Chapter 96: His Snake Master
In the morning, Milo spent time with Andrew as he listened to the doctor explain his condition.
He could hear better today. The whole time, Salvatore stayed in the room with him, repeatedly asking what might have happened and what they should do.
Milo could tell the man truly cared about him.
Then, in the afternoon, he stirred from a nap. The bedroom was dim, but a warm beam of sunlight pierced through the thick curtains. Milo realized he might have slept too long.
He turned over, his eyes widening.
Salvatore sat on the edge of the bed, holding a ceramic bowl of warm chicken broth.
"Sir..."
"Eat something. Then we’ll go out." Salvatore dipped the spoon into the broth and blew on it before holding it to Milo’s lips.
Milo sat propped up against the pillows, his hands still securely bound in thick white cotton bandages to prevent his nails from scratching his healing skin.
He leaned forward and swallowed the broth slowly, the liquid soothing his raw throat.
"Can I remove the bandages?" Milo asked, looking at his hands.
"Yes, but not now. After you eat."
Milo just nodded. His ears felt much lighter after Dr. Andrew’s saline flush. The internal roaring had subsided into a dull, distant buzz, allowing him to hear the normal, quiet sounds of the bedroom.
"Eat more," Salvatore said, his voice flat but carrying an unyielding weight. He held up another spoonful. "You need the strength."
Milo swallowed the food, keeping his eyes fixed on Salvatore’s jawline. He was still confused by the Don’s constant presence, but the sharp terror of being executed had faded, replaced by a quiet, fragile sense of safety.
Once the bowl was empty, Salvatore set it on the nightstand and wiped Milo’s mouth with a clean cloth. He looked at Milo steadily. "I will help you get dressed. We are going out."
Milo heard the words clearly today, the blockage in his ears mostly gone. He nodded slowly, expecting a drive to the market or the vineyard.
But then Salvatore added, "You are going to see your master."
Milo went rigid. Every muscle in his body locked instantly, his breath catching in his throat as a wave of cold sweat broke out across his neck.
The phantom smell of old blood and the sting of the leather cane flashed through his mind, dragging him right back into the darkness of the Hartley mansion.
No...
He shrank back into the pillows, his bandaged hands trembling violently against his chest.
"N-Nero?" Milo whispered, his voice thin and cracked with sudden panic. "No... please, Sir. Don’t send me back. I don’t want to go."
Salvatore leaned forward, his large, heavy hands closing over Milo’s shoulders. He didn’t shake him, but his grip was solid, an immovable force grounding Milo before the panic could completely take over.
He forced Milo to look into his gray eyes.
"I am not sending you back," Salvatore said, his voice dropping into a low, fiercely deliberate rumble. "I will hold you. I will never let you go. Trust me. They will never lay a hand on you again."
Milo gulped, his hazel eyes wide and swimming with unshed tears. He wanted to believe the words, but the deep-seated trauma from years of abuse made his body shake against his will.
He said nothing, his teeth chattering softly.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, intending to stand up and prove he could walk, but his knees buckled under the lingering weakness from the medication.
Salvatore caught him by the waist before he could hit the floorboards.
"No. Don’t move too much." Then Salvatore called for Roderick.
Salvatore grabbed a shirt and a pair of comfortable pants for Milo and helped the young man get dressed.
"Why are you so stiff? I’ve seen everything already. You don’t need to hide it," said Salvatore as Milo tried to dress himself.
His words made Milo blush even more. "Sir... I’m shy."
"Should I ask Maureen instead?"
Milo shook his head immediately. "No!"
Salvatore smiled. "That’s why. Stay still."
Milo complied as Salvatore helped him get dressed.
Roderick stepped into the room, pushing a wheelchair ahead of him. He positioned it right next to the bed, his face calm and devoid of judgment.
Milo looked at the wheelchair. He felt he could walk slowly. He didn’t need that chair.
But soon, Salvatore lifted him effortlessly, placing him onto the padded seat and draping a thick, dark wool blanket over his shoulders.
"We’re leaving now."
The drive through the city was silent. Milo sat in the back seat, staring out the window as the familiar streets of the market district gave way to a secluded, tree-lined road.
He had expected to see the road leading to Hartley Mansion. But instead, they were heading to an isolated spot far from anywhere.
The atmosphere was eerie. Milo looked around the car. Only large trees surrounded them.
Then he spotted a solitary house there.
It was Alben’s private residence.
Salvatore stepped out and unfolded the wheelchair from the trunk. He lifted Milo into the seat, making sure the blanket was tucked securely around his legs.
As Salvatore reached for the handles to push the chair up the brick walkway, Milo suddenly reached out, his fingers tightly gripping the fabric of Salvatore’s trousers.
Milo looked up, his eyes filled with raw, pleading desperation. He didn’t want to go through that door. The fear of what lay inside was suffocating.
Salvatore stopped. He looked down at Milo’s tightly clenched hands, then placed his own palm over them. "He can’t even touch you, Milo. Don’t worry. You need to see for yourself that you don’t have to fear him anymore."
Salvatore gently pried Milo’s fingers from his clothes, took hold of the wheelchair handles, and pushed him through the front entrance of the house.
Inside the living room, the atmosphere was thick with tension. In the center of the room, Nero Hartley lay naked on the floor, his body bound tightly in heavy silver chains that clinked with his every shudder.
Fresh, dark tattoo ink covered parts of his bruised torso, rough, jagged lines Alben had carved into his skin as a permanent mark of ownership.
But Nero wasn’t looking at his wounds. His eyes were bulging with absolute horror, fixed entirely on the large flat-screen television Alben had just turned on in front of him.
On the screen, a live video feed showed a dark, windowless warehouse room. Tied securely to a heavy iron chair in the center of the frame was Andro Hartley.
His father!
