Page 20 of High Stakes
I nod slowly, a mix of relief and disappointment swirling within me. I’m relieved Milo isn’t hiding his own flesh and blood but disappointed because every new truth seems to weave an even more intricate web in which I’m caught. My eyes drift to another photograph, this one capturing Leone and Milo as teenagers, their youth not quite masking the emerging hardness in their eyes. Besides this, another shows them in their early twenties, the bond between them palpable even through the stillness of the image. “You and Milo seem really close.”
Leone’s gaze follows mine to the photos, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—nostalgia, perhaps, or the ghost of affection when I glance at him over my shoulder. “We are,” he affirms simply.
Goosebumps rise on my arms; here in this room, surrounded by weapons and their memories, I am acutely aware of how outmatched I truly am. With men like these—forged in the fires of loyalty, violence, and loss—I stand little chance of carving out a space for myself, let alone finding freedom. However, it conveys something else: Milo won’t assist me. He may be gentler, but he won’t betray Leone for me.
Leone’s hand rests lightly on the frame as he sets the photo back into place, his fingers lingering for a fraction longer than necessary. I swallow hard, trying to read the inscrutable look on his face. “Milo is closer to me than I am with my family,” hesays, and his voice is a low rumble in the quiet room. He turns to look at me, his gaze intense. “You’d do well to remember that, Fallon.”
I nod, though it feels like a lump of concrete sits in my throat. It’s obvious now more than ever, Milo will never betray Leone for me. The realization tightens around me like a vice. Why? The question bubbles up inside me, unspoken yet screaming in my mind. What has his family done that is so bad he’d choose Milo over them?
To my surprise, Leone answers as if hearing my silent inquiry. “Over the years, I placed Milo in key positions to ensure his safety and control.” His words are matter-of-fact, but they carry the weight of a thousand unvoiced emotions. “This act further alienated him from my own blood, who view Milo as an outsider holding too much power. My father allowed him to live because he realized Milo was a tool he could use to control me with, also someone who would die for me if needed.”
“I don’t understand,” I admit. This isn’t my world; everything feels alien to me. I can’t fathom my own father doing that to me, however, I’ve seen it with his father and Dante.
“Italian families,” he continues, pausing to glance at a blade glinting in the dim light, “are big on family, traditions, and religion. Milo has proved over the years blood means nothing.” There’s a hardness in his voice now.
His eyes lock onto mine with unsettling clarity. “I would wipe out my own family for Milo.” His confession hangs between us, stark and irrevocable.
At that moment, I understood the depth of their bond and the lengths to which Leone would go to protect what he considers his true family. And I wonder where—if anywhere—I fit into this unforgiving hierarchy.
My gaze drifts to the photo in my hand, the edges worn from being handled over the years. “Was it because of Lydia?” I ask,my voice barely above a whisper, and I flinch saying her name, knowing the anger it usually evokes.
Leone’s eyes don’t leave mine, dark and fathomless pools having seen too much. “No,” he says with a cold finality which makes me shudder despite the warmth of the room. “Milo… he nearly died for me.”
A chill runs through me as the words hang heavy in the air. “My brother tried to kill me.”
“Your brother—Dante—he tried to kill you?”
He nods, the action almost imperceptible. “We were never close. Always in competition, our father pitted us against each other.” Leone turns away from me, his gaze fixating on the photo of Milo holding his son. “At first, I didn’t want to believe Dante was capable of trying to kill me or that he was sleeping with Lydia. She was heavily pregnant, and I was set to inherit it all. However, Dante… Dante couldn’t stand it.”
His fists clench at his sides, the muscles in his jaw working as he forces out the next words. “Milo heard Dante on the phone; my father was holding Christmas dinner.” Leone’s eyes flicker back to me, haunted. “He followed him, thinking Dante was using again. Then Dante kept insisting I have a drink with him. I was drunk, celebrating the baby on the way, and I called Milo paranoid when he warned me.”
I can see it now, the memory playing out behind Leone’s eyes—the tension, the suspicion, the ultimate betrayal.
“Milo switched our drinks,” Leone continues. “He took the poisoned glass meant for me.” His voice breaks just slightly. It’s enough to show the crack in his exterior. “My brother blamed Lydia. My father believed him.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “Milo overdosed within the hour.”
“Why drink it though?” I ask.
“No way Dante would have let me take that glass home to test it for one, Milo knew that. I also didn’t believe my brothercapable of trying to kill me. Milo proved otherwise and it almost killed him.” All that just to prove his brother was trying to kill him, I can’t imagine having a friend willing to die for me.
“My father believed Dante, of course, and he is family. My father actually saved him; I was too far wasted. My father already hated Lydia, so it gave him another reason to hate her; he always did. She wasn’t Italian; he even threatened to remove my title over her initially. My mother, of course, loved her because Lydia would enable her.”
“Enable her?” I echo, perplexed.
Leone’s attention snaps back to me. “My mother is an alcoholic,” he admits, a trace of bitterness lacing his tone. “Lydia would get her vino. After Milo’s overdose, my father demanded I get rid of Lydia once my son was born.”
“Is that why you killed her?” The question spills out.
“No, I refused,” Leone says flatly. “And all evidence pointed to her. It was my gear Milo overdosed on. Lydia swore she was sober. Then, a month later, Dante supposedly found her overdosed in the bathroom, needle still in her arm.”
“Your son?” My heart races to hear this, knowing she was pregnant.
“Five days,” Leone whispers. “Angelo lived for five days before his heart failed.” There’s a raw edge to his voice; I can tell the pain of such a loss never truly fades. “Lydia never stopped using. She told me Dante was supplying her. In the end… she killed my son.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. I’m afraid to breathe, move, and break the fragile thread that seems to hold Leone together.
“And Lydia?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
Leone meets my eyes, and in them, I see the cold fury of a man who has lost everything. “I put a bullet in her head,” he says simply.
