Chapter 121: A Burden Gift
"Bring many guards with us," Salvatore was saying, his deep voice carrying through the room. "Joe will come, and Alben will meet us there. I want you to check everything there. The people, who is coming, and everything."
The guards nodded seriously, but as Milo stepped in, their heads turned simultaneously. The moment their eyes landed on Milo’s flushed, nervous face, a collective, subtle grin broke across their expressions.
They looked Milo up and down, making him even more embarrassed.
Milo was sure the news of what Stella had seen in his room had clearly traveled through the household staff.
The guards offered Milo a respectful but highly teasing nod before turning back to Salvatore.
"Understood. We will prepare everything."
Milo swallowed hard, his stomach doing a nervous flip as the guards filed out of the room, their shoulders shaking with silent laughter as they passed him.
He walked carefully toward the chair. He felt his hole was so sore that it made him hard to walk. His thighs were still slightly tender too from the previous night.
Michelle walked into the dining room from the pantry side, carrying a tray loaded with fresh eggs, toasted bread, and coffee.
Her expression was exactly the same as the guards’, a wide, highly amused smirk that she didn’t even attempt to hide as she set the plate down directly in front of Milo.
Milo knew that every single servant and guard in the entire Portello mansion was currently gossiping about his relationship with the Don. His face burned as he picked up his fork, refusing to look up from his eggs.
Salvatore didn’t help the situation either. Instead of maintaining his usual cold, distant demeanor in front of the staff, the man reached across the small space between their chairs.
His large, calloused hand came down firmly over Milo’s wrist, his fingers warm against Milo’s hand, as he guided his hand to secure his grip on the coffee cup.
"Eat everything," Salvatore muttered, his gray eyes locking onto Milo’s flushed face with open, protective care. "You have a long day ahead of you. And remember, I will pick you up for lunch, so don’t eat junk food."
Milo gulped and just nodded.
In the afternoon, Liam backed off when Roderick picked Milo up from the office. He didn’t offer his assistance, as he was really hoping Milo would not take him along with Salvatore.
He was so happy Roderick didn’t say anything to him.
The black car pulled out of the company past eleven, flanked by five more cars full of guards.
Milo sat pressed against the leather seat, his hands folded tightly in his lap, watching the building slowly shrink behind them through the rear window.
Salvatore sat beside him, scrolling through something on his phone, his jaw set in that hard, unreadable line he wore whenever business pressed on him.
He hadn’t said much, only a few clipped instructions to Roderick.
But Milo could feel the weight of his attention even without looking, the way the man’s knee occasionally brushed his, deliberate and grounding.
"Sir," Milo finally said, his voice low.
Salvatore didn’t look up from his phone. "Hm."
"What if I see something and I’m wrong?"
That made him glance over. "Have you ever been wrong?"
Milo chewed the inside of his cheek. "No. Just... What if I get confused, or—"
"You won’t." Salvatore finally set the phone down and turned his body slightly toward Milo, his eyes steady. "Just look at them like you always do. You don’t have to say anything in the room. Just remember their faces. We’ll talk after."
Milo nodded, though his stomach was already tight with nerves. He stared down at his own hands. "How many people will be there?"
"Six. Maybe seven. But there are more for sure outside." Salvatore’s voice dropped, quieter now. "Old men. Cousins of my father, men who’ve known me since I was a child. They worked under Niccolo, my uncle, once, a long time ago. I’m sure they know something about Macron."
"So... you think one of them knows where your cousin is?"
"I know they do. They just tried to hide that bastard from me. It’s impossible for Macron to hide so well without some help."
Milo stayed quiet.
Salvatore looked at him, his hand finding Milo’s knee, settling there with a heavy, warm weight. "I just don’t know which one is lying to my face."
Milo looked up at him. There was something different in Salvatore’s expression just then.
Milo had the sudden, strange urge to reach up and smooth the small crease between the man’s brows. "Sorry."
"Mmm... I’ll look carefully," Milo said quietly. "I promise."
Salvatore’s mouth curved. He didn’t say thank you, but his hand tightened once on Milo’s knee before he let go and looked back out the window.
The meeting was held in a long room above a restaurant Salvatore apparently owned, the windows shuttered against the afternoon sun.
Milo sat just behind and to the side of Salvatore’s chair, as he always did, mostly invisible to the men filing in one by one to shake the man’s hand.
