milo’s face hardens, the muscles in his jaw clenching tight as he gives a curt nod, acknowledging the order without a word.

Leone’s gaze lingers for a fraction longer before he steps out, leaving us in the sudden quiet that feels like a storm’s aftermath. Milo stands motionless, staring at the space where Leone had been for a second when he calls out to Leone.

“Does this mean she is free of the basement?” The air turns thick with anticipation; I can almost feel the weight of his words settling on my shoulders. In that brief moment, my chest tightens, and I hold my breath, waiting for Leone’s answer.

Leone’s back is to us as he pauses in the hall. When he finally speaks, his voice is firm and back to cold.

“For now,” he says without turning, his posture rigid, authoritative. One simple phrase, and a sliver of freedom seems to glimmer, fragile as glass, easily shattered.

Then the hammer falls, Leone’s tone leaving no room for doubt. “She fucks up dinner next week, she won’t see the light of day again.” The finality in his declaration sends a shudder down my spine, rooting me to the spot. The threat hangs in the air, a dark promise coiling around my heart and squeezes.

“Dinner with who?” Milo asks. Leone doesn’t turn, but there’s a shift in the air, a tightening of an invisible noose.

“My mother,” Leone answers.

The words hit me, cold and foreboding. I can almost feel the scrutiny I’ll be under, like a specimen pinned and wriggling under a microscope. I swallow hard, my fingers curling into the towel’s fabric wrapped around me when Leone disappears into his room, where I am expected to sleep tonight.

At least it isn’t the basement.

Nine

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