22. The Burden of Truth

Chapter 22

The Burden of Truth

When it comes to the mafia, Julia believes ignorance is bliss. She set boundaries. She has limits. She doesn't mind being left in the dark. She prefers it. Her Gucci rose-colored glasses are an everyday accessory. She wears them with pride. Ignorance makes this life tolerable for her. And that's okay. That's her choice.

But I am not Julia.

Nana raised me to be curious, to question everything, to never stop learning. For me, ignorance is weakness, knowledge is power, and power is confidence. Confidence to make my own decisions, to come to my own conclusions, to feel secure, to feel safe.

But as I sit down next to Milo on the black velvet couch tucked in the far corner of his office, two daunting letter-sized envelopes laid on the glass coffee table, ignorance doesn't seem so bad.

Unease gnaws on my intestines as Milo grabs one of the folders, his eyebrows drawn together with apprehension.

"After what happened in Monaco, I had several of my private investigators look into Andre," Milo begins. "I wanted concrete evidence that he was indeed affiliated with Igor and the brotherhood."

"And was he?" I keep my expression neutral despite the fact I'm shocked he's divulging information related to the business . "Part of Bratva?"

"Yes," Milo confirms, his tone sour. "He was."

I knew he was, but the solidification of facts is disconcerting. I wonder what's going to happen when his boss finds out. What does that mean? What will happen? Will they come after me? After Milo?

Oh, God.

"And Henri didn't know that one of his men was a spy for the Russians?" I already know the answer but I'd like to hear it from Milo. Is he going to be honest with me?

"No, Henri was not aware of Andre's true intentions when he joined his organization." Milo runs a hand through his black hair, his neck muscles tightening. "Earlier this week we discovered that the man who recommended Andre for the position was bribed by the Russians."

I wince. "Did you kill him?"

His shoulders tense. "No, I did not. I trust Henri to deal with his employees in the proper manner."

So, Henri killed him. Got it.

I flick the tips of my fingernails. "Am I in danger? Did I create more problems for you?"

"As you know, our dispute with the Russians predates what happened in Monaco. It is being taken care of. As long as you are with me, you will be safe."

"Okay." My gaze darts to his hands. Priorities . "So, what's in the envelope?"

Knowledge is power .

"Andre's real name is Andrei Vasilesvsky." His tone is professional, matter of fact, void of emotions. "He is a cousin of Igor Zharkov, the head of the Pravda faction of the brotherhood. He is also—" His jaw clenches.

My heart races. "Also, what? I can handle it, Milo. Just tell me."

Power is confidence.

Milo inhales a small breath, his eyes hooded, dark, uncomfortable as he reveals, "Andre is wanted in Moscow for the rape and murder of three women."

Ignorance is bliss .

"What?" Knots form in my stomach and my face pales. "He?—"

Oh my God. I sat with this man. We played cards together. He flirted with me. He complimented me. He touched me. His deplorable, sick, heinous hands were wrapped around my wrist.

And then I killed him. I murdered a murderer. I took the life of a rapist. I saved Milo. I probably saved myself. These are the facts. These facts should exonerate me of my crime. They should absolve me of my sin. They should justify my actions.

But do they? Do they really?

I am not the judge.

"These are the police reports." Milo flips open the flap, removing a thin stack of documents. He passes me the files. My heart clenches as Andre's vile blue eyes stare up at me from the mug shot. "The details are—" A slight head shake. "Disturbing. I would recommend that you do not read the full report."

Too late.

Milo stays silent as nausea, disgust, and anger course through my veins. My knuckles turn white as I grip the report.

Bound. Gagged. Mutilated. Throats slit open. Their bodies wrapped in garbage bags. Dumped under bridges. The victims were all waitresses. Brunettes. All young women who were just starting their lives. They all had families. Friends. One had a son. A child. This child is motherless now.

Andre was fucked. He was an actual real-life monster. Someone who shouldn't have been given the gift of life.

He was an abomination. An error. A mistake.

My parents weren't religious. We never went to church. Even when I moved in with my grandparents, I never went. But for the last ten years, Nana has preached the word of God. I've listened. I've tried to believe. For her sake. It made her happy. I wanted her to be happy.

