MILO is Published!

Hello, my LOVES!!

A reminder that MILO is PUBLISHED! You can purchase the book on Amazon in paperback or e-book format, plus read it for free on Kindle Unlimited.

ALSO, another mafia romance book, Bloodlust, is available for pre-order on AMAZON– There’s a link in my bio and conversation board ^.^

I am so thankful to each and every one of you for your support and love! Enjoy the next few free preview chapters!

Lots of love,

Liza <3

1. Trouble Comes Knocking

A lone tear rolls down my clenched cheek, the first one I’ve shed since she left this world. Three weeks. I haven’t cried in three weeks. I didn’t have time to cry. I couldn’t. If I cried, I feared I’d never stop, that I’d live in a perpetual state of agony. Of grief. Of sadness.

Stop crying. Stop.

I should’ve let myself feel this loss earlier. Not now. Not when I have five minutes left on break. Not when the bank manager already commented on my smudged make-up. Not when I have to face customers for the next two hours before we close. Just two more hours and I can go home to an empty house. Two hours until I can climb into bed and stay there until my next shift. Two hours. You can do this, Kiara.

Two fucking hours.

With glossy eyes, I scroll through my camera roll, my heart aching as my grandmother’s smiling face looks up at me with her signature red lips.

You were all I had left, nana, why’d you have to leave me too? Are you with Mom and Dad right now? Are they happy? How about Grandpa? Is he up there? Did they let him in? He was kind of a dick but I think he made the cut…right?

Tears spill onto my screen, seeping into the crevices. Damn it. Flipping my phone around, I wipe it against my thigh, taking a deep stabilizing breath as the backroom door creaks open.

Shit. Already?

“Kiara!” Bethany, my fifty-year-old manager barks, her shrill voice echoing through the sterile empty room. “Your break is over. I need you up at the front.” She narrows her judgemental eyes at my chest, her thin lips pursed. “And button up your blouse. This is a bank, not a brothel. What would your grandmother say if she saw you walking around looking like that?”

She’d probably tell me to unbutton my blouse even further; grandma wasn’t a prude, at least not at home. But to the small town of Hawthorne, Granny Anne was a saint and a recluse, barely leaving the house, except for church. She was wary of the outside world, she never even let me go to school. I’ll teach you everything you need to know, dear , she’d say to me.

And she did.

With a tight-lipped smile, I fasten the top button of my standardized white blouse. “Better?” I ask, standing up and slipping my phone back into my purse.

“Much,” Bethany states, uppity arrogance radiating off her stump body. “I know this is only your first day but you’ve had a week of training. If you read our employee manual like you said you did, you’d be well versed in our dress code.” She takes a purposeful step towards me. “I gave you this job because your grandmother was a dear friend. Don’t make me regret it.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “And I’m so thankful for this opportunity, Bethany,” I say, my tone sweet, grateful, despite the fact I want to smack this priss over the head with a rotary telephone. “You’ve gone above and beyond to help me, so thank you.”

Bethany tosses me a smug smile. “I am a very kind and generous woman,” she states matter-of-factly. “It’s in my nature to help those in need.”

“Yes, you’re very kind,” I say. People who are kind and generous seldom refer to themselves as such but I’m not interested in starting a confrontation. “I’ll get back to work now.”

“Go on now,” she says, shooing me out of the room. Once she closes the door, I immediately unbutton my shirt. Fuck you, Beth . If she gave me a uniform of the correct size, we wouldn’t have this problem.

As I walk past Evie, my only other coworker, to my computer situated on the far counter of the bank, the street lights flicker on, casting shadows of the trees lining the block.

I groan, resting my elbow on the ashy wooden counter, my gaze flickering up to the clock hanging next to the sign that reads Hawthorne United Trust.

God, it’s only 6 pm but darkness has enveloped the sky, no hues of color, no evidence of a sunset, just grey dim clouds. It’s miserable. Completely dreary. No one’s going to come in. Not today.

Why didn’t I bring my phone out here? I could’ve finished watching Les Enfants Du Paradis . I wanted to finish it with granny. But now I’ll have to watch it alone. I’ll have to watch everything alone.

The next fifteen minutes pass in silence. Evie doesn’t talk to me, her attention focused on the game of solitaire she’s playing on her computer. I’d play too but it’s not fun when you always win. Computers are intelligent but they have flaws. Like humans.

A howling suction of wind draws my attention to the front doors, my eyes narrowing at the tall, handsome man in a beige trenchcoat entering the bank, followed by two shorter, fatter men in his tow.

Great. People.

I straighten out my shoulders as I follow his contemplative cold gaze that’s jumping between me and Evie.

Not me. Not me. Not me .

His decisive amber eyes land on mine and he strides towards me, the sharp edge of his stubbled jaw tensed, a barely noticeable sheen of sweat gracing his olive complexion.

I clear my throat, a lack of oxygen in my lungs as he stops in front of me. Crap, he’s gorgeous. The two dodgy men stand close behind him, watching him with a hawk-like gaze. Bodyguards?

“Welcome to Hawthorne United, my name is Kiara,” I say, swallowing away a ball of nervousness in the back of my throat as he scans my face intently, his eyes dim, almost scared. “Identification and account number please.”

“Of course,” he says in a thick Italian accent as he reaches into his pocket slowly, carefully, and pulls out a black leather wallet, sliding a driver’s license and bank card across the counter, his tattooed knuckles bruised, dry, speckled with….blood? What the- “Here it is, my identification .”

I blink, grabbing his ID and angling it against my keyboard, frowning as I type his name into the system. “Alexander Smith ?” I ask, raising an inquisitive brow. “Not a lot of Smiths from Northern Italy.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Smith asks, his voice hoarse.

