Milo's Pov
The nightmare clawed its way through my consciousness, dragging me back to that moment of pure despair. My back, still bearing the phantom pain of those lashes, remembered every brutal strike. Sweat-drenched sheets tangled around my body, a poor substitute for the chains that once bound me.
*Chains.*
The memory burned...raw and unforgiving. My father's voice, a venomous whisper that had carved itself into my soul: "*You are not my son. You're adopted and you'll never be able to take the place of your brother. You'll always be an illegitimate child...*"
I jolted awake, my olive-toned skin glistening with a sheen of perspiration. The luxurious bedroom...a far cry from the cold, dark cell of my past...did little to calm the storm raging within me. My onyx-black hair, longer now, fell across eyes the color of storm-tossed steel...sharp, calculating, holding memories that would break lesser men.
A knock interrupted my thoughts.
"Enter," I commanded, my voice a low, controlled growl that brook no argument.
Marco, my beta, stepped in. Behind him stood a figure I'd recognize anywhere—my brother, Alessandro.
"The Don is here to see you," Marco announced, his muscular frame tensing almost imperceptibly.
Alessandro stood in the doorway, a mirror image of myself—but not quite. Where I was pure predator, he was a calculated weapon. His eyes, a shade lighter than mine—more mercury than steel—swept the room with the same predatory assessment I'd perfected.
"Brother," he said, the word more weapon than greeting.
I leaned back, deliberately casual. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Alessandro's lips curled...not quite a smile, more a demonstration of barely contained violence. "Can't a brother visit?"
The tension between us was a living thing—electric, dangerous. We both knew the stakes. In the hierarchy of our criminal empire, I was first. He was second. A razor-thin margin that meant everything and nothing.
"Interesting timing," I remarked, my fingers drumming a silent rhythm against the armrest. "Father's ghost still haunts us both, doesn't he?"
His jaw tightened...the only sign that my words had struck home. We were twins of a sort...adopted, discarded, fighting for a place in a world that never wanted us. Both nonchalant. Both unfazed. Both deadly.
The door opened again. She walked in.
My wife. A vision in morning light...emerald eyes sharp as broken glass, dark hair cascading like a midnight wave. Her movements were calculated, each step a silent challenge.
I watched Alessandro's gaze lock onto her. Predatory. Interested.
My warning was immediate...not a word, but a look. A promise of extreme violence should he dare.
"And who might this be?" Alessandro's voice was silk over steel.
She met his gaze without flinching. "Aria. Your brother's wife."
"Interesting," he murmured, something dangerous dancing in his eyes.
I interrupted. "Where are you heading so early?"
Aria turned, a smile that was more blade than warmth playing across her lips. "Business," she said, the word loaded with unspoken challenge.
"Business," I repeated, not a question but a demand for more.
Alessandro watched our exchange with a hunter's fascination. The way we circled each other—predator and prey, yet neither fully submitting.
"Always so cryptic," I said to Aria, my tone a perfect blend of frustration and intrigue.
She didn't miss a beat. "Cryptic keeps things interesting, doesn't it?"
Alessandro laughed...a sound devoid of humor, full of recognition. "She's got spirit," he noted to me, his eyes never leaving her.
I said nothing. But my message was clear.
Some territories were not to be touched.
"Seven years," he said, not a question but an observation. "Prison changed you."
I took the glass, my fingers...marked with a thin scar from my last prison fight...wrapped around the crystal. "Changed is a gentle word."
My mind flickered back. Those seven years were not just time. They were a crucible. Survival wasn't just about physical endurance, but maintaining the razor's edge of who I was. Every day was a calculated chess move, every relationship a potential weapon or threat.
Alessandro's mercury-colored eyes darkened. "Speaking of changes," he began, a heavy undertone suggesting a story waiting to be unleashed, "my ex-girlfriend. Sofia."
I raised an eyebrow. Alessandro rarely spoke about personal vulnerabilities.
"She left," he continued, swirling the scotch. "With our son's inheritance. Disappeared with close to three million euros and our child."
The weight of his words hung between us. I understood loss. Abandonment. The brutal betrayal that cuts deeper than any physical wound.
"How old is the boy?" I asked.
"Five now," Alessandro's voice was granite. "Marco's been helping track her. But she's good. Disappeared like a ghost."
I knew that feeling. Ghosts of the past never truly leave. They hover, waiting to strike when you least expect.
"And the child?" I pressed.
A rare vulnerability crossed Alessandro's face. "Marco's been caring for him. In our compound. Safe. Protected."
The irony wasn't lost on me. Our father's abandonment. Now Alessandro facing a similar betrayal.
"Some women," I murmured, thinking of Aria, "are more dangerous than any man."
Alessandro's laugh was sharp. Bitter. "Isn't that the truth."
We fell into a contemplative silence. Two predators. Wounded. Calculating. The scotch burned going down, a welcome distraction from memories that threatened to consume.
"Your wife," Alessandro suddenly said. "She's different."
I said nothing. But my silence spoke volumes.
"Dangerous," he continued. "I can see it in her eyes. Too bad I can't get any of that for myself." He said, adjusting his shirt before he raised his gaze. "But don't be too sure though."
Before I could respond, Marco burst into the room. His face...usually stoic...was ashen.
"Don," he said, addressing me, voice tight with barely controlled panic, "we have a situation."
Alessandro and I exchanged a look. In our world, "a situation" could mean anything from a minor inconvenience to an all-out war.
"Speak," I commanded.
Marco's hand trembled slightly as he handed me a encrypted message. As I read, the room's temperature seemed to drop.
Alessandro cocked his brow in a questioning manner.
I looked up, my storm-grey eye
s now pitch black with something darker than anger.
"Someone knows," I said quietly. "Someone knows everything."