Chapter 8
Eight
F allon
I stand here, shivering not just from the cold. My gaze is fixed on the floor, but I can feel Leone’s eyes on me, heavy and assessing. He’s quiet, brooding almost, and it sends a tremor through my already battered nerves.
Milo shifts beside me, his presence a strange sort of comfort despite everything. An unspoken tension coils in the room, and I can sense he wants to say something or do something. He holds back. His loyalty to Leone is as unwavering as it is complex.
Finally, Leone’s voice cuts through the silence, crisp and devoid of warmth. “Get her cleaned up.” It’s not a suggestion; it’s an order Milo doesn’t hesitate to follow.
Leone doesn’t wait for a response. He turns on his heel, and the door opens. Then, he slams it with such force I cringe, an involuntary reaction making my heart skip a beat.
I steal a glance at Milo. His stare lingers on the closed door when he finally exhales, a breath he seems to have been holding since Leone spoke. He stares at me, his eyes raking over me where I stand nervously.
“Come on,” he murmurs. Milo’s hand hovers in the air, a silent offering of assistance. His bitten lip and the hesitancy in his eyes mirror my own trepidation. Is this another test? Surely, he doesn’t want my hand when it’s covered in blood.
“You watched me cut Marcel into pieces; blood doesn’t bother me, least of all yours,” Milo tells me. I wonder if he doubts whether I’ll accept the gesture or recoil from it, but eventually, my fingers curl around his. He pulls me closer with a gentle tug, and I follow him out of the basement.
We climb the stairs, leaving behind the chill of the concrete for the unfamiliar warmth of the mansion. I expect him to lead me to the bathroom next to the kitchen. Instead, he takes me to the third floor and to a bedroom I’ve never been in before. Milo’s bedroom. The door creaks open to reveal a room shrouded in shadows, the scant light filtering through heavy curtains casting everything in an ominous hue. It’s stark, almost barren, with minimal traces of a life lived here. Everything is clean and crisp and doesn’t look like it has been lived in. My gaze skims over the tidy bed and the nondescript furniture, however, it’s the array of weapons dominating the room—guns and knives meticulously arranged— that sends a tremor down my spine. His room looks more like an armory than a bedroom.
I don’t linger on them because Milo is guiding me toward the attached bathroom. He starts the shower, and the sound of running water fills the silence. He turns on the shower, steam rising and fogging the mirror. There’s no flinch from Milo at the sight of blood staining my skin, making me wonder how accustomed he must be to such sights. However, after what I witnessed in the basement, I wouldn’t doubt it’s an everyday thing for him if that is anything to go off. His cutting into Marcel made it look effortless, though I know it would be anything but. I’ll never forget the look of horror on his face when Leone grabbed my head and made me watch. Milo wanted to remove the body. Leone wouldn’t let him. Leone wanted to show me exactly what would happen to my father if I betrayed him again.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says, his voice devoid of judgment or disgust as he reaches for the filthy shirt I’m wearing.
The fabric of my shirt peels away from my skin as Milo lifts it over my head, and I place my hand under the stream of water from the shower head, testing its temperature. When I look up, Milo is removing his own clothes.
He nudges me into the shower and reaches for the soap, though I can see he is tense. So am I as we wait for Leone to hunt me down and drag me back to the basement. Yet one thing has constantly played on my mind down there, and that is Dad and Emma. “Is my father…” I begin, the question dangles, incomplete as Milo remains mute, sparing me neither comfort nor despair. His silence makes me wonder if Leone has told him not to answer about my father.
“You ran off with another man,” he states.
I swallow thickly. “It wasn’t like that,” I murmur, reaching for soap. Milo takes it from me and starts washing me.
“Did Marcus know that?” Milo asks, and I blink back tears, knowing Marcus died because I was stupid enough to agree to run with him.
“What was your plan, anyway? Run and pray Leone forgot about you or gave up hunting you?” Milo asks.
“I needed to try.”
Milo shakes his head. “You played us,” Milo states.
“No, I did what anyone else would do. I ran because I never chose this,” I answer, but I am careful with how to word things, knowing the violence he is capable of. Even if not directed at me, I’ve seen how Leone handles his anger, so I have no doubt Milo is the same if set off. Milo doesn’t add anything.
“What about Emma?” I press, needing to know if she’s safe, and Leone at least let her live.
“Emma’s fine,” Milo finally answers. “She’s doing well.”