“Northern Italy? That’s where you’re from, right?”

He doesn’t look pleased or impressed. “What is it that makes you think I am from Northern Italy?”

“Your accent,” I explain, pulling up his file. “I take it you’re from Milan? Turin? Genoa?”

“I do not believe that is any of your business,” he states, tapping his fingers impatiently against the counter, a sudden air urgency bouncing between our bodies.

“Apologies,” I say quietly. Maybe that was rude. Hopefully, he doesn’t file a complaint. I need this job. “So…how can I help you today, Mr. Smith?”

He cranes his neck towards the burly men hovering behind him, his teeth clenched. “I would like to access my safety deposit box.”

“Oh, okay,” I hum, biting my lip. He should’ve gone to Evie. “I can go get my manager for you. It’s my first day, I’m not really sure how to—”

“No,” he states, his deep voice startling me as he fishes a brass key out of his pocket. “I would prefer to keep my business here as discreet as possible. That is what this establishment offers, is it not? Discretion?”

“Yes, but—” I pause. “I haven’t accessed the vaults before so I don’t-”

“It is quite simple,” he says in a low hum, methodically rolling the key slowly between his long fingers, his dark eyes flickering across my face. “You take this key—” He holds it up. “Insert it into a lock—” He points it at me, licking his lips. “And twist .”

“Oh.” Is all that escapes my lips, my breathing shallow.

“So easy—” He pauses as his icy gaze pierces mine. “Unless you are an imbecile , that is.”

Wow. I scoff inwardly, ignoring the fact that my cheeks are burning up. Who is this man? So fucking condescending.

“Fine,” I say through my teeth, snatching the key from his cocky fingers, angry at myself for finding him so alluring. “Follow me.”

I round the corner, waving for Mr. Smith to follow me down the white hallway that leads to the secure vaults, two sets of heavy footsteps echoing behind us.

I pause. “Only authorized personnel can enter the vault, your… associates must wait out here.”

Mr. Smith stiffens. “They go where I go,” he states in an assertive tone, almost challenging me to refuse him. “I grant them permission.”

“Fine,” I sigh, clicking my tongue. “But they have to wait outside the vault in the hall. That’s the best I can do. I don’t want to be fired on my first day.”

Mr. Smith glances over to his two friends who toss him a begrudging nod. Maybe they’re his bosses. “That will do,” he says, motioning down the hallway. “If we can hurry this along, time is of the essence.”

“Big Thursday night plans?” I ask, leading him to the secure section of the bank.

“Yes,” he says distantly. “Big plans.”

Alrighty then. Not a talker I see. We stop in front of a vaulted metal door and I scan my security badge before entering my employee code. The door releases pressurized air before opening.

“After you,” he says and I step inside, my eyes scanning the sterile surroundings, hundreds of silver mailbox-like slots stacked in the middle of the

room. “It is number 406.”

“406?” I hum, searching for the correct section, acutely aware of the whispers coming from the two men lingering outside the vault door that’s propped open. They’re speaking…Russian?

“ This is going better than we thought ,“ one of the men snickers in a language I learned last year. I narrow in on the correct box and unclip my set of keys, opening the first slot and removing a rectangular box. “ He is an idiot like his brother .“

“ Igor will be pleased ,“ the other man replies. “ And to think we almost used a real bomb .“

My eyes widen, snapping up to Mr. Smith’s tensed expression. Bomb?! Oh shit. This is bad.  I mentally flip through the employee handbook. Was there a section on this?!

“Sir?” I whisper cautiously, gripping his brass key in my hand, a sense of fear spreading through my body. This isn’t good. “Are you here under… duress ?”

“What?” he seethes, a flash of panic in his eyes. “Why would you ask such a ridiculous question?”

My all-to-curious gaze drags down the length of his body until I reach his hard chest, the barely noticeable outline of various shapes poking through the large tan trench coat. Holy fuck. My heart hammers.

“Is that a bomb?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper, my palms clamming up, my throat dry.

Mr. Smith’s entire person darkens, his eyes blazing with pain, terror, fear . “Just open the fucking box,” he spits. “Now.”

“What is taking so long?” one of the men calls out. “We are in rush.”

Oh God… They’re not his friends. Or associates. Or employees. They’re—

“The box,” he breathes, a hint of desperation in his voice.

“Mhmm,” I hum as I grip the key between my fingers and slide it into the safety deposit box, uncertain of what to do. What the fuck do I do? Do I tell him? I should tell him. Or maybe not…

“It’s not real,” I blurt out as the lock clicks open and I peer up at Mr. Smith through my thick eyelashes. Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.

“ What ?“ he asks, his lip twitching, leaning his body towards me, his face an inch from mine, so close I could count the faded freckles on his nose “ What did you say?“

“The bomb—” I swallow, my gaze darting over his wide shoulders. They’re staring at us. “It’s not real.”

“How do you know?” he asks in a low hum, expertly controlling his body language. “ Tell me. “

“I- I understand Russian,” I explain, forcing a smile in case his apparent kidnappers are sensing that something is wrong. “They said it’s not real.”

A devilish gleam of relief flashes in his eyes. “You are confident that is what they said?” I press my lips into a thin. Why am I telling him this?! Fuck! “Answer my question.”

“Mhmm,” I hum my response, unable to lie, unable to tear my eyes away from his full lips. What am I doing?! I should just let them leave and call the fucking police. Idiot.

His eyes harden, clearly not satisfied with my reply. “Yes or no, Kiara?”

“Yes,” I breathe, licking my lips, my name rolling off of his smooth tongue acting like a damn sedative. “I’m confident.”

Double idiot.

