35. On the Surface

Chapter 35

On the Surface

Until the water subsides, and the debris is cleared, it is difficult to see the damage caused by a tidal wave. Nana taught me to never make assumptions, she taught me to be logical, rational, calm. It's easier said than done. But I'm trying, I really am.

Although their embrace lasted for only a second before Milo pulled away and ordered everyone inside, I still can't gauge the extent of the damage. He won't look at me. Or her. Or anyone. But I don't need to see his face to know that he's conflicted. It's in his body language, it's in his footsteps, it's in his clenched knuckles. He's struggling, and frankly, I don't blame him. I know exactly how he's feeling. He's relieved. He's angry. He's confused. That's how I felt when I found Andre. Milo blamed himself for her death. But she's here. In the flesh.

Vittoria is alive.

But how? And why? It doesn't make sense. Curiosity is outweighing dread. Faith is outweighing doubt. And my love for Milo is outweighing all the fear thrumming through my veins .

I made my decision and it'll take more than the return of a dead ex-girlfriend to make me leave. I won't let her drown me. Us. Not after everything we've been through. This is just another hurdle. It's taller, longer, wider than the rest but this time, we're stronger, faster, and more capable of making the jump. At least, I hope. I have to believe that. I have to believe that we will survive. There's no other option. None.

The living room is silent as Milo paces back and forth in front of Vittoria who is seated in the center of the couch, a hot cup of tea in her hands. I glance at Marchello, Julia, and Luisa who are scattered around the room. No one dares to make a sound. We're flies on the wall, observing, studying, holding our breaths.

"Milo," Vittoria whispers in a timid tone. "Say something."

Milo's jaw clenches as he stops in front of her. "I thought you were dead. We received a rose, Vittoria, it had your name on it. I thought Pravda took you. I thought?—"

"They did." Vittoria looks down, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "I was at the beach when they took me."

"And yet you are alive," Milo says, the tiniest glimmer of hope in his voice. "Is Sergio alive as well? Is he?—"

"No." Vittoria swallows, unable to look at him. "He is dead."

Milo swallows back reality. "And why are you not dead, Vittoria? Hmm? What did you do? What did you tell them?"

Vittoria snaps her head up, her lips curled into an offended frown. "You think I betrayed you? You think I sold you out?" She lets out a low scoff. "How? What would I tell them, Milo? Your favorite flavor of gelato? Where you buy your shoes?! I know nothing of value. "

Milo runs a frustrated hand through his hair. "Then how is it that you are here? What happened, Vittoria? Explain it to me because I have never heard of anyone surviving Pravda ."

"They were—" She clears her throat, lowering her head. "They were going to kill me but then—" She sniffles. "Igor changed his mind. He said that I was too beautiful to die, so he—" She glances up at Milo, tearing up. "He made me his mistress."

"He what?" Milo spits.

Vittoria dabs the corner of her eye with a napkin. "He brought me to his brothel. He made me do things, Milo."

Earth-shattering guilt flashes across Milo's face. "What kind of things?"

Vittoria lets out a small shaky breath as she goes into further detail. The story slipping out of her mouth is devastating, disgusting, demoralizing. And I feel ill. Nauseous. But the unease stirring in my stomach is not from her words, no, it's from the disconnect between her words and her face.

The frown between her eyebrows is over-exaggerated, the trembling of her lips is theatrical, and her eyes lack any emotion; they're empty, blank, disconnected.

The pain in Milo's voice breaks my heart as he asks, "Why did he let you go, Vittoria?"

"I don't know." She shrugs, taking a sip of tea. "Maybe his wife found out about me? Maybe she wanted to kill me?" She clears her throat. "Igor, he uh—he said he loved me. He fell in love with me. The last thing I remember is going to my room and the next moment, I woke up outside your house. I don't remember how I got here."

On the surface, she looks like she's been through hell; ripped black nylons, smeared mascara, wild unkempt hair, a few streaks of dirt smudged on her face and hands. Yet, examining her with a critical eye, I notice that her manicured nails are spotless, that the rings on her fingers are glistening under the yellow light of the chandelier, that her fur coat is mink. Nana loved mink.

I've spent my whole life studying emotions in order to be able to read people, in order to be one step ahead of liars and cheaters, in order to shield myself from pain and hurt. I've learned that the surface is easy to fake. I've done it. I still do it. But there are some things that cannot be hidden. That cannot be faked. And Vittoria, she's a shiny counterfeit bill.

