9. A Road Diverged

Chapter 9

A Road Diverged

With every step I take climbing aboard Milo's private luxury aircraft, it feels like blood is gushing from the soles of my red-bottomed heels.

How many lives were lost in order to afford such lavish transportation?

My guess is too many. Far too many.

The jet is packed with rich ivory leathers, fine walnut veneers, and stylish marble stonework. Disgust and astonishment battle for supremacy in my mind as I roam through the cabin. Milo, Marchello, our guards, and the others take their seats on the pristine divans.

"Sit." Milo gestures to an empty seat in front of him, a sleek glossy wooden table dividing the two chairs. "You can explore once we are in the air."

I slump into the off-white leather loveseat, placing the brown monogrammed tote bag Luisa purchased for me on the ground. It's too flashy for my liking, I much prefer a handbag that doesn't scream privilege; I'll have to do some shopping in Spain. Prior to leaving the estate, Luisa presented me with an infinite visa card to do with what I please. No limit.

That seems to be a recurring theme with Milo. Nothing is off-limits.

"I would've been able to explore it the first time around if someone didn't drug me," I mutter, gazing out the window as the crew prepares for liftoff.

"It was not intentional." He adjusts the cuffs of his black button-up shirt before fanning open today's edition of Il Corriere Della Sera . The headline reads: Two Unidentified Bodies Found at the Port of Palermo .

I squint suspiciously at Milo. That can't be a coincidence.

"How was your trip to Sicily?" The plane takes off and I grip the armrest, taking a deep breath. Please let there be no turbulence . "Anything interesting happen?"

"No." He keeps his eyes affixed on the daily Italian newspaper, not bothering to look at me. "It was uneventful."

"Really?" My heart skips a beat as the plane ascends into the sky. "You didn't, I don't know, murder two people or anything?"

This grabs his attention.

"What?" A frown mars his groomed brows as he closes the paper, lowering it to his lap.

I point to the front page, tilting my head as I perk up an accusatory brow.

"This?" He lets out a small laugh, looking at me like I'm a clueless child. "Please, Kiara, do not offend me so early in the morning."

I cross my arms. "That wasn't you? Really? "

He places the newspaper on the table, hiking his ankle over his thigh, his black loafers bouncing up and down as he grins .

"If it were me, Kiara, there would be no bodies," he says with twisted humor as he scans the front page again. "And I would certainly not dispose of said bodies in such an unimaginative location. A dock? How amateur."

There's nothing in his tone or posture that indicates he's lying, if anything, he truly is offended by my accusation.

My knowledge of the mafia world is limited to what I've seen on television or read in books, but discretion does seem to be of vital importance to the preservation of criminal organizations.

That being said, my suspicions are still completely warranted.

"Okay, well then how would a professional, such as yourself, dispose of a dead body?" I cross my legs, mirroring his body language. "Give me a mini-Masterclass in the art of— how did you put it before?" I pause, biting my lip. " Clean up. "

"Kiara," he hums with amusement. "A woman should never be burdened with the knowledge of such gruesome matters."

I cock my head to the side. "I thought you said you were a feminist, Mr. Di Vaio? Believe me, I think I can handle it."

"Perhaps." His gaze drifts over to a flight attendant near the galley. He waves two fingers in the air before snapping his focus back to me. "But I would hate to strip you of your innocence. Some things are better left unsaid."

"My innocence?" I blink, an incredulous scoff escaping my lips. "I think that ship sailed when you shot two men right before my eyes, don't you think?"

He sighs, a pensive look on his face. "There is innocence of the eyes and innocence of the soul, Kiara. It is important not to confuse the two. And believe me, there are far worse things to witness than a bullet entering the brain. "

"How very poetic. But everything is connected. Your eyes, heart, mind, soul. It makes one being. What the eyes witness seeps into one's soul. You can't compartmentalize morality, Mr. Di Vaio."

His jaw tenses. "In my line of work, Kiara, it is required."

"Perhaps you should rethink your line of work then." I rest my head against the wall of the plane, my brain buzzing from the vibrations. "It seems like a steep price to pay for eternal damnation."

"Eternal damnation?" He lets out a boisterous laugh, drawing perplexed glances from his associates. "Oh, Kiara, what is it that you think I do? Murder children? I can assure you, in the hierarchy of evil, I'm nowhere near damnation."

"I don't think that's your call to make."

His eyes harden. "Nor is it yours."

I scowl at him, my blood pulsing with irritation. Who does he think he is? Does he expect me to waver on my stance? Accept that murder is just an unfortunate byproduct of his chosen profession?

No. I won't.

There are universally accepted notions of right and wrong.

And he's wrong.

For the next hour, we sit across from each other in silence. He reads the newspaper and I read Dante's Inferno.

Hell.

Based on the headlines of worldwide newspapers and the political and social turmoil across the globe, perhaps Hell is not such a foreign place after all.

Although Mr. Alighieri's prose is quite thought-provoking, it's also emotionally draining. When I reach my daily limit for allegorical narrative, I shove The Divine Comedy back into my purse, opting to switch to a lighter tale, perhaps Cold Comfort Farm — Nana's favorite.