“I see,” he whispers, fear dissipating from his frigid eyes, his shoulders relaxing, hardening, like he’s reenergized, reborn . He nods towards the box, a ghost of a smile on his scheming face. “Open it.”

I hesitate. Why is he—

“I said open the box. “

“Okay,” I whimper, my knees weak as I lift the metal lid.

Before I have time to react, Mr. Smith reaches inside the container and pulls out a black pistol with a cylindrical attachment on the barrel, a knowing smirk sprawled across his menacing face.

“Grazie, Kiara.”

What the fuck?!

He whips his entire body around, his arm extended, firm, as he states in an unwavering tone, “Per mio fratello.”

And without hesitation, he fires two soundless shots; both Russian men collapsing on the ground like dominoes, blood gushing from the holes in their foreheads.

“Oh my God!” I shriek, covering my mouth, frozen, unable to move as thick crimson liquid flows over their open eyes and onto the marble floor.

He killed them. They’re… They’re dead.

Mr. Smith points the gun at the security camera in the corner of the room and fires another shot, grabbing a USB stick out of the deposit box before coiling his murderous fingers around my forearm and tugging me towards the door.

“Exit. Now,” he commands, pushing me out of the vault, stepping over the lifeless bodies, and leading me down the hallway towards the emergency exits, the barrel of his pistol pointed against my back.

Oh, I fucked up. I fucked up bad.

---

ZOMG. OKAY. If you’ve read my other books, you know this is NOT my usual vibe. BUT EEP.

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2. Flashes of Color

I like to think that I’ve lived a hundred lives.

I’ve been a young waitress in France with the goal of bringing joy to people’s lives. I’ve been an heiress chased by a reporter through the vibrant streets of Rome. I’ve been a cancer-stricken father struggling to raise his children while dealing with an alcoholic spouse.

But now I don’t think watching foreign films, days on end counts as living.

The reality of my life can be summed up into one word: mundane.

I’ve done nothing. I’ve seen nothing. Not in real life. Not in the flesh.

Not really.

They say your life is supposed to flash before your eyes when you die. I see nothing.

A blank canvas that has yet to be painted. A starless night. A black vortex.

A void.

“Are you going to kill me?” I whisper as Mr. Smith guides me down the scarcely lit sidewalk, the sharp November air prickling at my skin, sending a shiver down my spine.

A couple passes us on the street, neither of them paying attention to me, neither of them noticing the terror on my face. So oblivious. So fucking useless.

Do I scream? Do I yell for help?

The bank had cameras. He didn’t care. He’ll shoot me. On the spot. And then he’d shoot whoever would try to help me. I know he would. I don’t know how I know that. But I do.

“Keep walking,” he commands, pressing the pistol harder into my back as he pulls out his cellphone and types a message, the brief clicking of the keyboard indicates that it’s a short text. I would think you would need more than three words to explain this situation to someone.

“Who are you?” I ask with a shaky breath, my eyes dry, surprisingly no tears. Mr. Smith ignores me. “Just let me go. I won’t say anything, I promise.”

“You are walking too fast. You need to relax and slow down,” he notes in a gruff tone. “We do not need to draw unwanted attention.”

Is he being serious right now? We? That’s exactly what I want to do. Bring on the attention. All the attention. If I had a horn, I’d blow it.

Or…

Or maybe I wouldn’t.

Everyone knows about fight or flight, a person’s instinctive response to stress or trauma. But there’s also freeze. And fawn.

I think I’m freezing.

But I refuse to fawn.

“It’s kind of hard to relax when you have a gun pointed at my L2 vertebrae,” I murmur mindlessly as we turn into a dark alley.

Fuck. I’ve seen enough movies to know that an alley means death.

“Turn around,” he states in a soft tone and I close my eyes, turning towards him, my breathing ragged, uneven.

This is so fucking stupid. I did that motherfucker a favor. I helped him! And now he’s going to kill me? In an alley? Not even a glamorous death.

How upsetting. How infuriating. How unfair .

Opening my eyes, I find myself teetering away from fear and edging closer towards frustration, anger.

“I saved your goddamn life,” I say, clenching my fists as I stare into the barrel of his gun. “Is this how you repay kindness? By killing innocent women?”

“Unfortunately you are incorrect, Kiara,” he says, a melancholy smile on his face. “As you so astutely pointed out, this bomb is not real, thus I was never in any real danger.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “A technicality.”

Mr. Smith lets out a low chuckle. “A grave one,” he says, taking a step closer to me, adjusting his grip on the gun. “It is a shame though-” His pitch-black eyes skimming my face. “To rid the world of such beauty.”

“If that case, you can always let me go,” I breathe, ignoring the rising of my traitorous chest. “Preserve the beauty…so to speak.”

“I do not make messes, I cannot clean up,” he says, an apologetic glimmer in his eyes. “And you are, regretfully, a mess.”

“I-”

My response is interrupted by the ringing of his cellphone. He’s not seriously going to answer his phone, is he?

“ Pronto ,“ he says, lowering the gun as he props the phone against his ear.

Oh, okay. He’s answering. Not like he’s in the middle of attempted murder or anything. He begins pacing, turning away from me. I look around. Of course, nowhere to run. I guess I’ll just stand here and wait for my untimely demise.

What an anticlimactic end to my anticlimactic life.

Several seconds pass by, Mr. Smith’s back still turned to me. His attention focused on whoever he’s barking orders to on the phone. My gaze snaps to the pistol, hanging so precariously off of his index finger. He really is quite cocky, isn’t he?