She's lying. She's fucking lying. But unfortunately, based on Milo's aghast expression, he doesn't see it.

"He is a sick man, Vittoria." Milo's face contorts with disgust. "I am so sorry you had to go through that, I really am."

"But now it is all okay," she says, reaching out to grab Milo's hand. "Now I am home. I am with you."

"Vittoria," Milo whispers, taking a step back and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I?—"

The French doors to the living room swing open as Paolo walks inside. "Milo, we checked the security footage," he says, glancing at Marchello. "It was an unmarked black van, no plates. Nothing. They pushed her out and drove off. We cannot track them."

"Try," Milo says through his teeth. "Tap into the city lines, I do not give a shit. If Pravda is in Genova , I need to know."

"Right away," Paolo says, giving Julia's hand a squeeze before exiting the room.

"Luisa," Milo says, his expression weary. "Please take Vittoria upstairs."

"No, don't leave me," Vittoria whines, pouting. Breathe. Stay calm. I am staying calm. "Do not leave. I don't want to be alone. Milo, please."

"I cannot do that," Milo says, his tone low. "You are free to stay here for as long as you need but?—"

"Milo," Marchello says, taking a step forward. "Take the poor woman upstairs. Look at her, she is scared."

I inwardly roll my eyes, immediately feeling like a piece of shit. I have no evidence that she's lying. I can't prove anything. For all I know, maybe she's telling the truth. And if she is, then I'm a horrible, awful person.

"You can take her," I say, speaking for the first time in what feels like hours. "It's fine, Milo."

Vittoria whips her head toward me, frowning. "Who are you? You are new."

"That is Kiara," Milo says, taking a breath. "She is my?—"

"Friend," Marchello cuts him off, shooting me a hardened look. "She is a friend."

Respect.

"Actually," I say, meeting Milo's gaze. This is not the right time or the right place, but I don't care. I refuse to be a casualty in her destructive wake. "I'm his fiancée."

Marchello's lip twitches but he doesn't say anything.

"What?!" Vittoria grabs her chest, letting out a loud gasp as she looks at Milo. "Your fiancée ? Milo, how could you? Did I mean nothing to you?"

Milo's body tenses. "I think it is time for you to go upstairs, Vittoria. Get some rest."

"Maybe call your sister?" I suggest in a gentle tone. "I know she misses you."

Vittoria's eyes light up with genuine excitement. "My sister? You have spoken to her? When? Where? Is she okay? "

I frown at her. Odd reaction. "In Milan, a few weeks ago. She will be very pleased to hear that you are alive."

Marchello clears his throat. "Perhaps Milo is correct, it is time to rest, Vittoria."

She blinks, averting his gaze. "Fine. I will go."

"I will be in my office," Milo says, pulling out his phone. "If you need me." He looks over his shoulder. "Kiara? Come with me."

I cast Julia a nervous side-eye as I follow Milo out of the living room. Instead of going to his office, Milo leads us into the kitchen. He darts to the liquor cabinet, pouring himself a glass of scotch and downing it. He hangs his head, gripping the edge of the granite counter, letting out a deep sigh.

"Hey…" I come up behind him and rest my cheek on his back, wrapping my arms around his torso. "Are you okay?"

"No," he admits, spinning around. "All this time, she was alive. She was suffering all this time." His jaw tightens. "He was hurting her, he was?—"

"It's not your fault, Milo." I caress his cheek, my heart hurting for him. "It's not your fault."

"I should have looked for her, Kiara. I should've done something." He takes my left hand and grazes his thumb over my fingers. He looks up at me, his eyes hooded, drowning in pain. "Are you saying yes to my proposal because of Vittoria?"

"No," I breathe, tightening my grip around his hand. "I'm saying yes because I love you, Milo." I tilt my head. "I love you."

Milo swallows. "I do not deserve your love, Kiara. I don't deserve anything."

"Stop that. This wasn't your fault, Milo. What happened to Vittoria wasn't your fault. You thought she was dead. How could you have known? "

Milo slumps against the counter, dragging his hand across his face. "If anything were to ever happen to you, Kiara, I would not be able to live with myself. I love you more than the air I breathe, but you were right, I cannot keep you safe, that is a fact."

"Nothing's going to happen to me. And if it does, then so what?"

Milo's eyes spring open. "So what? What do you mean, so what?"

