24. Cracking the Surface

Chapter 24

Cracking the Surface

"Hey," I whisper, tapping Milo's shoulder as the SUV pulls up in front of Hotel Di Vaio Milan. "Wake up. We're here."

Milo stirs, slowly sitting upright as he pinches the bridge of his nose. Once he's adjusted to the soft light beaming into the car, he stifles a small yawn, his dreamy gaze flickering around my face.

"Already? I could have slept years if you did not wake me, tesoro."

"Unfortunately, yes." I slide my Kindle into my over-the-shoulder purse as he opens the car door. "Do you feel a little bit better?"

"Much," he says, his tone warmer than the early December sun. He offers me a hand getting out of the vehicle. I roll my shoulders, attempting to loosen the kink in my right blade. He notices. "Are you sore?"

"I mean I did have the weight of your inflated ego resting on my shoulder for two hours," I tease him as Marchello, Gio, and Matteo approach us. "So yes, a little sore. "

He casts me a playful scowl. "You could have woken me up, Kiara."

"I know." I toss him a coy shrug. "But you just looked so... tame ."

He raises an amused brow. "Tame?"

"Ye—"

"Milo," Marchello cuts me off as he stops in front of us. He holds out his phone, tilting the screen away from me as Milo reads a text. Or is it a photo? I can't tell. "We should go call Nico immediately."

"No, you can call by yourself." Milo surprises me by linking his fingers through mine, his thumb idly drawing tiny circles on my wrist. "We have several hours before the fundraiser. I want to take Kiara to the Piazza del Duomo."

"What?" I blink, excitement vibrating my body. I didn't think we'd have time to sightsee. Let alone together . Maybe he's making up for the three days he was MIA. Whatever his reason, I'll take it. "Really?"

"Gio and Matteo will accompany us." Milo nods at our guards. "Not too close, si?"

Marchello's jaw tightens, disapproval flashing across his face. "Milo, this is important. The Duomo can wait until tomorrow."

"It is a phone call, Marchello," Milo sighs, narrowing his eyes at his underboss. "Are you incapable of pressing keys on a pad by yourself? This is quite worrisome if true."

Marchello stiffens. "Of course, I am capable, Milo, however, I am certain Nico would want to talk to you not me ."

"Nico will talk to whoever I tell him to talk to," Milo states, his voice deeper, commanding. "I trust that you can handle this by yourself. If something went wrong on his trip, then call me. If not, I will see you in several hours. "

"But—" Milo glares at Marchello who snaps his mouth shut. "Understood."

"Excellent," Milo murmurs, nodding at the car. "Make sure our luggage gets brought upstairs." He pauses, shooting me a subtle smirk. "Same bedroom."

Define your relationship .

I shake my head, banishing Julia's voice from my mind. When the time is right, we'll talk about it. That time is not now. I just want things to be relatively simple. Even if it's for a few hours. A few hours of normal.

"Right away." Marchello glances at me with a tight-lipped smile. "Enjoy the cathedral, Kiara. It is spectacular."

"I will," I say, crinkling my eyes, attempting to exude a friendly vibe. "Thanks."

" Andiamo ," Milo says as Marchello stomps away, muttering in Italian under his breath. That man needs a hefty dose of serotonin. So fucking grumpy. "This way."

"Are you sure you're not too busy to do this?" I ask hesitantly as we stroll through the streets of Milan, every single building snatching my attention. I will forever be amazed by European architecture. It's awe-inspiring. "Marchello seemed pretty bothered that you left."

Milo chuckles, weaving us through the sparse crowds of tourists. I suppose December isn't the most popular time of the year to visit Italy.

"That is just how he is, Kiara. I've known Marchello since I was born. If he could go without sleep and solely focus on business operations, he would."

"Everyone needs a break every so often," I muse, taking in the quaint cafes, street performers, and the various Christmas market kiosks. "He's going to burn out if he doesn't relax."

"I believe the word relax is not a part of Marchello's vocabulary," Milo says as we cross the street toward the piazza. "He means well but sometimes even I find him to be overbearing."

"Overbearing is one way to put it," I mutter to myself, a wide grin spreading on my face as the Duomo di Milano comes into view. "Wow. It's so big."

Milo tosses me a sly smirk. "I know."