Maybe I could—

Manifesting the energy of a prima ballerina, I gracefully glide towards Mr. Smith, ensuring that my feet make no noise, that I don’t breathe, that silence surrounds us. When I’m mere inches away, I suck in a sharp breath, latching onto the gun, snatching it from his fingers, his head whipping towards me. But he’s too late.

Holy crap, this thing is heavy. Using both hands, I extend my arms and point the gun at Mr. Smith, a sense of murky pride spreading through my body.

“Let me go,” I state, flexing my muscles so that my arms don’t shake.

I’m in charge now. I have the power.

Mr. Smith sighs. “ I will see you in five minutes, Marchello ,“ he says in Italian. “ I need to solve a little problem first .“ He hangs up, tilting his head to the side as he stalks towards me. What is he doing? Is he crazy? “Kiara

put down the Beretta. It does not suit you.“

I re-grip the pistol. “Seeing as I’m the one with the gun, I’ll be making the demands,” I state, taking a step back as he continues walking towards me. “How do you plan on solving this little problem without the upper hand?”

“Hmm,” he hums, licking his lips, taking three large strides in my direction, forcing me to retreat back further, until my back is hitting the brick wall. “You know Italian?”

“I know a lot of things,” I whisper as his chest meets the tip of the pistol.

Oh God, he’s a lunatic. Does he think I won’t shoot?! I will. I fucking will.

“Is that so?” Mr. Smith chuckles, clicking his tongue. “Do you know what a safety is?”

What?

In the millisecond it takes for my gaze to lower down to the weapon, he’s already snatching the pistol out of my hands, his fingers snaking around my neck, knocking my head back into the wall, his grip restricting airflow, making me choke.

“Such a silly girl,” he whispers, his calloused thumb grazing along my quivering bottom lip, his sweet breath blowing into my mouth. “You never take your eyes off your target.”

“I don’t want to die,” I gasp, his fingers loosening around my throat but not letting go. “Please.”

“You will either die by my hand,” he whispers, caressing my jawline, his body plush against mine, the jagged blocks of the fake bomb pressing into my chest. “Or by the Russians.” He pauses, his charcoal eyes meeting mine. “It is better this way, bella . At least I will not torture you first.”

“Please…” I close my eyes, fighting back tears, defeat washing over me like a tidal wave as my hand grips his, attempting to drag it down. “ Per favore. Ti prego. Non farò niente .“

“It does not bring me joy to end such a young and beautiful life,” he breathes, dropping his hand, taking a solemn breath. “But begging will not help, even if it’s in Italian.”

I clench my teeth together. This is it. There’s nothing else I can do. I’m out of options. Maybe I’m ready. Yes. I’m ready.

I’m ready.

“Just do i—”

Police sirens blare in the distance, my head snapping towards the wonderful sound.

Oh my God. Yes.

Mr. Smith reaches for his cellphone, a frown marring his brows as he reads a message.

“Cazzo!” he fumes, running a hand through his dark thick hair. “It would seem that destiny has other plans for you, Kiara .” He grabs my arm, leading me out of the alley and towards a parked black SUV with tinted windows. The door swings open, revealing two older men in the front seats, both dark-haired and frightening. “Get inside the car.”

“No!” I exclaim, the sirens getting louder by the second. They’re almost here.

“Get in the fucking car,” he commands, pushing me inside and hopping in before slamming the door shut. “Do not scream or I will cut your tongue out before I kill you.”

Waiting for death is exhausting.

“How very Russian of you,” I counter, eliciting a grin from Mr. Smith. Psycho . “I thought you don’t torture people.”

“I adjust very quickly,” he says, turning his attention to the man in the passenger’s seat as the driver pulls out onto the street. “ Did you clean up, Marchello ?“ Mr. Smith asks in Italian.

“ Yes, the manager will erase the tapes and our men will discard the bodies ,“ he replies, his eyes briefly darting to me. “ I am sorry this happened, Milo. We should’ve known what they were doing. I’m so sorry. If you want to kill me, I will accept that fate.“

Milo? What the fuck…

“I do not wish to spill more blood tonight,” Mr. Whoever-the-fuck-he-is says, removing the trench coat, exposing the bomb wrapped around his chest. “ We will deal with the Russians later. I would like to take this off now. “

“ It looks so real .“ Marchello’s eyes widen, examining the various crossed red and blue wires. “ How did you know —“

“He didn’t,” I snap. They’re talking like I’m not even here! “ I told him.“ I face Mr. Smith, whose eyes are glinting with subtle amusement. “And who are you exactly?”

“How did you know?” Marchello asks me warily as I keep my eyes on my annoyingly handsome capture. I have serious issues if I’m fantasizing about a man who’s going to kill me. This can’t be healthy. Oh, God. “That it was fake?”

I sigh, trying to read Mr. Smith’s blank expression as he unclips the explosives vest off his body. I really hope it is fake. “I speak Russian,” I murmur, wincing as Mr. Smith detaches the last wire and flings the vest to the floor. Oh, thank God. Still alive.

For now.

“You do?” Marchello asks, pursing his impressed lips. “And Italian as well?”

“And French and Spanish and German and Arabic,” I mutter absentmindedly, Mr. Smith’s groomed brow quirking up as I list off the languages I’ve learned over the years. “Plus a little Korean. Not a lot though.”

“Who are you?” Marchello asks, narrowing his eyes.

Me?

“You first,” I state, crossing my arms, my gaze dancing between the two Italians. “Who are you, Mr. Smith? I think I deserve to know the name of the man who will eventually put a bullet in my brain, don’t you think? It’s not like the dead can talk. Might as well concede to this tiny request.”

Leaning back into his seat, his eyes study me intently like he’s plotting something. My death, no doubt. With a quick glance at his associate, he reveals in a smooth tone, “Emilio Di Vaio.” He pauses, conjuring up a coy smirk. “But those close to me, call me Milo.”

