57

FALLON The car ride home is silent, tension thick in the air surrounding us. The dome lighting casts shadows on his face as we drive, making him look almost as sinister as Leone who sits in the passenger seat. The roar of Leone’s matte black Maserati cuts through the silence of the night as we pull into the driveway, the sprawling mansion looming like a mausoleum under the moonlight. I can’t help but replay every moment that led us here because one thing I am starting to realize with Leone is, his calm silence is deadly, and I hate the way my skin itches at the change. Milo kills the engine and the sudden quiet feels heavy, suffocating. He doesn’t look at me as he exits the car, his movements tight and controlled. I watch him walk ahead, disappearing into the shadows of the courtyard and up the staircase. There’s a coldness there, a detachment that chills me more than the night air. He just walked off without even a glance back, leaving me with Leone. “Out,” Leone commands, his voice a