"Cute." I roll my eyes as we stop in front of the largest church in Italy.

The cathedral is a magnificent feat of gothic engineering. The historical stone structure is wrapped in faded pink Candoglia marble, bright stained-glass windows, and vertical towers and vaults. For such a menacing design, with its sharp edges and ridged points, it conveys an airy sense of light, hope, and beauty.

The parallel isn't lost on me.

"Are we going inside?" I bite my lip. "Do we have time?"

"Whatever you want, tesoro," Milo whispers, sweeping a wayward strand of hair out of my face. "But we cannot stay too long. I want to show you something at sunset."

I cast him a suspicious grin. "What?"

"You'll see," he smirks, motioning to my hip. "Gio will hold your purse."

I narrow my eyes. "Why?"

"They check for weapons," he whispers. "I presume you have your pistol."

Right. This is part of my life now.

"Oh shit, that would have been really bad," I murmur, passing my bag to Gio as Milo discreetly hands Matteo his Beretta. Gio sighs, holding my black leather satchel like it's a bomb. I inwardly roll my eyes. Men .

"Ready?" Milo gestures to the cathedral. "Lead the way, Kiara."

I eagerly tug on his hand and drag him to the entrance. I stop in front of the paired door, awing at the bas-relief sculptures depicted on the quatrefoils— the crucifixion, Mary and Jesus, the Annunciation. "Ho-ly shit. This is incredible. I can barely make a sphere out of Play-Doh. "

Milo snorts. "Perhaps it is best to avoid such language once we are inside." He cocks his head to the left. "It is a church, Kiara."

I cringe, glancing at the attendant standing by the door. "Did he hear me?"

"I think you are safe." Milo places his hand on the small of my back as he fishes out two tickets from the pocket of his black peacoat. He hands them to the older gentleman manning the entrance. " Grazie ."

The fact he already had tickets does something utterly annoying to my heart.

It skips a beat.

Shit .

The attendant gives me a careful once over, staring a second too long at my legs.

How inappropriate.

"Go ahead," he says after a moment's hesitation. "Enjoy."

"Did he just check me out?" I ask quietly. "Isn't that against their code or something?"

"No, your skirt was almost too short, tesoro," Milo hums in my ear as we enter the silent cathedral, only the shuffling of footsteps audible. "There is a dress code."

"Oh," I wince. Awkward. "Right."

The interior of this church is almost too much for the human eye to handle. Endless stone carvings, paintings, and golden statues fill every corner. I could spend hours here. Hours. Where do we start? Is there a map?

"Relax, Kiara," Milo chuckles at my overwhelmed expression. He leads us down the geometric tiled floor. "Today I will be your guide."

"Really?" I toss him a skeptical look. "What makes you qualified to give me the tour? I think the audio guide might be more educational."

"I am full of surprises." Milo gestures at a sculpture. "Prepare to be impressed."

And for the next two hours, he does just that. Impresses me. No matter what sculpture or painting I point to, Milo has a story, an explanation, a factoid. Knowledge. I eat up every word that rolls off his smooth tongue, truly stunned that he's so well versed in the history of this iconic cathedral that took six centuries to build. Six . The patience, the dedication, the craftsmanship, it's mind-blowing.

"What about this one?" I ask, pointing to a statue of an extremely chiseled bald man holding a book. "Do you think St. Bartholomew was really that muscular? Or is it like an old-fashioned version of Photoshop?"

I inwardly wince. I hope that question wasn't sacrilegious. I'm genuinely curious as to the accuracy of these depictions. Sorry, Nana.

"I suppose we will never know, tesoro." Milo expels an amused chuckle, checking his watch. "I am afraid we need to leave now; the sun is setting."

I pout. "But we only covered like a third of the church. There's so much more to see."

"We can always return." Milo reaches for my hand. "But right now, we need to go up to the terrazza ."

"Oh, I completely forgot there's rooftop access." He starts us toward the staircase that leads to the terrace on top of the cathedral.

"It has one of the best views of Milano ," Milo notes as we begin climbing the stairs. "My father used to bring me and Julia here every Spring. It was one of his favorite places."

And now it's one of mine.

"Is that how you know so much about the Duomo? From your father?"

"Everything I know is because of my father. He made sure that my sister and I received the best education. Oftentimes he would conduct the lessons himself if he found our tutors to be inept." He lets out a soft laugh. "Which was quite frequently, if I think of it."