Relief floods me, albeit briefly, as he pulls me under the water to rinse me off. The water sluices over us, washing away the grime and the gore but not the weight of the unspoken words hang between us. Silence envelops us like a cocoon, a fragile peace which feels like it could be punctured at any second by Leone’s return.
After what feels like an eternity, Milo breaks the spell. Water droplets cascade off him as he steps out, reaching for a towel.
“I’ll find something for you; hopefully, one of the maids has something,” he says, referring to the sanitary products I briefly forgot I still need.
“Thank you,” I whisper, watching him leave. I finish showering and step out. The hot water’s embrace leaves as I step onto the cold tiles, wrapping a fluffy towel around my shivering form. I’m clean, but the room’s chill reawakens the dread which never fully washes away, knowing I’d soon be dragged back to the basement. Milo’s bedroom feels foreign, yet it also has a balcony, which matches Leone’s. It is only slightly smaller and seems darker than Leone’s room. I wander cautiously, my bare feet brushing against the floor, while my eyes scan the dimly lit space.
The starkness of the room is interrupted by scattered weapons—a satchel lies partially open, filled with knives, each handle glinting at me. I reach out, trembling as I grasp one, lifting it from its leather confines. Why would he bring me into this room where I had access to weapons? A morbid curiosity urges me to weigh the knife in my hand. It’s an unsettling thought, while escape is theoretically within reach, reality would cut hope down just as swiftly as any blade here. Knowing it would only lead to my sister being killed and me probably tortured.
Replacing the knife, I move toward the nightstand, drawn by the faint light illuminating the collection of photos arranged there. I pick up a photo framed in simple black, my fingertips tracing the edge of the frame. It’s Milo; he’s holding a baby wrapped tightly in a blanket who is hooked up to numerous wires. His expression is unreadable, caught between joy and something harder. Behind him stands a woman, her back to the camera, her identity obscured.
At first, I wonder if Milo has a child, then I remember him mentioning he can’t have kids.
I set the photo back down, my heart heavy with unspoken questions. Who is the child? And the woman? My hand moves to the gun on the nightstand; it hovers over the sleek, cold metal of the gun. Curiosity overtakes caution, and I gingerly lift it, feeling its weight. As I begin to lower it back to its place, a warmth floods my back, and a shadow looms over me on the wall. The familiar scent of Leone’s cologne invades my senses, unmistakable and intimidating.
I freeze, the gun now a trembling weight in my grasp. My mind races with the potential consequences of this moment. Slowly, I turn my palm up, offering the weapon to him, hoping he didn’t think I was planning to use it. Leone’s strong hand brushes mine as he takes the gun, his touch surprisingly gentle as he places it back on the nightstand. In exchange, he places sanitary products into my still-quivering hand. I don’t dare move, fearing any sudden action might provoke his temper.
The silence stretches taut between us, filled only by the sound of my ragged breaths. Unable to stand the quiet any longer, I muster the courage to ask, “Where’s Milo?” My voice is barely above a whisper, betraying the anxiety knotting my stomach.
“I’m unsure. I didn’t see him on my way up here,” Leone replies, detached. He doesn’t step away. He reaches past me, taking the photo of Milo cradling the baby.
“Milo had a baby?” The question slips out before I can stop it, confusion lining my voice as I recall Milo’s assertion of how he cannot have children.
“No, his Godson, Angelo, my son,” Leone clarifies without looking at me. His voice is a low rumble, devoid of the warmth one might expect from a father speaking of his child.
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,” he says, 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 brother capable 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.
At that moment, any illusions I had about escaping this world were shattered. I am in the presence of a man who has been forged by vengeance and hardened by loss. And somewhere deep down, I understand there is no limit to the depths he would sink for those he considers family, it also makes me wonder about my family.
“That’s why you paid for Emma’s heart, isn’t it?” My voice trembles slightly, and I force the words out, a desperate plea for understanding. “And why you let my father live.” There’s a pause, heavy and laden with unspoken truths.
Leone’s expression doesn’t change; he’s a master at concealing his thoughts. After what seems like an eternity, his lips part, and his voice, a low rumble, breaks the quiet. “Yes,” he admits, the single word carrying the weight of grudging admission. “I couldn’t save my son, but I could save her.”
I absorb the gravity of his confession, the layers of pain and guilt lace every syllable. “I was unable to hate your father for what he did,” Leone continues. “Had our roles been reversed, I would have done the same thing for my son.”
