19. Buried Deep Down

Chapter 19

Buried Deep Down

The piercing chirps of crickets outside the window cut through the ominous silence that surrounds me. I slip on my bathing suit, sighing as I stare at my weathered reflection in the mirror.

I was expecting chaos to erupt once we returned to Italy, but it has been eerily quiet in the villa. It's unnerving. Like the calm before a storm. And a storm must be brewing; there's no way there won't be retaliation for what happened in Monaco.

Absolutely no way.

The phrase ' quia oculo ad oculum ' is carved into the stone archway at the front of the estate; it's the first thing anyone sees when they enter.

It's a warning to all visitors. To all employees. To every single member of the family.

An eye for an eye.

A war is stirring. I can sense it.

I can feel it in my bones.

Thankfully though, whatever sinister scheme is in the works does not require my skill set .

Being left in the dark has allowed me the opportunity to avoid Milo for six days. Six whole days with just three words exchanged between us.

When Julia wasn't whisking me away on sightseeing tours of Liguria, I made myself scarce, invisible, changing my daily routine so Milo couldn't corner me, find me, make me do something I'd regret.

Or enjoy.

Even Gio and Mateo have been giving me space. They haven't been hovering as much as they were before; perhaps because now they know I can take care of myself. That I'm not helpless. That I'm not weak.

That's the silver lining of bagging your first kill; you get clout.

You get left alone.

And just as I think I'm going to make it to day seven in peace, Luisa knocks on my door, a garment bag in hand. A golden clip holds back her ink black hair, a small smile on her slender face.

"Are you going swimming?" She gives me a quick once-over. I cross my arms over the sheer white cover-up that's draped over my body, my black bikini visible through the thin fabric.

"Yes." I grab a navy blue towel off my bed. "Did you need something?"

It's past 10 p.m. which means the indoor pool should be vacant and I can do a few laps undisturbed. I figure if I tire out my body, my brain will follow, and maybe I can finally get some sleep. That has been challenging this week.

A lie.

It's been impossible.

"I was told to bring you this." She unzips the matte black garment bag and reveals a red chiffon floor-length gown.

I roll my eyes. Someone's got a little color fetish.

I run my hand down the delicate material. "What's this for?"

"There is a gala being held in Milano on Friday." She strides over to my closet and hangs up the dress. "You are to attend the event with Milo and my father."

I expel an annoyed sigh. "Why? We're in Italy. He doesn't need a translator."

"I am just the messenger, Kiara." She shrugs, her tone kind, careful. "But I believe there will be many international guests in attendance, perhaps that is why Milo requires your presence."

I purse my lips. "What's the gala for?"

"It's an annual fundraiser for the Italian Blood Service," she explains. "Our family is one of their biggest sponsors."

I stifle a snort. The irony is not lost on me.

"If it's just a fundraiser, I don't see why I'm needed."

Luisa tilts her head. "That is something you may discuss with Milo. I am only here to bring you the dress."

Fuck. My volatile emotions are not her responsibility. She didn't do anything wrong. I shouldn't be so short with her.

"Okay." I clench my teeth and force a smile. "Well, thank you."

Luisa smiles, sucking in a small breath before hesitantly noting, "You have not joined us for dinner all week." She pauses, her discomfort palpable. "You are more than welcome at our table, Kiara."

Julia has tried to rope me into dining with the family, but I can't bring myself to do it. I can't break bread and drink wine with these people .

I can't laugh with them as if I'm not crying inside. As if I'm not broken.

Shattered.

"You eat very late," I reply. "Otherwise, I would."

"This is true." A weak laugh tumbles from her lips. "But if you ever change your mind, there is a seat for you."

I've earned a spot at the table.

I'm one of them.

How nauseating.

"Thanks." I slip on a pair of flip-flops and head to the door. "I'll think about it."

We walk down the first two flights of stairs in awkward silence before she veers off toward another room. She's been sickeningly nice to me this week, gentle with her words, smiling all the time. It's creepy. Off-putting. I seem to have gained her respect.

All of their respect.

With my hand on the iron railing, I round the corner, booming Italian bickering in the distance.

I freeze on the stairs.

" You can't, Milo! " Marchello barks. " We talked about this. Think about the possible consequences. We can't trust ? — "

" What consequences? " A loud thump echoes through the halls. " What is the harm, Marchello? What could possibly happen? "

" You are not thinking rationally! " His baritone voice sends a chill down my spine. " This is a delicate situation! For once we are one step ahead! You cannot do this. "

" I can do whatever I fucking please ," Milo spits. " You are not the head of the family, Marchello. I am. "

" Then start acting like one ," Marchello states. " I am here to make sure you don't make any mistakes. And this, Milo, is a mistake ."

