7. A Force of Life

Chapter 7

A Force of Life

Crackling from the tamed fire under the mantel echoes through the library as I turn the page on my Kindle, envy thrumming in my veins.

If only Tolstoy could rewrite my life; there'd be suffering, naturally – it's Tolstoy – but there'd also be hope.

Leo was excellent at writing hope.

" A wound in the soul, coming from the rending of the spiritual body, strange as it may seem, gradually closes like a physical wound. And once a deep wound heals over and the edges seem to have knit, a wound in the soul, like a physical wound, can be healed only by the force of life pushing up from inside ," I murmur, reading out loud as I take a sip of wine.

Sure, it's only 11 a.m. but I'm in Italy. Who's going to judge me?

"A force of life," I repeat, shaking my head, frustration oozing through my pores.

But what if your life is the catalyst of your wounds? What then, Tolstoy? Huh? What happens then? Pierre found solace in love. Is that supposed to heal all too? So, life and love? Those are the only true cures to suffering?

Absurd.

"Kiara, there you are."

I snap my head up, putting the Kindle to sleep as Luisa enters the dimly illuminated library. Out of the twenty rooms, she showed me last night, this is by far my favorite. It's more intimate than the other obnoxiously large spaces in the villa.

Really, who needs three living rooms?

But at least now I have my footing. She was quite thorough in her tour; even going as far as giving me a hand-drawn map in case I get lost. Milo's bedroom, which is situated down the hall from mine, was circled in red.

Now that I think about it, perhaps he drew the map.

"Good morning."

"Indulging so early." She eyes the bottle of Masseto on the table as she takes a step down into the sunken library. "I'll be sure not to tell Milo that you've opened the last of his favorite wine."

"I'm sure he can afford to buy another bottle." I take a sip, the aromatic complexity and tannic structure of the blend whirling around in my mouth. "It's delicious, I can see why it's his favorite."

Luisa casts me a smile, her eyes crinkling from the force. "Yes, it's very exclusive," she says as she approaches the couch. She passes me the copy of The Divine Comedy . "Milo said you left this in his office last night."

"Thank you." I gently wrap my fingers around the first edition. "Was he too busy to give it to me himself?"

"He and my father left for Sicily this morning," she explains, gracefully sitting down on the armchair across from me .

"I thought they were leaving tomorrow?" I frown, placing the book next to me, mildly irked that he didn't inform me of his change in plans. Instantly, I scold myself for caring. He doesn't owe me anything.

"Something urgent came up. It happens a lot."

"Right," I hum, unsure of how to continue this conversation.

Luisa is a stranger, someone I know nothing about, someone I doubt I have anything in common with, except for Milo.

And he's a mystery to me too.

An enigma.

A challenge .

"I've been meaning to thank you, Kiara," Luisa says, her tone solemn.

I squint in confusion. "For what?"

"For saving Milo's life." A pained frown mars on her brows. "He might disagree, but if it weren't for you, he would most likely be dead. He thinks the Russians would have let him go, code of honor and all that shit, but I know they would've killed him as soon as they got their hands on whatever was in that security deposit box."

Does she actually not know it was a USB stick in the box or is she pretending not to know? Either way, her interpretation of the events indicates that Milo might owe me something after all.

"You're welcome," I mutter, wildly curious as to what was on that thumb drive. I hadn't given it a second thought until now. It must have been important. Valuable enough to start a war.

"If we were to lose Milo after Sergio and V—" She freezes, glancing across the shrine of oil paintings hung on the wall behind me. I crane my neck and follow her sightline.

Generations of Di Vaio's, I presume, based on the facial structures, the strong resemblance to Milo, the sense of power and superiority. On my tour, I noticed a few empty spaces on the walls where a portrait must have hung, the paint was brighter, preserved, like it was hidden from the elements behind a frame.

This family loves their art.

"His brother and father?" I keep my tone neutral so as to not sound too nosy. "They passed away recently?"

Luisa stiffens, wary hesitation dancing around her face. "Santino, Milo's father, passed away four years ago." She swallows. "Sergio, his brother, nine months ago."

Nine months. Fresh.

I take a deep breath as I nod, my heart aching with empathy. "I'm sorry for your loss."

I want to ask how they died but I'm already overstepping. The fact that she's divulging this much information is surprising enough. Soon, I'll have the whole picture but for now, I'll settle for bits and pieces.