As I attempt to fish out my Kindle, my fingers glide across the pistol at the bottom of my bag. It's unnerving that something so small holds so much destructive power. I pull the gun out of my purse, twisting it in my fingers, examining it carefully.

"I would prefer if you did not point a loaded weapon in my direction when we are thirty thousand feet in the air," Milo says, peering over his newspaper.

I frown. "How do you know it's loaded?"

"A party trick," he smirks, mocking my words as he lowers the paper.

"Hilarious." My frown deepens. "But, seriously, how? I'm curious."

He sighs, clicking his tongue. "I can tell by the way you're holding the gun, Kiara. The tiny muscles in your wrists are a dead giveaway."

"Oh." I twist my wrist around, the gun waving back and forth as I examine how my hand clenches. This doesn't make sense. How can he?—

"Kiara! Put down the fucking gun. This aircraft is not bulletproof. You shoot, we die."

"Don't worry. The safety is on." I roll my eyes, lowering the pistol. He shoots me a dubious look. "Yeah, that's right, I know what a safety is now. Thank you very much."

If only I knew sooner, then maybe I wouldn't be here right now.

He expels a low chuckle. "Still, put it away." He pauses. "When did you load the gun? I don't remember inserting a clip when we left the range."

The range .

I shiver, tracing my fingers along my neck, remembering Milo's strong grip, his touch, the way my insides knotted from his warning, the way every fiber of my being wanted to revolt against it.

"I couldn't sleep last night so I went back. I loaded it before going to bed." I let out a small laugh, banishing all thoughts of Milo's lithe body ravaging mine out of my head. Not today, Satan. "Honestly, it's trickier than it looks. It took me a few tries to figure it out."

"There is a learning curve, that is true." Milo takes a sip of red wine, a faint grin on his face. Why is he smiling? "It will get easier over time."

"I don't know..." I glance at the flight attendant. I could go for a glass of wine. Or ten. It's nice to see that I'm not the only one who drinks before noon. "You make it seem so effortless."

Milo snaps his fingers, catching the immediate attention of the blonde woman. "Another glass of Chianti," he states, silently verifying the order with me. I nod. I guess he's somewhat useful. "You must understand, Kiara, I was taught how to load, take apart, and reassemble a gun before I learned how to ride a bike."

" What ?" I blink at him as a wine glass appears in my hand. "How old were you?"

"Six, I think. It was a long time ago." He shrugs, unbothered. "My father ensured that my siblings and I received the proper training from an early age."

"Wow," I hum, shocked by how casual he sounds, as if children handling firearms is normal.

But maybe in his world, it is.

"Kiara," he says softly, "this was the life I was born into. It is all I have ever known so do not look at me with sympathy. I do not need it."

A child. He was just a child. An innocent, pure soul. How can I not feel sympathy? How can my heart not ache for him? When other kids were going bowling, riding skateboards, he was learning how to shoot. How to kill. How to carry on the legacy of his family's name.

But I get it. I do.

Some things are not up to us. They're above our pay grade.

Our families. Where we're born. When we die.

How we die.

In our sleep. From cancer. Murder.

Black ice on the road.

"I guess we can't choose our fate, right?"

" Do not be afraid; our fate cannot be taken from us; it is a gift ," Milo says in Italian, reciting a portion of a Canto from Dante's Inferno. "We are all given a path to walk, Kiara. Mine is simply different than yours. But our destinations are the same."

"Yeah..." I nod, sipping on my wine, confused yet relieved by his words. The same. Is that possible? "I guess you're right."

Milo takes a deep breath, a gentle smile on his face. "So, with all of that being said, do not feel discouraged with your training, I have twenty-five years of experience. For a novice, you are excelling."

"You're thirty-one?" I calculate his age in my head. "I thought you were younger."

Not by a lot, but I didn't think he was eight years older than me. Maybe five years max.

Okay...maybe four.

"Really?" he smirks. "Thank you."

I roll my eyes, tossing him a sly grin. Such arrogance. "That was not a compliment. "

He lets out a dissatisfied humph. "Tread lightly, Kiara. I can be quite sensitive at times."

I laugh at the absurdity of his statement. "Apologies, I momentarily forgot how fragile a man's ego can be."

He glares at me. "That is the opposite of treading lightly. You are not very obedient, are you?"

I tilt my head. "I can be very obedient, Mr. Di Vaio. Depends on the circumstance."

His lip twitches, his pupils dilating as he lifts up his wine, methodically twirling the red liquid around the curved orifice of the glass. "And what types of circumstances would those be?"

I shrug, casting him a knowing smile, refusing to satisfy his oozing curiosity. "I guess you'll have to find out."

His tongue delicately laves against the sharp edge of the wine glass before he takes a slow sip of Chianti.

"I intend to."

I swallow, sinking my teeth into my bottom lip. "I'd like to see you try."

"In that case—" A puckish grin clips his lips as he lifts up his glass. "To challenging oneself."

"And to knowing one's limitations."