Salvatore froze. His hand, which had been resting on the stair railing, remained completely still. He slowly turned his head to look back down at the young man standing on the step below him.

Milo was completely motionless, his breath caught tight in his chest. His hazel eyes were wide, and the deep, sudden flush that had crept up his neck now covered his face entirely.

The moment the question had left his lips, a wave of stark panic had hit him. He had not meant to say it. The words had been driven entirely by his enthusiasm. But when he saw Salvatore’s expression, he regretted it.

What did he say?

Salvatore turned his body fully, his massive frame blocking out the light from the hallway chandelier and casting a heavy shadow over Milo.

Salvatore was a man who had more experience with people’s characters than most. He was intensely aware of the shift in Milo’s demeanor over the last few days, the lingering looks, the sudden blushes, and the quiet desperation to be useful.

He realized, with a cold sense of clarity, that Milo was developing feelings for him. It made him deeply uncomfortable.

Salvatore felt a fierce, protective instinct toward the young man, but he knew the raw depth of Milo’s traumatic past.

More than that, Salvatore knew himself. He did not do normal, gentle relationships. His preferences in the bedroom required a partner who was entirely submissive, someone who could handle the heavy, controlling nature of his desires.

Milo was already broken. He didn’t want to be the man who would shatter the young man’s life even more.

"Forget it," Salvatore said, his voice dropping into a flat, slightly harsh tone. "Just go to sleep. We will talk tomorrow."

He turned back, but the soft, hesitant sound of footsteps followed him.

Milo hadn’t moved. Instead, he had taken a step closer, his eyes fixed on the stairs near Salvatore’s boots.

Salvatore stopped again, his jaw tightening. "Why are you following me?"

Milo looked up, his expression defenseless. "I feel safe with you, Sir."

The words were simple, but they carried a weight that made Salvatore look at Milo deeply, his gray eyes searching the boy’s face for a long, silent moment.

The raw honesty in Milo’s voice was something Salvatore rarely encountered in his life. He let out a slow, controlled breath.

"Well, I can’t sleep with anyone I don’t trust," Salvatore said, deliberately sharpening his tone to create a wall between them.

Milo flinched slightly, his eyes clouding with immediate, vulnerable confusion. "You... you don’t trust me?"

"Not like that," Salvatore corrected, his voice flat. "I don’t know why you need to sleep in my room when you have a perfectly good room of your own."

Milo swallowed hard, his voice small as he pointed out the obvious. "But... you just asked me if I wanted to sleep in your room or my room."

Salvatore sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t realized Milo would actually take the teasing question literally and choose to stay.

He looked at the young man’s shoulders. The memory of Milo’s violent panic from Nero’s torture made him relent. He couldn’t leave another mark on him.

"Go to your room," Salvatore commanded quietly. "I will come down in a moment. I need to ask you something anyway."

The transformation on Milo’s face was instant. The anxiety melted away, replaced by a broad, bright smile that reached his eyes.

"Yes, Sir!"

Salvatore watched as Milo turned and walked quickly down the stairs, his steps light and eager. He stayed at the top of the stairs, his brow furrowing as a heavy sense of worry settled in his chest.

The young man was falling in love with him, and Salvatore was certain it was only a temporary feeling, a misplaced sense of gratitude and attachment born from survival.

He could handle enemies, traitors, and anyone else, but he could not imagine the damage he would cause if he allowed Milo to get any closer to the monster inside him.

Downstairs in the guest room, Milo was a whirlwind of nervous energy. Ignoring Salvatore’s earlier refusal, he hurried to the small side pantry to prepare a tray of hot tea, his hands moving carefully so he wouldn’t drop the porcelain cup.

Once back in his room, he set the tray on the nightstand and sat down on the edge of the bed, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

He looked down at the dull purple bruises on his arms, but he didn’t feel the ache today. His mind was entirely full of Salvatore.

He kept replaying the tight, solid feel of the man’s hand around his waist on the stairs, the heavy scent of tobacco and soap, and the unyielding protection the Don had shown him all week.

His face burned at the memory. His chest felt tight, filled with an overwhelming, breathless sensation he had never experienced before in his life.

It was terrifying, but he didn’t want it to stop.