He watched them the way Salvatore had taught him, not staring, just letting his eyes pass over each face for a few seconds, waiting for that cold, sinking feeling in his chest that told him a person’s time was running out.
Most of the men gave him nothing. He was so grateful about that. He was always nervous when he saw people with pale faces.
But then a heavyset man in his fifties sat down near the end of the table, the others called him Lay, clapping him on the shoulder with rough familiarity.
Milo’s gaze caught on his face, and the feeling hit immediately. Lay would die. Soon.
Milo’s fingers curled tightly in his lap. He kept his expression blank, the way he’d practiced, and let his eyes drift to the next man.
Another, leaner, sharper-eyed man, introduced simply as Lula, sat two seats down. The same feeling came.
Two men. Both marked.
Milo’s throat went dry. He glanced toward Salvatore, but the man was deep in low conversation, his face a wall of careful neutrality as he spoke about things that meant nothing to Milo.
He had told Salvatore he would say something after. He had promised.
But looking at Lay’s easy laugh, the way he reached over to refill another man’s glass, and Lula’s quiet, watchful stillness, Milo found the words lodging somewhere behind his teeth, refusing to come out.
His mind wandered. How would both of them die? Accident? Killed? They both looked like nice gentlemen.
When the meeting ended, Salvatore turned to him afterward in the quiet of the hallway and asked simply,
"Anything?"
Milo nodded, but at the same time, Alben and Joe came closer.
Like usual, Alben teased Milo. This time, Salvatore held Milo tightly behind him.
"Come to the mansion tonight. I have something else to do," said Salvatore.
Joe looked serious. "They didn’t say anything. Should I kill them? I’m sure they know something."
Salvatore held him. "Not now. Let’s talk later, and we decide afterward."
Alben looked at Milo and smiled. "See you later, little chicken. Ah, Sal, do you want to bring him to the club?"
Salvatore looked at him. "What?"
"I told you, right? They will do an event this month. It’s tomorrow, by the way. I already booked one for you. Just check your email."
Salvatore sighed. "I’m busy."
"Oh, come on! Milo must be happy to come too. Right?"
Milo looked at Alben confused as the man asked him.
"We will talk again later." Salvatore walked and pulled Milo’s hand to walk beside him.
Roderick was already waiting in the car.
Alben just smiled after making Milo curious.
When they were far from Alben and Joe, Salvatore asked again. "Who?"
"Lula and Lay, if I remember correctly."
Salvatore just nodded quickly. He didn’t look surprised by it.
Milo was surprised the man didn’t ask him more.
That evening, when he returned to the mansion, Milo could feel it, a low, simmering heat crawling under his skin. A heaviness behind his eyes. He felt a headache coming.
He told himself it was exhaustion, or the stress from the whole day.
He picked at his dinner with Salvatore without much appetite, and Salvatore, occupied with a call from Roderick about many things, didn’t seem to notice at first.
It was later, in the bedroom, that everything came apart.
He insisted on coming to the man’s room again. This time, Salvatore didn’t refuse him.
Milo was sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers fumbling clumsily with the buttons of his shirt, when Salvatore came out of the bathroom in just his undershirt and trousers, toweling water from his hands.
"You’re slow tonight," Salvatore said, an idle observation, settling onto the bed beside him.
Milo didn’t answer right away. His head felt thick, his vision swimming faintly at the edges. "Sorry, Sir," he murmured. "I’m just tired."
Salvatore reached over to help with the last button, his knuckles brushing Milo’s collarbone, and stopped.
"You’re burning up."
Milo blinked at him slowly. "I’m fine."
"You’re not." Salvatore’s hand moved to Milo’s forehead, his palm pressing flat against the heated skin, his frown deepening by the second. "What happened? When did you feel it?"
"I don’t know," Milo admitted, his voice thin. "Maybe... in the car. I thought it was just—"
He didn’t get to finish. Salvatore was already up, his voice sharp and commanding as he called for Stella through the phone, ordering someone to bring a thermometer, cold water, anything.
The sudden movement made the room tilt around Milo, and he swayed where he sat until Salvatore’s arm came back to steady him, easing him down against the pillows with gentleness.
"Why didn’t you say something?" Salvatore demanded, kneeling beside the bed now, his hand smoothing back the hair from Milo’s forehead.
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