I blanch, his last name ringing in my head. Oh, fuck no. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

“D- Di Vaio?” I stammer. “As in…”

He smiles, evidently proud of his mafia ties. “Yes, as in Santi Oscuri .”

I nod slowly, realization dawning on me. “And the Russians at the bank…they were…?”

“Bratva,” Milo confirms casually with a shrug. “A particular faction of the brotherhood that is causing quite a headache as you might have noticed.”

“Uh-huh,” I hum. So he wasn’t lying when he said the Russians would kill me. They would probably dismember me if they found out I foiled one of their grand plans. “Well thanks for telling me. At least I’ll die with all the facts.”

Milo glides his fingertips along his lips, cocking his head to the side. “Perhaps there is an alternative solution,” he muses, his amber eyes softened, just a bit. “Instead of death, I am now willing to offer you protection.”

“What?” I ask, frowning at his sudden change in plans. Marchello looks equally confused but he doesn’t question his apparent boss. “Why would you do that?”

“It would be highly beneficial to have someone under my employ with your particular skill set,” he explains. “It is not every day one meets a polyglot.”

I blink. “So you want to use me as your own personal Google translator?”

He smirks. “I want to use you for a lot of things, Kiara, but yes, translating is one of them.”

---

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3. Fickle Like Promises

I want to use you for a lot of things, Kiara.

Things : objects or acts that one need not, cannot, or does not wish to give a specific name to. In Milo’s case, I’m certain it’s the latter. But given his gritty suggestive tone, dilated pupils, and the slight twitching of his upper lip, I can fill in the blanks quite easily, too easily. Subtlety is not this man’s strong suit, evidently, neither is timing.

Not ten minutes ago, he had a pistol pointed at my head, ready to shoot without a second thought and now, he wants things ? The nerve of this man.

I am offended. Thoroughly, wholeheartedly, undeniably offended . Or at least I want to be.

I should be.

I refuse to be as capricious as a criminal yet I can’t help but find my curiosity piqued by the tempting glimmer of pleasurable promise in his garnet eyes.

Mmm .

What kind of things…?

I blink. Dear God. No .

Yanking my disloyal eyes away from his enticing face, I inwardly cringe at my fickle reserve. I will not succumb to his dangerous charms.

I won’t.

“So in exchange for my… skills , you’ll keep me safe?” I ask, refusing to acknowledge his earlier statement. I can analyze his intentions later. There are far more important things at hand right now, like my life. If the only options are to work for him or die, I don’t have much of a choice.

Although, working for the Italian mafia does pose its own set of problems. Santi Oscuri are notorious for their constant… turnovers in staffing, at least according to the various European newspapers my granny’s hoarded over the years.

No one lasts long working for a criminal organization. But I suppose eventual death is better than imminent death. Everyone dies, it’s a given, I just always thought it’d be decades before I was reunited with my whole family. At this moment, I’m not sure which half I’d meet.

“I will ensure that no harm comes to you,” he states with unfaltering confidence. “As long as you are with me, I can guarantee that you will be safe.”

“I would prefer if you didn’t lie to me, Mr. Di Vaio,” I say, skeptical of his overly assured pledge. “There are no guarantees in life.”

“A pessimist, I see.” He lets out an amused hum. “You are far too young to be so cynical, Kiara.”

I scoff. “And you’re far too optimistic for a man who just had a bomb strapped to his chest, fake or not. If you can’t guarantee your own safety, I doubt you can guarantee mine.”

His jaw clenches. I’ve hit a nerve. “You would prefer to die than take my offer then?”

“Of course not,” I state, taken aback by his confusion. “All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep. I will happily accept your protection but I don’t anticipate a long and prosperous life. You can promise me that you’ll try your best but I’m not an idiot. I know how this ends.”

“You are a cynic,” he muses, licking his lips. “We will fix that.”

“I’m a realist, Mr. Di Vaio,” I explain, unbothered by my outlook. “There’s a difference.”

“You may call me Milo,” he smirks, shifting his body towards me, his rapidly changing demeanor giving me a headache.

“You said only those that are close to you call you Milo,” I note. “We just met.”

His large battered hand finds its way to my thigh, his fingers coiling around it slowly, applying minimal pressure as he leans into my ear and whispers, “It seems as though we are very close right now.”

I shut  my eyes and control my breathing, ignoring the fragrant oaky musk of his cologne. Gently placing my hand on top of his, I push it away. “We both know you weren’t talking about proximity, Milo ,” I whisper, leaning away from him, my chest rising.

“I enjoy the way you say my name,” he rasps, his lips curling up into a satisfied grin. “It is like you are scared of me. I will not bite you, Kiara.” He pauses. “Not yet.”

My eyes harden, irritated that he can read me so well already. “If you want something to bite , perhaps you can get a chew toy .”

Milo expels a low laugh, his gaze flickering to Marchello who’s pretending not to listen. “ She is funny, no ?“

“ Yes ,“ Marchello agrees in Italian, like the puppet he is. “ Very funny. “

I roll my eyes.

“ Allora ,“ Milo continues, holding out his hand, inviting me to seal my fate. “Do you accept my offer, Kiara?”

I gaze heavenward, shaking my head, incredulity bouncing between neurons. I can’t believe I’m doing this. He killed two men in front of me today and now I’m supposed to work for him? Yes, they were bad men, horrible probably, but does that make it okay? Is a life less important if it’s corrupt?

If I were a good person, I’d hold steady in my principles; I’d choose death over selling my soul to the devil. But evidently, I’m not a good person. I choose life. Even if that life kills me; perhaps not physically, but morally, which might be even more terrifying.

