18. Torn and Troubled

Chapter 18

Torn and Troubled

Last night, he gave me everything I wanted.

But took everything I had.

Before him, my life was in black and white. It was boring, average, nothing special.

But now it's red.

Just red.

The line between passion, pleasure, pain, and persecution is thin. So fucking thin. It's a dangerous tightrope to walk, and there's no net at the bottom to catch me if I fall; there's only fire, flames, fury.

Fury.

It's stewing inside my stomach as I get dressed. It's coursing through my veins as I apply my cosmetics. It's eating away at my heart as I curl my hair.

It's glowing in my eyes, spreading through my limbs like an out-of-control wildfire; chaotic, destructive, deadly.

But I can't let it kill me. I can't let it win. I made my bed, and I will lay in it. Like a dog, like a flea-infested mutt who has nowhere else to go, no one to go to, no one to care, no one to save me, no one to put out the flames .

I am alone in my rage.

And that's okay. It truly is. I've had years of practice to deal with it. I have learned how to put out the fire, how to tame it, how to dwindle it into a steady burning ember.

How to conceal it. How to hide it from the world.

And in this world, the one I've been thrust into, emotions can cost me my life. A life that I hadn't ever envisioned for myself. A life of guns, drugs, murder, death. But it's mine. The only one I have. And in this life, those things are normal.

Mundane. Acceptable.

And so, I will conceal. I will hide. I will be strong. I won't let them see me falter.

I won't let him see me cry.

Never again.

He made me into a monster. And a monster I shall be. I'm not scared of this life anymore; I've been hazed, initiated, granted access into his wicked underworld.

With the pull of a trigger, I've become one of them.

And despite the fact that everything hurts. Despite the fact that every time I look down at my hands I see blood—I am safe now.

Safer than I've ever been before.

Because this time, I did save him.

I saved Don Emilio of Santi Oscuri . And they owe me. They owe me a lifetime of protection.

And after killing a supposed member of the Russian Mob, that protection is priceless.

Now only if I had protection against Milo the man, not Milo the boss.

And shit, what a man he is.

I can still feel his hot lips dancing across my body, his skilled fingers curling inside of me, and his tongue, his goddamn magical tongue is engraved into my DNA; it's marked me, ruined me for anyone else. He made me feel like a goddess, like Aphrodite on fucking steroids.

But he left me. He fucked me lifeless and then left. A power move, I'm sure. He wanted to show me just how good he could make me feel, give me a little taste of what could be, what I'd be saying yes to if I took the next step.

I'd be lying if I said he didn't convince me. He did. He showed me everything I needed to see. Needed to feel. To experience.

But unfortunately, the simmering rage I feel toward him right now overpowers my carnal desire to fuck his gorgeous brains out.

Hatred.

That's my power move.

That's what will keep me going. That's what will keep me sane, safe, secure, stable .

Time to start my new life.

The life of a murderess.

With one final coat of ruby red lipstick, I make my way downstairs toward the kitchen, the early December sun shining through the mosaic tiles of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

" He's clean ," Marchello says in Italian, his harsh tone bouncing off the walls as I approach the kitchen. I pause outside the archway, pressing my body against the coral wallpaper, my ears on high alert. " Henri swears he had no idea Andre was a foot soldier for Igor. "

So, Andre was working for the Russians. Confirmed. I knew his accent wasn't German. I should've caught on sooner. If I did, none of this would have happened. Andre might still have ended up dead, but it wouldn't have been by my hand.

Idiot.

" And you believe him ?" Milo asks. My teeth clench at the sound of his smoky voice. " How can we be sure?"

Good point. Henri might just be telling them what they want to hear. I wouldn't trust the balding Frenchman either.

" He is not lying, Milo. " Marchello spills a rusty laugh. " No man is that strong. And Henri, he has been faithful to our family for years. I do not doubt his loyalty."

I wince at what Marchello is insinuating. Not that strong? Poor bastard must have spent the night at an Italian black site.

" Very well, " Milo hums. " And what did you do with Andre? Did you ?—"

My heart drops.

" What we always do ," Marchello replies, his tone eerily chipper. " Once we are back in Genova, we can talk more, yes? "

Milo chuckles. " Yes, Marchello, we will talk. "

No. Talk more now. I need to know mor?—

"Kiki!" I grab my chest, startled by the honey-sweet tone of Natalia's greeting as she runs up to me. Her puffy purple dress bounces as she skips. "Goo' morning!"