" No, the mistake was listening to you in the first place. " His deep sigh fills my ears. " Fucking hell! "

" It is already done ." Marchello's tone softens. " Everything will be fine. Just give it time. "

" I am not a very patient man . And time has never been a friend to me."

" It is for the best, my boy . I promise. "

I narrow my eyes. What in the fuck are they talking about?

Without context, I'm lost. One step ahead? Time? Mistakes? They have information on the Russians? Maybe? But why are they at odds with each other? Don't they want the same thing? What is going on?

Nothing makes sense.

I grind my teeth, irritation flaring my sinuses. Fuck this. I'm not in the mood to play Nancy Drew.

This isn't my problem. I shouldn't even care.

I descend the last stair, craning my head toward the office, the door ajar.

Shit.

The moment I come into view, Milo's eyes snap up. His hardened gaze skims the length of my body, his eyebrows furrowed, his lips twisted up with a murky kind of sadness.

My chest rises as our eyes lock, the tips of my fingers buzzing with electricity; the voltage so high that I nearly collapse.

I need to leave. I can't look at him. I can't be around him.

As if sensing my desperation, Marchello's head appears at the doorway. His expression sours as he glares at me for a second before slamming the door shut .

I let out a sigh of relief.

Thank you .

The overpowering sensation of nervous energy slowly withers away as I make my way to the indoor pool situated in the west wing of the estate.

The scent of chlorine fills my lungs as I step into the modern-day Roman bathhouse. Warm light from the opulent chandeliers reflects off the crystal-clear teal-hued water.

Tossing the towel on the cream marble tiled floor, I slip the cover-up over my shoulders and drop it by my feet. Dipping my toe into the warm water, I suck in a deep breath and dive in.

Headfirst.

I banish all thoughts, all feelings, all emotions out of my exhausted head as I mindlessly swim laps.

Back and forth. End to end. Swim. Just keep swimming. Focus on the temperature of the water. On form. On speed. On breathing. Nothing else.

Please nothing else.

My arms are weak, tired, almost trembling when I come up for air. My dry eyes burn from the treated water, from the graphic images that flash through my head in my sleep, from all the tears I've shed this past week.

I'm fatigued. So fucking deflated. But I have to keep on swimming.

I have to.

Closing my eyes, I inhale the tepid moist air, my muscles relaxing as my fingers coil around the perimeter of the pool.

I'm fine. Everything is fine.

A door slams.

My eyes spring open and I crane my neck toward the entrance. My knuckles clench, my insides turning as my heart drops into my fucking uterus.

Everything is not fine.

With a towel draped over his shoulder, Milo strides to the edge of the pool. My hedonistic eyes soak in every last inch of his exposed, tanned body; his wide shoulders, the defined shape of his lithe abdomen, his strong thighs, the thick trail of dark hair that leads to his massive taunting bulge. His expression is dangerously reserved as he stops at the fringe of the pool, slowly running his fingers through his tousled hair.

Oh, fuck me.

My nails dig into my palm, his hauntingly dark gaze locking with mine as he cocks his head to the side, studying me like I'm a mythical creature, a Siren in captivity.

"How is the water?" He peers down at me through his lush veil of lashes, his voice deep, steady, gruff.

"Tainted." I push myself off the wall, floating backward. My heart flutters in my chest, my body tense, conflicted .

Space. I need space.

"Kiara..." he rasps, his intense gaze not leaving my face as he enters the pool. He hovers by the shallow end, not letting the water reach his shoulder. "You have been avoiding me for days."

He can't get his wound wet. How unfortunate.

"Take a hint."

With slow, covert movements, I swim backward, pushing myself through the teal water until I'm several meters away from him.

He licks his lips, taking a step closer to me, the water rising over the taut ridges of his pecs. "You cannot ignore me forever."

He's right. I can't. Sooner or later this cycle will have to break. But not now. Maybe by Friday, I'll be better. Maybe by Friday, I'll be calm. I'll heal. I'll recover.

Friday.

"Enjoy your swim." I paddle over to the side of the pool and climb out, my body dripping wet, my hair pasted to my face. I avoid his gaze as I scramble to collect my clothes and wrap a towel around my waist.

"Kiara, please?—"

I don't respond. I don't look at him. I don't acknowledge his desperate plea for communication.

Fuck him.

And fuck me too.

Clouds. I'm surrounded by clouds.

Soft. Smooth. Heavenly .

I feel light, like a feather, like a whisper, like a summer breeze.

It's so warm. So wonderfully comfortable as I float, fly, soar toward a golden gate. It's shiny, beautiful, welcoming.