I add, "Were you close to them?"

"I was. They were family. We are all family."

And I'm not.

It's written all over her face. I don't need to be adept at reading people to pick up on her disdain. It's as clear as the sun is bright.

She doesn't trust me.

Fair.

I don't trust her.

I don't trust anyone.

I only trust facts. And the fact is...I need Milo. And it seems like he needs me too. So unfortunately for Luisa, and I'm assuming the rest of the family , they'll just have to deal with it.

I tried to research as much as I could about Santi Oscuri last night, but my efforts were in vain. There is no concrete evidence of any of their illegal activities, just conjecture, speculations.

The Italian government had tried to arrest them several times but to no avail; key pieces of evidence disappeared, recanted testimonies, missing witnesses.

Shady shit.

In the eyes of the law, Milo really is just a businessman.

But in these walls, he's Don Milo, and his word is final. And if he wants me here, I'll stay here, no matter how uneasy it makes Luisa.

"Well, I'm sure they're in a better place," I say, mimicking her inauthentic sweet smile.

What a ridiculous phrase to say to someone in mourning. Even those who aren't religious use it. It's lost all meaning, all novelty, all genuineness.

It's like saying bless you when someone sneezes, have a good weekend to your coworkers on a Friday, Happy Birthday on a Facebook wall.

It's meaningless. A socially constructed response. A platitude.

But it works.

"They are," Luisa agrees, standing up with a sigh. "Tomorrow we begin your training, yes? I will introduce you to Giovanni and Mateo, your trainers, they will also be your security detail if you ever choose to leave the estate."

I'm allowed to leave? How generous of the Don.

"I look forward to it. "

"Alright, I will see you later." She tilts her head, lips pursed. "Will you be joining us for dinner tonight?"

She'd be a terrible poker player. Atrocious. Why ask if you don't want me to join? Courtesy? An order?

"I'll take it in my room," I reply, relief donning her sharp features as I turn my attention to the book Milo lent me. "But thank you for the invitation."

"No problem. I will have Teresa bring it up to you," she says and walks away.

I glide my fingers along the textured front of The Divine Comedy . I could use a little break from Russian lit. Flipping open the hardcover, my gaze darts to a handwritten note placed against the spine and my lips quirk up into an amused smile.

It's a quote from the poem. I know it well.

"The devil is not as black as he is painted."

Don't fold the pages, Kiara.

–Milo

I expel a soft laugh. I suppose even the devil was once an angel.

" Again !" Gio commands in Italian. He holds out his fists which are wrapped in boxing gloves, a sheen of sweat on his bald head.

The European Mr. Clean is starting to get on my nerves. We've been training for the last five days; I deserve a tiny break.

"Just give me a minute to breathe!" I snap. Snickers from Mateo and the other men sound through the gym .

My audience has gotten progressively larger in the last week. Even though Gio is almost three times my size, I've managed to get him to his knees... once .

When Milo said self-defense training, I didn't think he meant full-on kickboxing lessons. I assumed I'd just learn the basics of how to fend off an attacker, not pummel them to the ground.

I push back the damp baby hairs sticking to my forehead and tighten my ponytail.

" Again, Kiara ." Gio grins as he gets in the guard position. " Until you can't stand ."

"Or until you can't stand." I grind my teeth. "For someone who smokes a pack of Marlboros a day, I'm surprised you're not passed out already!"

He shrugs, tossing me a smirk. "I have good stamina," he says in English. "Years of practice."

I roll my eyes.

"Can we go back to the range?" I ask in a cutesy tone, batting my eyelashes. I've learned I much prefer to handle a firearm rather than use my body to fight. Pulling a trigger doesn't result in nearly as many aches and pains as kickboxing does. " Please ?"

Gio lets out a defeated breath, taking a step closer to me. Perhaps flirting to get my way isn't the most appropriate course of action but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

"One more round." His eyes gleam with heat for a second before his gaze darts over my shoulder and he freezes, the fire dying out, replaced by fear. "Don Milo..."

I whip my body around to find Milo leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed over his black t-shirt, light grey sweatpants hanging off his hips, his dark eyes hardened, glaring at Gio .

"I will take it from here." Milo hefts off the door and flicks two fingers in the air.

The gym empties within seconds, doors slamming as his men clear the room.

Shit.