The heavy sound of the door opening broke his thoughts. Salvatore walked into the room. He was wearing a simple gray shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms and a pair of casual trousers.

To Milo, the casual attire only made the man look more imposing, his broad shoulders and sharp jawline completely dominating the small space of the bedroom.

Milo’s brain went wild for a fraction of a second, a dangerous, naughty flash of imagination crossing his mind before he forced himself to stand up quickly.

"Sir, I made the tea," Milo said, his voice pitching slightly higher than usual.

Salvatore walked over and sat down calmly on the chair near the bed, crossing one heavy leg over the other. He looked at the porcelain cup on the tray, then back up at Milo.

"Whatever. It seems you like to make tea. Why not prepare wine for me instead?"

Milo straightened instantly, his hands dropping to his sides as he realized his mistake. He hadn’t thought that the man might prefer wine. Something so obvious.

"Oh. I... I’ll go get the wine right now—"

Before he could take a step toward the door, Salvatore reached out, his large, calloused hand locking around Milo’s wrist. The grip was firm but careful.

"No, not now. Sit down. I’m tired. Let’s talk, and then we’ll sleep."

Milo sat back down on the edge of the mattress, his knees close to where Salvatore was sitting. The proximity made him incredibly nervous, especially when Salvatore didn’t say anything immediately.

The Don just looked at him, his gray eyes dark and completely focused, which made Milo nervous.

"You know, your uncle is working with me now," Salvatore said, breaking the silence with a quiet, deliberate tone. "And I’m curious about something. Do you remember your old name, Milo?"

The question was entirely unexpected. Milo blinked, his brow furrowing as he searched the blank spaces of his memory.

His name?

He shook his head slowly. He had spent so long being defined only by what Nero called him. "I... I just know my name is Milo, Sir. I don’t remember anything else from before."

"If Sebastian Gallo is your uncle, your family name should be Gallo," Salvatore said, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watched Milo’s reaction. "You really don’t remember a last name? Nothing?"

"Not sure," Milo whispered, looking down at his fingers. "I don’t remember it at all. As long as I can remember, they always just called me Milo."

Salvatore nodded slowly, leaning back against the frame of the chair. "Don’t get me wrong. I am asking because I think... I think our families were connected in the past."

Milo looked up sharply, his hazel eyes wide with surprise. "Connected?"

"Yes," Salvatore said. "Maybe we met many times when we were younger. I am trying to recall it. I need to remember."

Milo looked down at the linen sheets, his chest tightening as the distant past was brought to the surface.

"But I don’t remember anything, Sir. I just remember the day my uncle brought me to Nero after my parents died."

"When was that?" Salvatore asked.

"When I was seven years old," Milo said, tilting his head slightly as he listened to his own voice through the dull hum in his ears. "Nero always mentioned it when he was... when he was angry. He liked to remind me how long I had been his pet."

Salvatore went entirely silent. The room became so quiet that the ticking of the clock on the wall sounded like heavy drops of water.

He stared at the young man sitting before him, the brown hair, the delicate structure of his jaw, and those large, beautiful hazel eyes.

Seven years old.

"You are twenty now?" Salvatore asked, his voice tighter than before.

Milo nodded silently. He could sense the sudden, intense depth in Salvatore’s gaze, a hidden storm working behind the Don’s gray eyes that he couldn’t quite understand.

Inside Salvatore’s chest, everything clicked into place with the force of a physical blow. He felt his breath hitch, his throat going completely dry as he forced himself to maintain his rigid, calm posture.

Milo was twenty. He had been seven when his parents died.

That meant the accident had happened exactly thirteen years ago.

Thirteen years ago, Salvatore had been fifteen years old. It was the exact same year that his own parents had been murdered by Niccolo’s hitmen and the deaths had been made to look like a car accident.

"Your parents..." Salvatore said, his voice rough as he forced the words out. "They died in an accident?"

Milo nodded, his eyes clear and sad. "Yes, Sir. A car accident."

Salvatore inhaled slowly, his chest heaving as he closed his eyes.

"Do you remember a room inside the vineyard building?" Salvatore asked.

Milo tried hard to remember. He only remembered being trapped in a dark room when he was a child. And a boy had come to help him.