With a heavy sigh, I extend my arm forward, his hand encircling mine slowly, a ghost of a smile on his face.

“I accept,” I say, the heat from his palm radiating through my body like he’s filling me with the flames of hell.

“Excellent,” he hums with a pompous smile, knowing that he’s marked me, that he’s chained me to a new life, that my very existence rests in his hands. “We will go over further details at my estate.”

“And where is your estate?” I ask, rubbing my hands together, trying to scrub away the invisible filth. “Manchester?”

“In Genova ,” he replies, typing out a message on his cellphone. “We are going to the airport right now.”

I blink. “Right now? We’re going there right now ? B-But I don’t have anything with me! I don’t have my wallet, phone, laptop, kindle, clothes .” I pause, panic setting in. Oh shit. “My locket. I need my granny’s locket, I can’t leave without it.” I tap the driver on the shoulder. “Excuse me, you need to turn around—”

“Please relax,” Milo sighs, as he writes out another text.  “My men have already collected your belongings from the bank-”

“But I need to go home!” I insist, my voice rising. “I need to get-”

“ Shh ,“ he orders, peering up at me from his phone. I begrudgingly snap my mouth shut. “I already have people going to your home to retrieve your requested items. Where is your passport located?”

“In the nightstand by my bed,” I reply, attempting to keep my tone even, relaxed. “My locket is there too. It’s a silver sphere.” I pause, frowning. “Wait, how do you know where I live?”

“Your wallet,” he states casually.

“You went through my wallet ?” I snap, crossing my arms. “Such an invasion of privacy.”

“Get used to it, Kiara,” Milo smirks. “There will be eyes on you all the time now.”

Oh my God. What did I do? Why did this happen? Why did I accept that banking job? Why didn’t I take a later break? Why did he have to choose my till? Why did I tell him about the bomb?

Why?!

“Perhaps you would like a sedative,” Milo suggests, scanning my flustered face. “It will take the edge off. You have had an eventful day.”

“I’m fine,” I breathe, my hands shaking. “I’m fine.”

“You are not,” he states, nodding towards Marchello who passes him a black tin. He slides open the container and picks up a rectangular pill and snaps it in half, holding out a piece. “Take it.”

“No, I’m not going to take random drugs from someone I just met. Are you crazy?” I ask, my eyes chalked full of disbelief. “I’m fine.”

Milo lets out a sigh, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment. “It’s Xanax and it will help you sleep. We have a two-hour drive to the airport and then a two-hour flight to Genova . You should rest, Kiara.” He puts the pill in my hand. “It is pure, I promise.”

I purse my lips, eyeing the opioid warily, my heart thumping with anxiety. “I’m surprised you’re not forcing me to take it,” I muse, flickering my gaze up to Milo’s steady expression.

“I do not force women to do anything,” he states with a shrug. “I have no need.”

“Well, that’s comforting,” I mutter, hesitating for a second before popping the Xanax into my mouth, the sharp edge of the pill scratching my throat. He’s right, I need to relax. “How long does it take to work?”

“It will be quick,” he explains. “Just close your eyes and enjoy.”

And I do.

With the stress of recent events and the potency of the sedative, I drift off to sleep effortlessly.

At first, everything is serene.

Calm.

Quiet.

Light.

But not for long. It never lasts long.

It’s dark now, too dark, thunderous growls echoing all around me; screeching screams, piercing howls of demonic forces surrounding me. The air is thick, heavy, painful to breathe. My feet are bare, my heels digging into shards of obsidian glass, penetrating my skin, cutting through veins, sending spikes of agony through my core.

No, where am I? Help! Help!

Mounds of wasted earth rise all around me like it’s breathing, gasping for air. And then I feel it, the magma oozing through the cracking molten rocks behind me, gushing down my body, burning it. I can’t run. I can’t— My head snaps down to the ashen ground, a decaying hand emerging from the volcanic debris, and another one, and another one, and another one.

Kiara.

Their heads burst out, twisting, turning, inhuman, possessed . They look familiar. So fucking familiar. Ubiytsa, they rasp in unison, their yellow eyes locked on mine as they drag their rotting corpses towards me. No, I’m not. I’m not a murderer. I’m not. I want to scream but no sounds come out. My legs can’t move. I’m stuck. Frozen. Paralyzed with fear.

Kiara .

A hand coils around my ankle and yanks me down, my head slamming against the ground, jagged rocks scratching my back as more hands feast upon my limbs. No. No!

Kiara! Wake up!

I gasp, my body jolting upright, my eyes burning from the rays of sunshine beaming into the room, my forehead drenched in sweat, my breathing ragged, heavy.

It was a dream

“Kiara, are you alright?”

Gripping my chest, my eyes flutter open slowly, cautiously, anxiously . I crane my neck, my blurry vision starting to focus on the man hovering above me.

Oh, it wasn’t a dream.

“Where am I?” I whisper, my throat dry, sore.

“ Genova ,“ Milo explains in a gentle tone. “In your room.”

We’re here? Already? I look around, barely able to register the regal decor, the lavish furniture, the dark aesthetic of my surrounding.

“My room?” I ask, wiping the moisture off my forehead.

“Yes, your room,” he whispers, observing my every movement. “You were screaming, Kiara.”

At least someone heard.

“I had a nightmare,” I explain, propping myself against the headboard. “How did I get here? Why didn’t you wake me up earlier?”

“I tried but you were unresponsive. Perhaps I gave you too much. I will adjust accordingly,” he says, almost apologetically. He pauses before adding, “It’s Friday morning.”

I blink. “What?”

