Chapter 95: The Soundless Night
The bathroom tiles were cold, but the air was thick with the steam Salvatore had let rise from the tub to keep the room warm.
"Sir..." Milo whimpered.
"Sshhh..." Salvatore carried Milo inside carefully, trying not to jostle him too much.
Milo’s body was rigid, his mind still cycling through a blurred, terrifying mixture of memory and reality. He wasn’t sure if this was real. Salvatore lifted him and hugged him tightly.
He closed his eyes. Through the muffled ringing in his ears, the sound of running water resembled a high-pressure hose, or worse, the dripping dampness of Nero’s basement.
Then the clean playroom next to it.
No...
Milo grabbed his head.
Salvatore lifted him higher. "Shhh... Milo. Don’t move too much."
"Uh... l-let me down... please," Milo croaked, his voice cracking. He couldn’t gauge his own volume, so the words came out in a loud, desperate shout.
He tried to twist his upper body, his bandaged hands thumping uselessly against Salvatore’s broad shoulder.
Salvatore didn’t argue. He walked to the edge of the bathtub and lowered Milo carefully into the warm water. He kept one heavy hand firmly on Milo’s shoulder, preventing the young man from slipping under the water.
Milo didn’t move. His body was stiff.
"Look at me, Milo," Salvatore said. He leaned down, placing his face directly in Milo’s line of sight, his gray eyes steady and unblinking.
He tried to speak with deliberate clarity, his lips moving sharply so Milo could read them. "I’m just going to clean you. Try to relax. I won’t hurt you."
Milo blinked through his tears, his chest heaving as he stared at Salvatore’s mouth. The sound echoed inside his head, but he couldn’t hear the words clearly.
It took a long moment for the words to register through the thick, throbbing ache in his skull. He looked at the steam rising from the tub, then down at his own bandaged hands.
The humiliation of being completely naked in front of the Don was still there, a sharp, familiar sting, but the sheer exhaustion in his muscles made it impossible to fight.
He was used to being naked in front of people. But now, he was more embarrassed because he didn’t want to look weak in front of the man. And what happened last time made his heart throb with discomfort at the thought of staying naked.
Salvatore reached for a soft washcloth, soaking it in the warm water. He didn’t ask for permission. He moved with the same brisk, efficient discipline he used for everything. Only this time, he was much gentler, and his hands were surprisingly careful.
He pressed the warm cloth against Milo’s neck, gently wiping away the remaining traces of the dried lipid balm and the dust that had settled into his pores.
Milo flinched, a sharp gasp catching in his throat as the warmth touched the raw, pink skin where the irritant had burned him.
"Stay still," Salvatore murmured. He didn’t lose his patience, but his grip on Milo’s jaw tightened slightly to keep him from turning away.
"Doctor said the skin needs to stay clean. If you move, I’ll just have to hold you tighter." He tried very hard not to let his voice crack.
Milo went quiet. He closed his eyes, his head dropping forward against Salvatore’s forearm as the man worked.
The warmth of the cloth was actually helping, drawing the deep, structural ache out of his jaw and neck. He listened to the heavy, internal thuds of his own heartbeat echoing inside his ears, accompanied by the low, distorted rumble of Salvatore’s breathing.
Salvatore focused on his work, then stopped when he felt Milo’s hands wrap around the arm that was holding his chest.
He just smiled, a pang in his heart.
He moved the cloth down to Milo’s back and shoulders, working around the fresh purple welts.
"Let me see your chest," the man said, gently guiding Milo to rest his head on the edge of the tub.
Milo remained still, looking at Salvatore with flushed cheeks and blinking repeatedly.
Salvatore saw many more bruises that had darkened across his chest. "I’ll be careful."
But every time the cloth brushed a bruise, Milo’s muscles twitched automatically, a survival reflex his brain couldn’t control.
Salvatore noticed every tremor. His jaw clenched with the dark, silent rage that always returned whenever he looked at the bruises, but he kept his strokes light, even, and predictable.
"We’re done now. I’ll help you get dressed, and then we’ll eat something." Salvatore took a thick, dry towel and wrapped it around Milo’s shoulders, lifting him out of the tub in one smooth motion.
He didn’t care that water dripped onto the floor. He just walked carefully so as not to slip. He carried Milo back to the bed, placing him beneath the clean linen sheet.
He chose comfortable pajamas.
Milo just sat still against the headboard when Stella brought him food in bed.
He felt his stomach empty and aching, but he had no appetite.
Salvatore had ordered Luke to make chicken porridge for Milo, and he didn’t want to see the young man go to sleep without eating.
"I’ll help you eat so you can take your medicine and go back to sleep." Salvatore fed Milo slowly.