I nod slowly, not because I accept the twisted logic but because I recognize the raw humanity bleeding through the cracks of his hardened exterior, the humanity he tries so hard to hide.
My trembling fingers clutch the edge of the towel wrapped around me, my heart pounding against my ribs as if it’s trying to escape the confines of my chest. The air in Milo’s room grows thick, suffused with tension and the scent of gun oil from the weapons lining the walls like a macabre gallery.
“Is my father alive?” I whisper, hating how small and vulnerable my voice sounds. My gaze is fixed on Leone, searching for any sign that would indicate if he is or isn’t.
His jaw clenches—a subtle movement, one that reveals the storm of emotions he keeps leashed within. For a moment, silence stretches between us, ominous, until he finally speaks.
“Yes, for now.” His words are clipped, edged with a warning that chills me. “As long as he doesn’t get in my way.”
Relief crashes into me with the force of a tidal wave, so potent my knees threaten to buckle. My father is alive—breathing, existing somewhere beyond these walls—a sliver of hope, I’m willing to endure whatever twisted fate lies ahead.
The relief is still washing over me when footsteps echo from the corridor, drawing closer until Milo appears in the doorway. He begins speaking, oblivious to the charged atmosphere he’s entering. “One of the maids has—” He trails off abruptly as his eyes land on Leone, the sentence left unfinished in the air.
The room feels smaller somehow. The presence of these two men suffocates the space.
Milo’s confusion reflects my own.
Milo’s mouth snaps shut, his eyes darting from Leone to the sanitary products clutched in my trembling hands.
“I went to the store; I already got her some,” Leone states, his voice slicing through the static silence hovering around us. Milo holds his gaze for a moment longer. Leone’s attention shifts, the weight of his stare settling on me like a leaden cloak. “She isn’t sleeping here,” he declares, and the finality in his tone brooks no argument.
Milo’s shoulders tense ever so slightly, his eyes narrow slightly, and some emotion I can’t decipher is present in his gaze.
Milo’s mouth opens, the words perched on the edge of his tongue, ready to fly out in my defense—or perhaps his own. But I can’t let him. Not for me.
“It’s fine, Milo, don’t,” I murmur quickly. The protest dies in his throat, and he turns to look at me, confusion etched across his face.
Leone’s stride doesn’t falter as he makes for the door, but his voice booms back to us, echoing off the walls, carrying the weight of command. “I don’t want her in your room; it’s a fucking armory in here. I don’t fancy my throat being cut in my sleep. Bring her back to our room.” He pauses in the doorway, casting a shadow that stretches across the room, enveloping Milo in its darkness. Leone half-turns, his profile sharp against the light from the hall. “Your sympathy for her is becoming a liability, Milo. Remember where your loyalties should lie.”
The words hang heavy between them, a threat wrapped in velvet, soft to the touch and suffocating in its stranglehold. Milo’s face hardens, the muscles in his jaw clenching tight as he gives a curt nod, acknowledging the order without a word.
Leone’s gaze lingers for a fraction longer before he steps out, leaving us in the sudden quiet that feels like a storm’s aftermath. Milo stands motionless, staring at the space where Leone had been for a second when he calls out to Leone.
“Does this mean she is free of the basement?” The air turns thick with anticipation; I can almost feel the weight of his words settling on my shoulders. In that brief moment, my chest tightens, and I hold my breath, waiting for Leone’s answer.
Leone’s back is to us as he pauses in the hall. When he finally speaks, his voice is firm and back to cold.
“For now,” he says without turning, his posture rigid, authoritative. One simple phrase, and a sliver of freedom seems to glimmer, fragile as glass, easily shattered.
Then the hammer falls, Leone’s tone leaving no room for doubt. “She fucks up dinner next week, she won’t see the light of day again.” The finality in his declaration sends a shudder down my spine, rooting me to the spot. The threat hangs in the air, a dark promise coiling around my heart and squeezes.
“Dinner with who?” Milo asks. Leone doesn’t turn, but there’s a shift in the air, a tightening of an invisible noose.
“My mother,” Leone answers.
The words hit me, cold and foreboding. I can almost feel the scrutiny I’ll be under, like a specimen pinned and wriggling under a microscope. I swallow hard, my fingers curling into the towel’s fabric wrapped around me when Leone disappears into his room, where I am expected to sleep tonight.
At least it isn’t the basement.