I clear my throat, putting on a friendly smile. "Good morning, Natalia. How's it going? Pretty dress ."

"I know!" She gives me a twirl. "I want juice."

I blink. "Juice? Um...sure. Let's get some juice."

Natalia squeals, grabs my hand, and drags me into the kitchen. Milo and Marchello's heads snap up at me.

"Kiara." Milo studies me warily as Marchello tosses me a respectful nod before exiting the room. Not even a verbal thanks for saving his boss? Rude . "You're awake."

I swallow away the bubbling bile of loathing and lust that's forming in the back of my throat. "Natalia wants juice," I say, my tone calm, collected as if I'm unaffected by his piercing gaze. "Is she allowed?"

Milo narrows his puzzled eyes at me for a brief second like he was expecting a different greeting. Well, tough luck. This is what you're getting. Self-righteous fucking dick.

Licking his lips, he looks down at his niece who's running around the island. He scoops her up, planting her tiny body on the granite countertop.

"Did your mamma say you can have some juice?" Milo lowers himself to be level with the giggling child.

Natalia nods her head with a cheeky grin. "Mhmm. She did."

Milo hums, pursing his lips. "Are you lying to me, Talia? You should not lie."

I inwardly scoff. Pot meet kettle.

"No! She said I could!" his niece whines as I saunter toward the coffee machine and pour myself an espresso. "Please! I want mango. Mango, mango, mango."

"You want orange juice ?" Milo teases, heading to the fridge. "Okay."

"No!" Natalia exclaims, somehow hopping off the counter and landing on her feet. She aggressively tugs Milo's charcoal grey suit jacket. "Zio! I want mango. Man-go!"

I lean against the counter, gripping the mug between my palms, my expression sour. His carefree and relaxed attitude is irking the living shit out of me. He's acting as if nothing happened. Granted, it could be for the sake of his niece, but still. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath, suffocating the flames within.

Milo grins, pulling a juice box out of the fridge. " Apple ? "

I roll my eyes.

Natalia flaps her arms, stomping her foot. "Mango!" Her shrill voice rings in my ears. Good God, she's got a set of lungs. "I want mango!"

Milo expels a soft laugh, finally giving in to her diva demands and fetching the correct beverage out of the fridge. "Okay, here—" He hands her the juice.

" Grazie mille! " she singsongs, humming a sweet melody under her breath as she prances away.

I envy her.

Her innocence.

When his niece is out of the room, Milo strides toward me, his features hardening as his smoldering eyes latch onto mine.

He's back.

"Did you sleep well?" Milo attempts to read my expression. But he can't. I won't let him. Poker face. I've mastered it in a day. A useful skill in and out of a casino.

"Yes," I say dryly, gripping the mug so tight it might crack.

"Kiara..." He lifts his hand up to my cheek, but I smack it away before he can make contact.

"Don't touch me." I push past him. He won't corner me. Not this time.

Milo turns around, his lip twitching. "You seemed to have no problem with me touching you last night."

His tone is so bitter it changes the flavor of the coffee in my mouth.

"I wasn't myself last night." Not technically a lie. But not technically the truth either. It's a grey area; Milo's apparent area of expertise. "I wouldn't read too much into it if I were you. You were just a means to an end. "

Milo-tonin . It would fly off the fucking shelves.

Milo cocks his head to the side. He's not buying a word I'm saying.

"You are upset." He stalks toward me like a lion. "I understand."

I blink, letting out a scoff. "Do you? Really ? Because that's hard to believe."

"When I gave you the gun, tesoro," his tone softens, "I did not anticipate that you would ever need to use it."

"When are we leaving?"

"Kiara..."

" When are we leaving? "

Milo closes his eyes, the muscles in his neck straining. "Thirty minutes."

"Okay, and where's Julia?"

His chest rises as he stares at me through his veil of dark lashes for a second, before answering, "Packing. She and Paolo are driving to Genova ."

"Driving?" Excellent . "I'm going to go with Julia then."

"No, you will not." He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. "You are coming with me."

"No."

The last thing I want, or need, is to be stuck with Milo in a confined space. I'm either going to kill him or fuck him. Neither option is viable. And the former is far too enticing at this moment. This is for his benefit just as it is for mine.

"Fine," he huffs, pulling out his cell phone. "You may go with Julia."