"People die every day, Milo," I say, lacing my fingers through his. "It's the circle of life. No one gets to live forever."

"And what if the same thing that happened to my grandmother and Vittoria, happens to you, Kiara?" Milo says, his tone rising. "There are far worse fates than death. You must see that by now." He shakes his head, turning away from me. "I do not wish to wield your fate, Kiara."

My heart hammers in my chest. "What are you saying? That you don't want to marry me? You don't want to be with me?" I yank on his arm. "Look at me!"

"I can't."

"Yes, you can!" Frustration blurs my vision. "You think that I don't know the hazards that come with being your wife? You think that I haven't thought about that? I have. I've thought about it a lot. And I'm still saying yes. I'm still here. I want to be here."

"I cannot protect you," he whispers. "I cannot keep you safe."

"Oh my God!" I rake my hands through my hair. I'm going to lose it. "What happened to Vittoria is not your fault. It's not—" I let out a manic chuckle. "She's not even telling the truth, Milo! She's fucking lying to you!"

Milo's head snaps toward me. "What? "

"She's lying," I say, flapping my arms. "Everything she's told you is a fucking lie."

"Why would she lie about something like that? For what reason?"

"Oh, I don't know? Sympathy? A shoulder to cry on?" I motion between our two bodies. "This! Us fighting. I can see it in her eyes, Milo, it's written all over her face. She's not telling you the truth, she's not."

"I understand that you are upset, Kiara, but you are out of line."

"And you're blind. How can you not see it? Don't you think it's convenient that she shows up now ? After all this time?"

Milo sighs, pouring himself another drink. "Perhaps it is time for you to leave, Kiara. Save yourself."

"Oh, don't be a fucking martyr, Milo. It's not a good look on you," I sneer, digging my nails into my palm. "I am not leaving."

"Kiara," he breathes in a defeated tone. "Your life would be much easier without me in it."

I expel an incredulous scoff. "Yeah, no shit, Milo! But evidently, I don't want easy, I want complicated and messy and fucking deranged." I pull on his arm, swinging his body around. "I want you ." I grab the collar of his shirt. "And you want me, so just fucking kiss me and give me the goddamn ring. "

Milo blinks, suppressing a grin. "You are quite frightening when angry."

"Then don't provoke me," I state through my teeth. "Listen, I know you must be in shock right now and I'm probably not handling this the proper way, but I love you, Milo and I'm not going anywhere, so you might as well just get over this whole 'I can't keep you safe' shit so we can move on. Okay?!"

"Okay."

"And just because something bad happened to someone else, doesn't mean it's going to happen to—" I pause. "Wait, did you say okay?"

Milo's expression softens as he lets out a small laugh. "You are crazy, Kiara,"' he says, reaching into his pocket. "And for some reason, it makes me love you even more." He holds out the velvet box, opening it with one hand. "Your ring."

" Thanks ." I yank the diamond and slide it on my finger. "Now, was that so hard?"

Milo shakes his head, rubbing his chin as he scans my flustered face. "You're very sexy right now. Perhaps I should anger you more often."

"If you wish to walk around with both of your balls intact, I would advise against that."

"You are ruthless."

"Well, I am marrying into the mafia. I need to start acting the part."

"Fuck." Milo runs a tired hand down his face. "I need to go review the footage Paolo collected."

"Can I help?" I twirl the engagement ring around my finger. "Please."

Milo grins, gesturing to the door. "After you, Mrs. Di Vaio."

I purse my lips, mentally exhausted but physically thriving. "Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"Definitely," Milo agrees with a mischievous smirk as he places his palm on the small of my back.

We exit the kitchen and make our way upstairs. Entering Milo's office, we find Paolo and Marchello sitting on the couch, talking to Vittoria. I clench my fists, attempting to keep my expression neutral.

"I thought you were going to call your sister," I say, scratching my nose with my left hand. Petty, I know. "What happened?"

Paolo and Marchello exchange a look. "Vittoria just told us some very concerning news," Paolo says.

Milo frowns. "What is it?"

"Tell him what you told us," Marchello says.

Vittoria clears her throat. "Two days ago, I overheard Igor talking on the phone," she explains, her gaze darting between the two of us. "He mentioned a mole."

Milo's body stiffens. "A mole?"

"Yes." Vittoria subtly glances up at me, a barely noticeable smirk clipping her conniving lips. "Here. In Santi Oscuri. "

Oh, this fucking bitch.