That man was walking so calmly beside the guide. Andro was beside him, and Sean was two steps behind them both.

Milo’s hands went cold. He stepped back. He almost dropped his biscuit.

He felt suffocated. It started in his fingers and moved up through his wrists, and he couldn’t stop it. He pressed his right hand flat against his leg and kept his face forward.

No... His breath almost stopped right away.

Nero hadn’t looked in his direction yet.

Milo kept his eyes averted, breathing slowly and not moving.

"Please, don’t let him see me," Milo prayed.

Milo stood still. His fingers still clutched a half-eaten biscuit. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel the vibration in his throat.

He tried to blend into the shadows of the hallway, hoping the dark fabric of his suit would make him invisible.

But he believed he always had bad luck.

The guide was mid-sentence, pointing toward the heavy double doors of the auction room, when Nero’s head suddenly turned.

His eyes scanned the line of guards. He bypassed the bulky men with sunglasses and the stoic professionals.

His gaze landed directly on Milo.

Milo stopped breathing. He wanted to run! But his feet were trembling too weakly.

Nero stopped walking. A slow, sharp smile spread across his face, one that didn’t reach his eyes. He didn’t say anything to the guide. He simply stepped out of the way and began walking toward Milo.

No, no... No... Milo wanted to cry right then and there.

Andro and Sean stopped as well. The guide looked confused, his hands hovering in the air as he tried to understand why his guests had stopped.

The Portello guards nearby shifted their weight. They saw a well-dressed guest approaching Milo, and because no weapon was drawn and there was no immediate shouting, they stayed in their positions, watching with frowns of confusion.

Milo stepped back as Nero drew closer. He felt the cold stone of the wall press against his back. He had nowhere to go.

"Milo," Nero said. The name sounded like a low threat.

Milo’s hands shook so violently that the biscuit crumbled, the pieces falling onto the carpet. He pressed his palms flat against the wall, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps.

As Nero stood in front of him, Milo’s eyes darted to the men standing behind him. He looked at Andro, Nero’s father. Then he looked at Sean.

Milo’s breath caught for a different reason.

The grayness was there. It wasn’t a shadow or a trick of the dim lighting. Andro’s skin looked like ash, his eyes sunken and devoid of any light.

Milo shifted his gaze to Sean. It was the same. Sean looked like a corpse that was still walking, his movements stiff, his face a mask of pale, lifeless gray.

Would both of them die?

Milo looked back at Nero.

Nero was radiant. His skin glowed with health, his eyes were clear and sharp, and his presence radiated a dark, vibrant energy. There was no sign of death on him.

Milo felt a surge of panic.

’Why? Why not Nero?’

Why were the father and the guard marked for death, while the man who caused all the pain looked perfectly safe?

Milo tried to figure out the reasons. Was it because of the gun in his waistband? Was he supposed to kill them? But he knew he couldn’t.

He didn’t have the guts to pull the trigger. If they were going to die, it wouldn’t be by his hand.

And he was sure they wouldn’t die today, the last time they met was less than a month ago, and they looked healthy then.

Nero reached Milo and stepped into his personal space, ignoring the boundaries Salvatore had taught him.

He reached out and grabbed Milo’s chin, forcing his head up.

"Look at you," Nero whispered. His voice was smooth, like silk over a blade. "You look so handsome in this suit. Salvatore has been dressing you up so well. Happy?"

Milo gulped.

Nero smiled. "How long has it been since we last met, Milo? Didn’t you miss me?"

Milo’s teeth chattered. He could smell Nero’s familiar cologne, a scent that usually preceded a beating.

"Please... I won’t go back with you," Milo managed to whisper, his hands trembling. His whole body was shaking.

Nero smiled, his thumb brushing over Milo’s lower lip. "Oh, I know you say that. But you know I don’t take no for an answer. You’re a very expensive habit, Milo. And I don’t like it when people steal my things."

Andro stepped forward, his gray, ashen face looking impatient. To the rest of the room, he looked like a tired old businessman, but to Milo, he looked like a ghost.

"Nero, don’t make a scene," Andro said, his voice raspy. "We’re already late. Leave him and come inside."

Nero didn’t take his eyes off Milo. He leaned closer, his chest pressing against Milo’s. "I’ll be back soon. I just need a moment. I miss my Milo."

Andro let out a frustrated sound, shook his head, and turned toward the auction room.

Sean stayed behind Nero. His pale, scarred face showed no emotion.

The Portello guard standing nearest to Milo took a step forward. "Sir? Is there a problem here?"

Nero didn’t even look at the guard. He kept his focus entirely on Milo’s terrified eyes. "No problem at all. I’m just speaking with an old friend. Isn’t that right, Milo?"

Milo couldn’t answer. He felt the weight of the pistol at the small of his back, but he was too paralyzed to reach for it. He felt like a bird under the gaze of a snake.

Nero leaned in even closer, his mouth inches from Milo’s ear. "You think you’re safe because you’re wearing a suit and standing with these men? You think Salvatore will protect you forever? He’ll get bored of you, Milo. Men like him always do. And when he does, I’ll be the one waiting at the gate."

Nero’s hand moved from Milo’s chin to the back of his neck, his fingers gripping the hair at the base of Milo’s skull. He pulled Milo’s head back, exposing his throat.

"I can see how much you’re trembling," Nero murmured. "You’re still my little bird."