"It sounds like you had a really caring father," I muse as we step out onto the terrace. "Not many children are blessed to have such involved parents."

"That is true." Milo smiles down at me. "I was very lucky."

"I was too," I sigh as we stroll by rows upon rows of statues resting on top of ornamental pinnacles. "My parents were wonderful."

"They must have been," Milo whispers as we reach the vantage point. "Come here." He wraps his arms around my waist. A sorbet sunset and an unobstructed view of the city greets us. "What do you think?"

"It's amazing." I relax into his hold and let out a melancholy breath. "I love sunsets. They remind us that even endings can be beautiful."

Milo rests his chin on top of my head, his arms tightening around me as we watch the vibrant colors melt into each other. "My father used to tell us that if we looked hard enough, we could find beauty even in the most peculiar places."

"Your father sounds like an Italian Dumbledore." I crane my neck up and cast Milo a small grin. "Just a little? "

He closes his eyes, a slight rumble in his chest. "I will take that as a compliment."

"As you should," I smile, biting my lip. "My dad wasn't as um... articulate as yours. I think the most poetic piece of advice he ever gave was: roll with the punches unless you got a mean right hook."

"Was your father a fan of boxing?"

"No," I snort. "He was a fan of pretending he was a philosopher. He actually taught philosophy at the local high school. I think it was the closest he could get to being Socrates."

"An admirable aspiration," Milo notes, the sky darkening around us. "What did your mother do for a living?"

A forlorn pang grips my chest. "She was a hospice nurse."

"Hmm… It all makes sense now."

I turn around in his arms, tilting my head to the side. "What makes sense?"

He peers down at me, his eyes softened as he caresses my cheek. "You."

"Oh." I manage a small smile as I lean into his palm, a flurry of comforting warmth spreading through my body. "If only you were that easy to figure out."

"Trust me, tesoro, I am not as complicated as you think."

He arches down, his lips brushing against mine like a tacit promise that he'll let me in. That there's hope. That I should have faith. And I want to believe him. I really do, but a zebra can't change its stripes no matter how strongly it believes it's a horse.

"You are the definition of complicated," I breathe, pulling away, my lips tingling. "That's a fact."

"No, Kiara." He expels a weakened sigh. "That is a hypothesis. "

My gaze flickers across his face, searching for hints of falsity. "So, prove me wrong then."

Even though we're standing inches away, I still feel like we're miles apart. But that can change. He can close the distance. We're so close. Just not close enough.

Milo shuts his eyes, ripples flowing down his neck as he swallows. "We should head back to the hotel now," he says, checking his watch. "A ball awaits."

"Right." I walk past him, not wanting him to see the disappointment plastered all over my face. "We wouldn't want to be late."

The walk back to Hotel Di Vaio Milan is silent, charged with a duality of frustration and satisfaction. Of calmness and fear. Of hesitation and resolution.

Complicated.

Marchello and the rest of our entourage are dressed and drinking by the time we step foot into the suite. Well, they're starting early. What else is new?

"I will get ready out here," Milo says, laying his tuxedo out on the white sofa. "The bedroom is yours."

"I won't be long," I say, tossing him a small smile. "Thirty minutes."

He raises a dubious brow as the other men laugh at my timeline. "I will start the clock."

"Go ahead."

Who am I kidding? Thirty minutes is not enough time but I, for one, stick to my promises.

When I shut the bedroom door, I start a timer and transform myself into a jaded Cinderella. Once my hair and make-up are done, I slip on the red chiffon dress Milo bought for the gala and string on some jewelry.

With two minutes left on the timer, I triumphantly waltz out of the bedroom, the seven men in the living room all giving me a cheeky round of applause. Even Marchello is smiling at me. Must be the alcohol.

"Grazie, grazie," I grin, tossing them an elegant curtsy as Milo walks toward me, his covetous gaze flicking around my ensemble. "You like it?"

"Bellissima," he says, stopping in front of me. "Red is definitely your co—" He pauses, his face blanching as his eyes dart to the ruby stone hanging around my neck. "Where did you get that?"

"This?" I look down at the glimmering gem. "Julia and I were going through some of your mom's jewelry this morn?—"

"Take it off."

Prove me wrong.