Milo tried hard to swallow, but with every bite, his ears throbbed with pain.
He looked at Salvatore, who was so patient with him.
"T-thank you, Sir..."
Salvatore said nothing, continuing to spoon more porridge into Milo’s mouth.
In between, the man would sometimes hold and touch Milo’s face where the bruises looked darker. He’d stop whenever Milo flinched.
Milo felt an itch on his earlobe. He tried to reach it, but Salvatore quickly held his hand.
"No, you’ll hurt yourself."
"It’s itchy..." Milo pulled his hand away.
"No. Let me do it. Which one? Here?" Salvatore gently rubbed his earlobe.
Milo looked far from satisfied. He wanted to scratch it with all his might, but at least this helped.
"I really can’t leave you like this." The man set down the porridge bowl and grabbed the bandage, then wrapped it around Milo’s hand again.
Milo looked at Salvatore with a sad expression. He wanted so badly to stick his finger inside his ear.
"No, you can’t scratch it or it will take forever to heal," Salvatore said slowly to help Milo understand.
Milo looked at both his hands, now fully bandaged. He couldn’t even open his palms.
Salvatore helped him take the medicine before lifting Milo and helping him lie down comfortably.
The man had just left the room when Milo fell asleep.
By 11:00 pm, the room was dark, the heavy curtains blocking out the moonlight, but to Milo, the darkness felt exactly like the corner of a concrete cellar.
Every time he began to drift into a deep sleep, his body jerked awake with a violent spasm, his heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He still couldn’t hear the normal sounds of the house, and the throbbing echo inside his head was terrifying. He was afraid he would never hear normally again.
It felt as though he had fallen asleep for only a moment before he gasped for air.
The nightmare. Nero’s room was back again. The itch inside his head.
His bandaged hands instantly flew toward his ears, his fingers trying to dig through the cotton layers to scratch at the phantom burning his brain insisted was still there.
But again, a heavy, warm hand closed over his wrists, pinning them down to the mattress before his hands could touch his ears.
"No, Milo."
Milo shrieked, a high-pitched, panicked sound, his legs kicking wildly beneath the blankets as he tried to break free. "P-please, let me go! Let me scratch it! It’s itchy!"
The mattress shifted heavily. Salvatore didn’t try to use verbal commands this time. He knew Milo couldn’t hear him over the panic.
Instead, he used his own body weight. He slid under the blankets, pulled Milo’s rigid, twitching frame directly against his chest, and locked his arms around him in a tight, unyielding hold.
He pressed his palm flat against the back of Milo’s head, forcing the young man’s face into the crook of his neck.
He gently stroked Milo’s ear to calm him down.
"Milo. Stop," Salvatore growled softly, the physical vibration of his vocal cords running directly through his chest and into Milo’s jaw.
Milo thrashed for three more seconds, his knees hitting Salvatore’s thighs, his breath coming in sharp, wet sobs against Salvatore’s collarbone.
But Salvatore didn’t loosen his grip. He remained like an iron wall, absorbing the impact of Milo’s panic, his chest rising and falling in a deep, slow, deliberate rhythm.
Slowly, the physical reality of the contact began to break through the hallucination.
Milo’s face was pressed against Salvatore’s throat. He could smell the familiar scent of Salvatore.
Milo’s muscles gradually lost their frantic tension. His forehead dropped heavily against Salvatore’s neck, his bandaged hands resting weakly between their chests.
The shaking didn’t stop completely, but it transformed from a violent struggle into a small, pathetic shiver.
Salvatore kept wiping Milo’s ear carefully. Then his fingers ran slowly through the brown strands of hair to soothe him. He was intensely aware of the trauma radiating from the young man.
Something that was familiar to him.
He knew Milo wasn’t just recovering from a physical injury, his mind had been systematically broken over the years by Nero’s abuse, and the recent kidnapping had shattered whatever tiny sense of safety he had begun to build.
Salvatore knew that if he left the room tonight, Milo would tear his own skin to pieces before dawn.
"Sleep," Salvatore murmured against Milo’s hair, letting the deep resonance of his voice speak for him.
Milo slowly relaxed, he didn’t move away. He stayed tucked into the solid, heavy mass of the Don’s body, his shallow breaths gradually slowing until they matched the steady, predictable rise and fall of Salvatore’s chest.
He didn’t understand what was actually happening. He didn’t know why Salvatore was sleeping in his bed or why the man who had cast him aside was now holding him like something precious.
Maybe it was just his imagination, but he felt warm and safe right now.
After a while, he finally closed his eyes and let sleep take him.
"Tomorrow, I will bring you to see your master."
Milo couldn’t hear it clearly, but he sensed something big was about to happen.
