Chapter 140: The Coming Storm
Milo’s arms gave out on the fifteenth push-up, his whole body collapsing flat onto the floor with a groan that made half the guards laugh under their breath. He used to do this every morning, when Salvatore’s men trained him alongside their own routines.
His body could still handle a hundred push-ups without complaint before. But it had been weeks now. Weeks since he’d trained like this, and his muscles had gone soft and unused. On top of that, his body was still recovering from everything Salvatore had done to him only an hour ago.
His arms shook violently as he tried to push himself up one more time, and his hole throbbed with a deep, radiating ache that made him wince every time his hips shifted.
Everything hurt. His shoulders, his back, his thighs, and worst of all, low in his body where Salvatore had claimed him so thoroughly.
Around him, the guards finished their set and stood up one by one, wiping sweat from their foreheads and glancing over at Milo’s trembling form, still stuck in the push-up position.
Roderick crossed his arms, watching with a mix of pity and barely contained amusement, while Joe barely spared him a glance, his mind clearly elsewhere.
Salvatore turned toward his men now, all business, his earlier smirk gone completely.
"Lionard must know something," he said, his voice cutting through the room with authority. "Take him to me tonight. Whatever happens."
Joe’s breathing was still fast, more from anger than exertion. "Damn you. I’ve told you they’re terrorizing me. Lionard, that stupid bitch, knows nothing."
"I’m sure he knows something," Salvatore said, unmoved by Joe’s outburst. "Tonight they will smuggle people here, right? It’s only Macron who has access to it and can order them around. Put your people on getting more information."
Joe let out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Well. Will you come with me?"
"Yes," Salvatore said. "I sense something odd about this." He glanced back toward Milo, still struggling on the floor. "Go to the kitchen. I need to see this boy finish his push-up."
Joe gave a short nod and turned to the rest of the guards.
"Everyone, get your ass out of here," he ordered, waving them toward the kitchen and out of the living room.
The guards filed out one by one, some of them shooting Milo sympathetic looks as they passed, others just shaking their heads.
Milo, still stuck in his half push-up position, felt a wave of regret wash over him. He should have just stayed in the room.
He should have let Teo bring him food later. Now his whole body felt like it was on fire, and worse, Salvatore was watching him struggle with that infuriatingly calm expression on his face.
Once the room emptied and it was just the two of them, Salvatore walked over and crouched down, stopping Milo mid-motion.
He gathered Milo gently and guided him to the nearby sofa, settling him down against the cushions.
"My poor boy," Salvatore said, a teasing edge in his voice. "Dying?"
Milo could barely catch his breath.
"Sirrr...!" he gasped, the single word carrying every ounce of exhaustion in his body.
Salvatore chuckled and pulled Milo onto his lap instead, settling the young man against his chest.
"You can stop," he said, reaching up to wipe the sweat from Milo’s flushed face with the pad of his thumb.
Milo shifted, trying to find a comfortable position, but everything about sitting felt wrong right now. He winced, adjusting again, his face twisting slightly.
"Painful?" Salvatore asked, watching him closely.
"Yes," Milo admitted, his voice small. "My hole hurts."
Salvatore raised an eyebrow, though there was no real surprise in it, only a faint satisfaction he didn’t bother hiding.
"Why did you come down?"
"I’m hungry," Milo said, pouting slightly.
"We just had lunch," Salvatore pointed out.
"I lost a lot of energy," Milo said, giving him a pointed look, as if the reason should have been obvious.
Salvatore laughed then, a real laugh, low and warm, the sound rumbling through his chest where Milo’s head rested against it. "Stay here a bit, then you can go to the dining room and eat."
Milo gulped, still catching his breath, and nodded quietly, letting himself relax against Salvatore’s chest for just a little longer.
"Sir, is Macron your enemy?" asked Milo curiously.
"He is my cousin, and the only one I really want to kill right now."
"But you can’t?"
"Because I have a lot of enemies inside my home that are worse than those out there."
Milo looked down, feeling something uneasy inside his chest. He was so scared that Salvatore might be in danger.
"You don’t know who your enemy is here?"
Salvatore just sighed. It was something he really struggled with. The thing he feared the most. More dangerous than the real enemy.
***
Far from the city, past the last checkpoints and the long stretch of empty highway, there stood a house on the border, isolated enough that no one asked questions about who came and went.
Inside, two men in black shirts stood before their boss, delivering their report with visible unease.
"Boss, I think Salvatore knows about the shipment today," one of them said. "I heard they will come to the port."
The man they reported to, somewhere in his forties, with tired eyes and deep lines carved into his face, looked more annoyed than alarmed.
"That motherfucker," he muttered. "He really won’t let me rest in peace."
"What should we do?" the second man asked. "We can’t abandon the shipment today, or the authorities will make a fuss about it. We’ve got sixty kids inside."
The boss let out a long, heavy sigh, dragging a hand down his face. "We can’t change the route. It’s too short a time now. Just do as usual. Never get caught."
He looked between the two of them, his expression hardening. "Both of you, Mike and Jon, get away from there. Salvatore will target you to get to me."
The men exchanged a glance before nodding. "Understood."
They turned and left without another word, the door closing behind them with a heavy thud that seemed to echo through the quiet, calm house.
Alone now, the man exhaled long and slow, the weight of everything pressing down on his shoulders.
He turned toward the corner of the room, where an old man with white hair sat hunched over a table, a small collection of jewelry spread out before him, his hands working meticulously over a piece he was inspecting under the light.
To anyone who didn’t know better, he looked like nothing more than an aging jeweler, quiet and unremarkable, the kind of man no one would look at twice. That was exactly the point.
"Merciano," the man said, his voice cracking slightly with desperation. "Help me again this time. Please. Or I will really die."
The old man didn’t even look up from his work, his fingers turning the piece of jewelry over slowly, examining it from every angle.
"I can’t do anything, Macron," he said simply.
"It’s your fault that you raised that bastard," Macron snapped, some of his earlier composure cracking under the weight of his frustration.
Merciano finally looked up then, his eyes sharp despite his age, carrying decades of quiet calculation behind them.
"He is more capable than you," he said evenly. "I don’t regret my decision."
"Please!" Macron said, his voice rising now, edged with something close to panic. "Help me."
"I’ve helped you enough," Merciano said, setting the jewelry piece down carefully on the table, his tone final. "You have to face him now or later."
Macron stood there for a long moment, breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He wanted to argue further, wanted to demand something more from the old man, but he knew from experience that once Merciano made up his mind, there was no changing it.
And he was too scared to make trouble with that old man. After his dad died, nobody could really help him. Everyone seemed really scared of Salvatore now.
He knew the old man had built his entire life around staying invisible, around letting others take the risks while he sat quietly in the corner polishing stones, and no amount of pleading was going to change that now.
He turned away in frustration, walking toward the window and looking out at the empty road stretching into the darkness beyond the property.
Somewhere out there, his men were moving a ship full of children toward the port, hoping against hope that Salvatore’s suspicion wouldn’t turn into certainty before the night was over.
And here he was, sitting and waiting, indifferent to how many lives hung in the balance of his orders. Too scared to face his cousin.
He knew he would not win against Salvatore. With the amount of power his cousin had now, it was impossible to touch him.
Many times he had tried to kill him, to set a bomb under his car. Everything. And nothing worked.
He was so angry that it seemed the universe helped that bastard instead of him.
Macron pressed his palm against the cool glass, feeling the tremor in his own hand, and for the first time in a long while, allowed himself to wonder if Merciano was right.
Maybe there was no more running from what was coming. Maybe the only thing left to do now was wait and see who reached him first.
Or he should make a move.
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