MILO

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 taking their seats on the pristine divans.

"Sit," Milo orders, gesturing 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."

Rolling my eyes, I slump into the off-white leather loveseat, placing the brown monogrammed Louis Vuitton 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 murmurs, adjusting 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 narrow my suspicious eyes at Milo. That can't be a coincidence.

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

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

"Really?" I hum, my heart skipping 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?" he asks, a frown marring 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, his eyes bright 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 ask, crossing 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."