“You slept for eighteen hours,” he elaborates. “I was almost worried you were in a coma.”

“Well, you’re the one who drugged me,” I note, a cough escaping my lungs. “Your fault.”

“Perhaps,” he says, scratching his gruff dark stubble. “You should take a shower now. All the belongings you requested are in the closet, plus some new clothing.” His unreadable gaze sweeps across my body. “I had to guess your size, but I believe that everything should fit.”

“You bought me clothes?” I ask with an unintentional scowl. “I could’ve done that myself.”

“Not me personally,” he smirks. “One of my assistants went shopping. Do not worry, she has great taste. Her name is Luisa, she is here to help you with anything you need.”

“My own lady-in-waiting,” I mutter with a sigh. “How exciting.”

“Go shower, Kiara,” he orders, ignoring my sarcasm as he gestures to the bathroom. “We have many things to discuss.”

“I’m sure we do.”

With a nod, Milo exits my room and I lazily slide out of the king-sized bed, banishing the flashes of my dream from my mind. It wasn’t real. They’re not real. Listlessly, I saunter towards the marble slabbed bathroom, slipping my clothes off with every step until my feet reach the heated tiles of the glass-encased shower.

Hot water spurts down my face, flowing down my breasts, my waist, washing away the emotional dirt that has rendered me lifeless. Scanning the various products stacked against the built-in shelves, I lather my hair and body in lavender-scented suds, the fragrance relaxing, soothing.

Just as I’m rinsing out my hair, a steady flashing of red light draws my attention to the corner of the bathroom, my eyes narrowing with confusion.

Is that…?

Is that a fucking camera?

---

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4. Eyes of the Castle

With a white cotton towel wrapped around my body, I cross my arms, staring up at the security camera in the corner of the bathroom, fuming, utterly dismayed.

This motherfucker.

Thank God the toilet is situated behind a separate door otherwise, I would erupt with humiliation knowing that someone was watching me… go . Milo did say that I should get used to having no privacy but this?

This is unacceptable, improper, intolerable .

Go take a shower, Kiara. Well, now I can see why he was pushing it so hard. What a sick, twisted pervert. I refuse to be a channel that he and his goons can turn on whenever they’re feeling frisky and need a little peep show. I’ve already degraded myself by agreeing to work with the goddamn mafia and I would like to preserve the smidgen of dignity I have left. I wonder how many other cameras are hidden in my room. Does he think I won’t mind? That I won’t protest? That I won’t do something about it?

How naive.

Grinding my teeth, I storm out of the bathroom, scanning the bedroom for a blunt object. As luck would have it, Mr. Di Vaio seems to be a sculpture aficionado so my options are vast. I hope he’s not attached to any of them. On second thought, I hope he is .

Perhaps the marble lion licking his paw? I run my fingers along its smooth white surface, lifting it up. Pure marble. No. Too heavy. I continue looking. Maybe the archangel Gabriel? I shake my head. No, that would be sacrilegious. Granny would be disappointed. My eyes dart to a bronze Hercules with the weight of the earth on his shoulder. Hmm. This seems like it could be quite aerodynamic.

Snatching the metal statue off of the sleek black dresser, I traipse back inside the bathroom, hoping that my hand-eye coordination will not fail me. Maybe the season of baseball my parents signed me up for when I was ten has been ingrained into my muscle memory.

Here’s hoping.

Pursing my lips, I line my feet up with the ogling camera, my fingers coiled around the spherical earth of the statue. Taking a steady step backward, I wind up my arm and fling the bronze Hercules towards the camera, quickly jumping back in case it ricochets. I smile triumphantly as the lens of the camera shatters upon impact, the red light dimming as the statue falls to the ground.

I smirk at my handy work. That’s better. Now I can get ready in peace.

Milo might be a voyeurist but so far he’s not a liar. The outfits Luisa picked out for me are phenomenal, everything designer and nothing under a grand. I’ve always wanted to own couture, feel glamorous with expensive fabric draped over my body, perhaps this is the silver lining. I might no longer have a soul but at least I have Chanel. It could be worse.

Removing an off-the-shoulder chiffon blouse and a black pencil skirt from the velvet hangers, I lay the items on the bed before perching on the upholstered gold stool in front of the rococo vanity table. I barely recognize the woman looking back at me. I’m in Italy, a country I’ve always wanted to visit, yet I don’t feel the joy that’s supposed to come with checking an item off one’s bucket list.

I adjust the flap on the towel hugging my body as I scan the tubes and containers of make-up in the drawers, shocked to find that the BB cream matches my skin tone. Maybe Luisa color swatched me while I was in my Xanax coma.

Granny always told me to find happiness in the little things whenever I was feeling miserable, drained, empty . When your entire life collapses and you lose the most important people in your life, the little things become your life source. The chirping of a bird. The smell of Earl Grey. The warmth of sunshine on your face.

Today, it’s make-up.

Just as I’m about to apply a gorgeous shade of taupe shadow to my eyelids, Milo and three of his henchmen come bursting inside the room, weapons drawn, their eyes hardened, ready for battle.

God, they’re so dramatic.

“Alright, alright, I’ll use the gold eyeshadow,” I joke to myself, letting out a soft laugh as Milo stops in front of me, his expression stern, serious. Unbothered by his tense reserve, I continue to do my make-up. “Is there a problem?”

“Is everything alright?” He narrows his eyes, thoroughly scanning the bedroom as he hovers behind me, gripping his pistol. “We received an alert that a security camera had been tampered with.”

Oh, that’s why they’re here. Oops.

“Yeah, I threw Hercules at it,” I murmur, closing one eye and sweeping the shimmering dust across my lids. “Was I not supposed to do that?”