Bliss.

It's coursing through my veins, it's filling my mind with such joy, such happiness, such serenity.

I'm almost there. Open. Please open.

But it doesn't.

There's a lock on the gate.

I need a key.

Where's my key?

"Check your pocket ."

Pocket?

I look at my white linen dress. Of course. It's in my pocket .

I slip my fingers into the stitched pouch, my heart dropping.

No.

I can't feel it. It's not here. It's no?—

A rough, cold, hard object manifests in my hand.

No. This isn't a key. No.

Please.

My lips quiver as I pull out the pistol, my hand trembling, the clouds dispersing, the gate vanishing, the sun setting.

And I plummet, falling through the sky, screaming, yelling, crying out to the heavens that I'm sorry, that I didn't mean to do it, that I wasn't aiming to kill, that I'm a good person, that I don't deserve this.

I'm a good person.

I'm good.

I am.

I promise.

Please don't.

Don't do this.

I'm so sorry.

Please.

With a thud, I land on dirt, grime, rocks, my body sore, aching, filthy .

It's so cold. It's freezing. Darkness. I can't see.

A spine-chilling growl penetrates my skull, " Welcome home ."

No.

" We've been expecting you ."

No!

I jolt awake, grabbing my chest. My heart hammers, a sheen of sweat covering my entire body, my breathing ragged, frantic. I check the time. 2 a.m .

Not again.

I'm so tired. I'm so tired of this. I just want to sleep. I just want some rest. I want to close my eyes and see nothing.

Taking several deep breaths, my gaze darts to the dresser, to the pistol resting on top of the black cabinet. A foul taste coats my tongue.

I didn't mean to kill him.

I didn't.

I was aiming for his shoulder.

Or maybe his arm. His hand. I don't know. I don't fucking remember. It's a blur. So vague. It happened so fast. One second.

It took a second.

I clench my jaw. This is my fault. I should've trained more. I should've practiced. I should've mastered the pistol before he gave it to me, let me use it, let me slaughter.

I was scared. Shaking. I wasn't thinking. I just pulled the trigger.

Idiot.

Well, never again.

With vengeful determination coursing through my veins, I swing my legs over the bed and slide on a pair of slippers. I grab a satin blue robe and toss it over my nighty, my feet carrying me toward the gun.

Hesitating for a moment, I swallow back the guilt and palm the weapon, pocketing it as I make my way to the range.

I haven't been able to touch the pistol since it happened. It's dirty. It's deadly. But I need to learn how to control it. How to use it. So this never happens again.

I won't let it happen ever again .

He's an idiot. He praised me. He told me that I was skilled. I wasn't. I'm an amateur.

Not for long.

Flicking on the fluorescent lights, I march toward the armory, grabbing a handful of bullets and shoving them in my pocket. I lay the gun down on the side table as I slide on ear protection. My gaze darts to the targets at the far end of the range.

I won't leave until these bullets hit that target in the exact locations that I'm aiming.

I need to get better. If I'm going to carry a gun, then I need to be its master, not the other way around.

I let out a shaky breath, yanking the gun off the table. I release the cylinder and load five rounds of .38 special into the chambers.

I snap it shut.

My knuckles are white around the pistol as I position myself in front of the target, my arms extended.

And I shoot.

Round after round blast through the barrel, every shot increasing my heart rate, every rip through the paper target puncturing a hole through my own reserve.

I load, reload, bullet after bullet. The cathartic experience of releasing my fury fills every corner of my being. Each round strokes the fire in my veins, bubbles the lava lying dormant in my heart, fills my bones with a sizzling inferno of rage, regret, rapture .

"Kiara!"

I fire one more shot, my muscles shaking from the blinding wrath seizing my body.

"Kiara!"

I whip my body around, my chest rising, my breathing erratic as I point the gun at Milo .

"What?" I spit. "Go away!"

Milo grips a manila envelope in his hand as he strides toward me, his eyes hooded, his expression weak, hurt.

"Put down the gun, Kiara. Go to sleep."

My molars nearly crush one another. "Why? Are you scared I'm going to shoot you?" I let out a neurotic laugh. "Because apparently, I can. I have it in me. I can shoot you right now. I could kill you so easily."

"Kiara, please…" The sharp edge of his jaw tightens, his expression so fucking soft. "Talk to me."

I'm on the precipice of losing my mind, of exploding, of detonating. A time bomb. I can hear the ticking in my brain.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

I try to calm myself down, to talk myself off the ledge but then, in a silky tone, four simple words slip out of his idiotic mouth.

"What is wrong, tesoro?"

One.

And I erupt.