Nana told me God doesn't make mistakes, but she was wrong. He does. How could God put this man on earth on purpose? Is He that cruel? Does He not take responsibility for His children? Is it free will? Is it nature versus nurture? If our lives are predestined, then Andre was destined for this ? Destined to be a psychopath? And that was, okay? Acceptable? Part of His plan?

I knew there was evil in the world but to be so close to it...it's harrowing.

"Kiara…" Milo places a comforting hand on my trembling knee, his thumb stroking my skin. He gently removes the documents from rigid fingers. "I think that is enough."

"Why did you show this to me?" I suck in a shaky breath. "To make me feel better about killing him?"

Milo swallows as he sidles closer to me on the couch. His thigh presses against mine, heat radiating off his stiff body. " I told you that there are bad people in our world, Kiara." He drags his thumb under my eyes, wiping away the small puddles of frustrated tears. "Men like Andre do not deserve to breathe."

I study him intently. "No, they don't."

"Kiara?" He tilts his head. "What are you thinking?"

"How many men like Andre do you work with? This type of behavior is probably quite normal in your world."

Our world.

His features harden, offended. "None. We do not tolerate rape in my family. It is non-negotiable."

"It is?" I ask warily. "Really?"

"Yes. Before Santi Oscuri was formed, as retaliation for setting a warehouse on fire—" He falters, his voice hoarse, croaking. "My grandmother, she was?—"

No.

My troubled heart seizes as I cup his clenched fist, grazing his knuckles with my thumb. "It's okay. You don't have to say it. I'm sorry about your grandma."

"I am too." Milo absentmindedly caresses my fingertips, tenderly, delicately, like he's unaware that he's doing it. "When my grandfather became Capo, he amended the code. Every man under my employ is aware of this rule. And they follow it. They must."

"I'm sorry for implying that—" I swallow, guilt eating at me. "That was insensitive. I just assumed that?—"

"It is a normal assumption to make. There are other families who do not abide by our guidelines, but I cannot control those men. I can only control mine."

"Yeah," I whisper, intertwining my fingers through his, creating a web of mutual understanding, respect.

Admiration .

Milo meets my dreary expression. "Kiara, I know this past week has been difficult for you. I am not oblivious to your struggles, but I do hope this new information puts your mind at ease."

My hands tingle from his soft touch. "It does. A little bit, but what about the families of his victims? Don't they deserve justice? It's almost like—" I pause, shaking my head, conflict stewing in my stomach. "It's almost like I did him a favor. By killing him. He should have spent the rest of his life rotting in a Russian prison. He should have suffered. He should've paid for his crimes."

Is that wrong? To wish suffering upon another human being? Even a horrible one? I'm beginning to understand the need for grey areas. I'm beginning to understand Milo.

I just don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

It's quiet for a few minutes, the heaviness of Andre's vicious actions weighing on us.

Both of us.

"Kiara, you di—" he begins to say but stops. "You?—"

"What?" I tilt my head, trying to gauge his emotions. I can't. Sadness? Regret? Pain?

"You di—" Milo curses under his breath, expelling a low, almost inaudible grumble as his expression softens. "You did nothing wrong, Kiara. Remember that."

"I know." I nod slowly, trying to convince myself of the same thing as my gaze drifts to the second envelope on the coffee table. "What's in there?"

"Nothing you need to see."

"Why not?" I pinch my eyebrows together, curiosity piquing as I reach for the envelope. "What is it?"

"No." Milo coils his fingers around my wrist. "Trust me, Kiara. Please. "

What the fuck is in there?

"Fine," I mutter, pretending to lower the file. Once Milo lets go of my arm, I spring up off the couch with the envelope and round the coffee table.

"Fuck sakes!" Milo abruptly stands up, jaw twitching. "Kiara!"

I open the flap and pull out the contents, my eyes widening in terror and revolt as I scan the graphic crime scene photos. "Oh my God!" I drop the folder, covering my mouth, bile creeping up my throat. "I'm going to be sick."

