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With shaky legs, I stumble towards the bathroom, almost tripping over myself in my haste to wash my mouth when I shove open the door. The throb in my arm is brought to the forefront of my mind when I see the trickle of blood having leaked out from the clear tape having pulled at my skin.
I rinse my mouth quickly, wetting some paper towels, and dab at the gunshot wound that pulses to life now the alcohol no longer numbs and the adrenaline has worn off when the door opens. My eyes go Milo’s in the mirror. He holds my gaze for a moment while I clutch the sink basin with both hands.
“Let me guess, you’re here to punish me too?” I ask him, and his gaze softens slightly.
“No, tesoro. I’m taking you home,” he murmurs before holding his hand out to me. I suck in a breath, turning to face Milo, placing my hand in his. He jerks me to him, crushing me against his chest while his lips find my hair. “Let’s get you home,” he whispers, and I nod, leaning into him as shame washes over me.
THIRTY-TWO
FALLON
The car ride home is silent, tension thick in the air surrounding us. The dome lighting casts shadows on his face as we drive, making him look almost as sinister as Leone who sits in the passenger seat.
The roar of Leone’s matte black Maserati cuts through the silence of the night as we pull into the driveway, the sprawling mansion looming like a mausoleum under the moonlight. I can’t help but replay every moment that led us here because one thing I am starting to realize with Leone is, his calm silence is deadly, and I hate the way my skin itches at the change.
Milo kills the engine and the sudden quiet feels heavy, suffocating. He doesn’t look at me as he exits the car, his movements tight and controlled. I watch him walk ahead, disappearing into the shadows of the courtyard and up the staircase. There’s a coldness there, a detachment that chills me more than the night air. He just walked off without even a glance back, leaving me with Leone.
“Out,” Leone commands, his voice a low rumble from the driver’s seat. He stares straight ahead, not even bothering to look back. I obey, my legs unsteady as I step onto the cobblestones. Leone climbs out of the car, and I glance at him, but he just stares at the steps leading in, doesn’t say a word, just expects me to start walking.
We climb the steps together, Leone’s presence behind me oppressive. The grand double doors swing open, and the familiar scent of expensive wood polish and underlying tension greets me. It’s the smell of home, one I am growing strangely comfortable with.
“Leone, I—” I start, but the sharp slice of his voice through the air cuts off my words.
“Save it, Fallon,” he growls, pushing past me to lead the way.
The foyer is dark, the only light spilling from the chandelier above. Walking through the silent mansion, it’s almost like the staff sensed his return and his mood, scattered like ants during a storm. Pushing the bedroom door open, Milo unbuttons his shirt. He glances our way but then drops his gaze back to his buttons like he knows better than to interfere with Leone’s “way” of handling me.
“Go clean up. We’ll talk after,” Leone says, not a request but a command. I nod, an involuntary response that seems to be drilled into me deeper and deeper each time.
He turns then moves toward the balcony of our bedroom—our being a term used loosely—and Milo follows without a word. I’m left alone, my heart threatening to burst through my chest, the taste of dread bitter on my tongue.
I chew my lip watching Milo slip out the door, and I suddenly want to run from the room which has me glancing at the wide-open door behind me. I shake off the thought, knowing they would catch me easily. Chewing my lip nervously, I move toward the door and shut it, flicking the lock in place and my stomach sinks, knowing by doing so, I am locked in the room with them.
Turning back around, I see Leone is leaning against the balcony door watching me, and I drop my gaze and rush to the bathroom, shutting the door, hoping they don’t come busting in here. I’m acutely aware of that possibility when I remember Sienna’s parting gift. My fingers tremble as they fish out the small white pill from the foil.
I throw the pill back, the bitter taste lingering on my tongue as if it knows the deceit it carries with it. I slip the remaining pills into a crevice behind the mirror—concealed yet accessible.
“Fallon?” Milo’s voice slices through the silence, and I know my moment of solitude has expired.
“Give me a minute,” I call back, my voice steady despite the blood pounding in my ears.
I peel off the dress I wore tonight—a slinky, red number that clings to every curve, but as it hits the floor, a small slip of paper flutters out, landing at my feet like an omen.
It lands with a taunting flutter on the tile floor, my breath catches. Marcus’s number stares up at me just as Milo enters the bathroom. My breath catches, having forgotten it.
“Whose is this?” The question comes sharp and heavy from Milo, who stands at the doorway, his shirt already discarded, revealing tattoos and taut muscles.
My mind races, panic clawing at my throat. “It’s nothing,” I lie, reaching for the paper.
“Nothing doesn’t get hidden in your bra, Fallon.” His tone is a warning, dark and dangerous. “Don’t play games with me. Whose number is it!”
I make a move for the paper, but Milo is quicker. He plucks it from the floor, his gaze never leaving mine. My heart races, my mind whirring with possible escapes, but my body betrays me, frozen under his scrutiny. “I’m not playing games, Milo. You are.”
“Am I?” He steps closer, the paper crumpled in his fist. The heat of his body is a stark contrast to the cold tiles beneath my bare feet. “Leone won’t be pleased about you having someone’s number and refusing to say whose.”
“Leone doesn’t need to know everything,” I retort, reaching for the paper again. But Milo’s hand shoots out, snagging my wrist with an iron grip.
“Everything that concerns you concerns him,” Milo says, his breath hot against my cheek. “And it concerns me.”