"Oh, thank you so much." Every sardonic syllable drips with disdain. "I'll see you in Italy."

"Where's Paolo?" I ask Julia as she slides into the back of the black SUV, one of her guards in the driver's seat.

"I told him to go with Milo." She rests her Chanel purse by her side as the car hums to life. "I thought this would be a good time to talk."

"Talk?"

The drive from Monaco to Genoa is two and a half hours. That's a lot of talking. I should've taken the jet.

What is there even to say? Am I supposed to tell her that I regret it? That I wish I didn't shoot Andre? The man was two seconds away from ending Milo's life? Her brother's life.

And do I regret it? I don't know. It's another grey area. If Andre shot Milo, would he have shot me next? Would I also be dead?

I hate what-ifs. They're toxic. They're draining. They're a waste of time. They fuck with your head. They bring out your worst fears. They eat you alive.

And talking doesn't help either.

Nothing helps.

Julia twists her body toward me. She presses a button on the panel built into the middle console and a partition rises between us and the driver.

Oh, God.

Mistake after mistake.

"How are you feeling, cara?" Julia's clinical gaze burrows into mine like she's trying to crack through the barrier of my brain.

"I'm fine." I shift in my seat, fiddling the pages of the book in my lap. "Really, I am. I did what I had to do."

Julia reaches for my hand, applying a gentle squeeze. "You're not fine, cara. I can see it in your eyes. Talk to me. Please. It will help. "

I pull my hand away, crossing my arms. "Are all psychologists this pushy?"

My snippy tone doesn't deter her, doesn't make her frown, doesn't affect her in any way. The deep concern gleaming in her eyes is palpable, but I don't care. I don't want to talk about it. Not to her. Not to anyone.

"With my patients, no I am not. But to my friends? Yes. Always."

I saved her brother. Her affection toward me is inauthentic. It's a result of my evil act.

"We've known each other for a few days, Julia." I look away. "We're not friends."

This hurts her.

And me.

She's silent for a moment before musing, "Time does not determine admiration, Kiara." Her eyes flicker to the Jane Austen novel on my lap. "Sense and Sensibility?"

"An escape." I tap my finger against the paperback book I borrowed from Julia's library a few nights back.

"Have you read it before?"

I tilt my head at her silly question. "Of course."

"Right, so—" A sly smile clips her lips. "Do you remember what Marianne said to Elinor when Willoughby bought her the horse?"

I purse my lips. Oh, she's good. "Yes, I remember."

She casts me a knowing smile. "What did she say?"

I roll my eyes. "That it's not time or opportunity that determine intimacy but disposition."

"And?"

I let out a deep grumble. "And that seven years wouldn't be enough time for some people to get to know each other, and for others, seven days is more than enough."

"Exactly!" Julia claps her hands, her energy almost breaking through my gloomy reserve. "We are the latter, cara. In just a few days, I have learned everything I need to know about you in order to adore you. So yes, we are friends. Aren't we?"

Her tender words prick my heart. Is she right? Do some relationships transcend time?

"I guess," I murmur, extremely hesitant to open myself up to her.

The more you love, the more you hurt. And she might not hurt me now , but one day she will. They all do. Perhaps not from words or actions but from absence. I don't want to grow fond of someone that might not stick around.

"I am not the only one who cares about you, cara," Julia says as if she can read my thoughts. "We are all very grateful that you've come into our lives. Milo?—"

"Stop." I shake my head. No. I can't. "Please."

She frowns. "All I am saying is that you have many friends now, Kiara. And we will be here for you in whatever capacity you need us."

I bite the inside of my cheek, the fire igniting inside my body once again. These people are now my friends ? The ones who take lives? Laugh at the deceased? Commit horrendous crimes? They're my friends?

It's difficult to separate the person from the act. It's hard for me to see the pieces, not just the whole. I hate the whole. It's everything I despise. But the pieces? I'm starting to see the good in the pieces, the tiny flashes of humanity.

I nod, discomfort gnawing at my stomach. "I'm impressed you can quote Jane Austen," I muse, needing a subject change. "Are you a fan?"

Julia smiles. "My father didn't let us watch TV when we were young. Instead, he would read to us every night. "

"Every night?" I ask warily. "Even though he was?—"

Julia takes a deep breath. "He was always a father first. He always made time for us."

Right there.

Flashes of fucking humanity.