"I told you not to look, Kiara." Milo strides toward me. He picks up the photos off the floor and slides them back into the envelope. "I need you to start trusting me. One day that trust might save your life."

A foul taste lingers in my mouth as the vivid images of cuts, gashes, slashes, and blood flash through my mind. So much fucking blood.

"Trust is earned," I mutter, calming myself down. "I would be an idiot to blindly trust someone that I've only known for a few weeks."

I immediately regret my words.

Hypocrite. I'm a hypocrite. I'm asking him to trust me yet, here I am, unwilling to reciprocate. Trust requires give and take. I want so badly to give. I do. I just don't want to deal with the repercussion of broken trust. Like a shattered plate, once broken, it's forever changed.

"Have I not earned your trust?" Milo frowns, stopping in front of me. "Have I not kept my word? Have I not kept you safe?" He arches down, feathering his lips across my ear. "Have I not fulfilled all of my promises?"

His promises haunt my skin like a ghost. "You have."

"Then you should trust me, tesoro," he whispers, cupping my cheek .

I lean into his palm, my body relaxing, melting from his delicate touch. "Do you trust me?"

"I am trying—" And he is. I can tell. He's shared more with me today than ever before. He's opening up to me. His shield is cracking. Light peeking through. Pulling me out of the dark. "You and I, we are very similar, Kiara. We do not trust easily, we are both guarded, reserved, but in order for us to work together, we must have faith in one another."

Work together? He couldn't have chosen a more confusing phrase. Work together as boss and employee? Or as something more? I'm scared to know the answer. I'm scared that I'll like it.

"Ever since I met you my faith has been shaken, Milo," I breathe, fighting back tears as I grip his blazer. "Everything I've ever been taught to believe is unraveling before my eyes, one tiny thread at a time."

"Then I shall restore it." He rests his forehead against mine, our noses brushing together. "You simply need to trust me."

Knowledge is power.

I inwardly brace myself for destructive impact. "What am I to you?"

He's silent for a beat. The longest ten seconds of my life. I shouldn't have asked. How juvenile.

"I wish I knew." An airy hum flutters across my lips, his hot breath filling my lungs as he laces his fingers through my hair. "I find you to be—" He releases a long exhale. " Enchanting ."

"What does that mea?—"

I'm cut off by his mouth slamming against mine; the softest collision I've ever experienced. His lips have the force of a brick but the touch of a damn cloud, and it's consuming, confusing, and clarifying all at the same time. A dirty trick. A dirty, beautiful, clever approach to put this conversation to rest.

When he pulls away, I'm light-headed, dizzy with delight. "That's not an answer."

"Yes, it is," Milo smirks, reaching for my hand. What the hell does that mean? "Let's go have lunch with Julia. She misses you."

"I saw her two days ago," I note as Milo leads us out of his office. "She's kind of needy, isn't she?"

"Very needy." Milo expels a low chuckle. "My father used to call her an orchid. Very temperamental. Needs constant attention."

I grin. "And what did he call you? A cactus? Prickly and never dies?"

"Hilarious." Milo tosses me an unimpressed scowl as we round the corner and bump into Marchello, whose gaze instantly darts to our intertwined fingers. His lip twitches. "Were you looking for me?"

" Yes ," Marchello grumbles in Italian, clearing his throat. " The sparrow is chirping ."

I narrow my eyes at Milo. "I wouldn't have pegged you for a bird watcher."

Milo's lips stretch out in a forced smile. "I have many hobbies, Kiara." He turns his attention back to his underboss. "I will come after we eat. Take pictures for me, si ?"

Marchello's irritation is palpable. " I think it is better if you come now . The sparrow might fly away. "

Milo's expression hardens. "It will come back."

" We do not have the luxury to wait ." Marchello glances at me for a brief moment. " I am sure Kiara will be fine on her own for a few hours ."

Milo lets out a labored sigh, casting me an apologetic look. "I am sorry. I must go. "

"Oh," I hum as he drops my hand. "That's fine. I'll just eat with Julia."

"I will find you later tonight."

But he doesn't.

Not that night. Nor the one after.

Who knew sparrows were so time-consuming.