“You what ?” he seethes, facing the mirror so that I’m looking at his reflection. I take in his unbuttoned white dress shirt, a tuft of chest hair peeking through the collar, two gold chains around this neck. He shakes his head, disbelief bouncing in his dark eyes.

“I… disabled it,” I elaborate with a sweet smile. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Those cameras are connected to sensors on the windows, idiota ,” he fumes, waving his associates away before snapping his gaze back to mine, holstering his gun and running a frustrated hand through his hair. “They are there for your protection .”

“Right, the windows, sure,” I scoff, craning my neck towards him, my body following as I stand up. “They’re pointed directly at the shower. I’m not an idiot , Milo.”

“Do not flatter yourself, Kiara,” he says, his jaw twitching with irritation as he sweeps his lecherous gaze across my spilling breasts. “If I wanted to see you naked, I would. And it most certainly would not be through a screen. “

I bite my lip, tilting my head to the side.

So fucking arrogant .

“Is that what you want, Mister Di Vaio?” I coo, tossing him a coy pout, crossing my arms, inadvertently pushing up my breasts, creating more cleavage for him to leer at. “To see me naked?”

He sucks in a sharp breath, dragging two fingers across his lips. “You are trying to tempt me,” he muses, flicking his strained gaze up to my defiant eyes. “But unlike you, I am an expert in controlling my impulses .”

I swallow, cursing myself for taking us down this road. I’ll simply feign ignorance since he already thinks I’m an idiota .

“Really?” I ask, taking a step away from the man that’s causing my core to ache. “Are you sure you’re not just a little trigger happy?”

He blows air out of his nose, stifling a smile. “Perhaps you wish I were,” he smirks, stalking towards me. “Are you disappointed, Kiara? Hmm?”

I clear my throat, refusing to be rattled by this devilish man. “I don’t want any cameras in the bathroom,” I state. “That is non-negotiable.”

“I find it endearing that you believe you can negotiate with me, gattina ,” he chuckles, a wicked glimmer in his eyes as he lifts his hand up to my face and caresses his thumb slowly along my jaw, outlining my face like he’s painting a masterpiece. “Need I remind you who works for whom?”

“ Kitten ?“ I scoff, fighting the urge to lean into his touch as I swat his hand away. Mind over matter. Always. “I am not a child and don’t wish to be addressed like one, thank you very much.”

He smirks, scratching his chin. “I would argue that destroying thousands of dollars worth of security equipment is very child-like, no?”

I eye the brown leather watch strapped around his wrist, focusing my eyes on the brand. Patek Philippe. Of course. “Well, I would argue that a man who can afford a one hundred thousand dollar watch can afford a little camera, no ?”

His gaze briefly glances to the luxury Swiss watch, his lips twisting up in amusement. “What can I say? I have expensive taste,” he says nonchalantly, narrowing his eyes at me. “But that does not mean your actions go without punishment.”

I blink. “Punishment? What are you going to do? Send me to time-out?”

A frown mars his eyebrows. “I am not sure what this time-out means but I doubt it is the punishment I had in mind,” he says, his voice smoky, taunting, full of deviant insinuation. “This will be your only warning, Kiara. I would recommend that you refrain from destroying any more of my property in the future… unless you’re curious, of course.”

I bite my lip, pushing the minute itch of curiosity out of my mind. “You’re giving me a warning? How very diplomatic of you.”

“I do not give warnings often,” he states, his tone darkening, ominous. “You will soon learn how undiplomatic I can be.”

For the first time since I’ve been catapulted into this world, I find myself scared by the words rolling off Milo’s tongue. There’s a promise in his tone, an undeniable truth that sends a shiver down my spine.

“Understood,” I whisper, the reality of who this man is setting in. This isn’t a good man. A kind man. A man who will forgive. This is a man who kills. Who slaughters. Who has no remorse.

“Kiara,” he breathes in a silk tone, cupping my chin, tilting my head upwards, his expression softened. “I do not mean to frighten you.”

I clench my teeth. “I’m not scared .”

“But you are,” he says, his faintly cruel eyes burrowing into mine. “You need to understand that there are consequences to every action but as long as you listen to me, I will not hurt, neither will anyone else.”

“And if I don’t listen to you?” I ask, my blood thrumming.

“Let’s hope it does not come to that,” he states with an edge before reaching into this pocket and pulling out my grandmother’s locket. “Your necklace.”

I take a deep breath. He sure as hell knows how to segue topics. “Thank you,” I mutter as he dangles it above my palm.

“Would you like me to put it on for you?” Milo asks. “It is very beautiful.”

“No.” I shake my head, a melancholy smile on my face. “I can’t wear it, I’m allergic to silver.”

“Oh,” he hums with a slight frown. “How unfortunate.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, placing the locket on the vanity table. “It’s just a keepsake now.”

“I see,” he says lightly, heading towards the door. “ Allora , you should finish getting dressed, Kiara. Luisa will be here momentarily to escort you to my office. I will see you soon.“ He pauses, cocking his head to the side as I sit back down on the stool. “I have many questions for you.”

I narrow my eyes. “Questions?”

“Yes, I am very curious as to why my private investigator could barely find any information on one Kiara Payne,” he explains, lifting an inquisitive brow. “Who are you?”

I blink. “You did a background check on me?”

“Of course.” He lets out a melodic chuckle, humor bounces in his eyes. “I had to make sure I wasn’t going to be working with a criminal .”

I grin in spite of myself.

“Hilarious,” I say. “Do I get to see your background check?”

“Now that is hilarious,” he states before turning on his heel and exiting my room.

He’s going to make me divulge my history.

Fantastic.

---

Damn, Kiara, so ballsy.

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