In the dining room, Salvatore stood alone by the large refrigerator. He had taken off his suit jacket, and his white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar.
He knew everyone was already asleep by now. So guards who saw him offered him sothing, but he just waved them off.
He reached into the fridge and pulled out a heavy ceramic bowl filled with leftover at stew. He grabbed a smaller bowl and scooped so into it.
He walked to the microwave and placed the bowl inside, setting the tir. While the machine humd, he grabbed a loaf of crusty bread and a knife, cutting several thick slices.
The sound of footsteps on the marble floor made him look up. Felix walked into the room, his expression tense. He watched Salvatore for a few seconds before speaking.
"You’re still here?" Salvatore asked. He didn’t look at Felix, his focus returning to the bread.
"I didn’t want to go ho yet," Felix replied, leaning against the kitchen island. "I still need to ask about Hartleys. I called them today. They want to talk to you about that property you asked about. They said they prefer to discuss the details with you privately."
Salvatore nodded, his face blank. "Fine. I’ll deal with them later."
The microwave beeped. Salvatore pulled the hot bowl out, steam rising in a thick cloud. He carried it to the long dining table and set it down. He went back to the drawer, pulled out a fork and a knife, and placed them at the chair next to the head of the table.
Felix watched every movent. He looked at the single set of utensils and the steaming bowl of stew. "You still want to eat?" he asked, his voice skeptical. "You had a massive steak. Still hungry?"
Salvatore pulled out the chair at the head of the table. "I’m not eating. I’m fucking full," he said bluntly.
Before Felix could ask another question, the sound of running footsteps approached the room.
Milo appeared in the doorway. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving under his shirt.
His hair was dripping wet, clumps of it sticking to his forehead and the back of his neck. Water droplets fell onto his shoulders, darkening the fabric of his clothes.
He looked panicked, his eyes wide as he looked at Salvatore.
Salvatore leaned back in his chair, a small, amused look crossing his face. "Why are you so wet?"
Milo gulped, trying to slow his breathing. "You... you told I had ten minutes," he said, his voice raspy. "I didn’t have enough ti to dry it."
Salvatore let out a short, quiet chuckle. "You really are unbelievable. I’m sure you’d jump into the river if I asked you to."
Salvatore gestured to the chair where he had placed the fork and knife. "Sit down. Eat."
Milo looked at the table. He saw the hot stew and the fresh bread. He looked at Salvatore, then at Felix, who was staring at him with a look of pure irritation.
Milo felt small and out of place, but the sll of the food was overwhelming. He sat down carefully on the edge of the chair.
"Don’t go to bed on an empty stomach," Salvatore said.
He looked at the single plate and then back at Salvatore. "You... you won’t be eating, sir?"
"No," Salvatore said. "I’ve already had enough to eat."
Milo swallowed. He looked at the fork, then at Salvatore’s face. He hesitated for a second, but his hunger won out. He picked up the fork and took a large bite of the at.
The stew was rich and warm. He forgot about the awkwardness and the presence of the other n. He began to eat quickly, tearing off pieces of bread to soak up the gravy.
Salvatore didn’t look away. He watched Milo eat, a small, genuine smile appearing on his lips for a mont. He saw the way Milo’s eyes brightened with every bite.
Felix watched the interaction for less than a minute. His jaw was tight, and his hands were clenched into fists. He let out a sharp, annoyed breath and turned on his heel, walking out of the dining room without saying another word.
Milo didn’t even notice him leave. He was too focused on the stew. He had finished half the bowl before he realized Salvatore was still sitting there, silent and watching him.
"Nobody is going to steal your food, Milo," Salvatore said quietly. "Eat slowly. You’ll make yourself sick."
Milo stopped, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. He looked up, his face flushing. "Ah, I’m sorry. It’s just... it’s very good. Thank you."
Salvatore’s eyes moved down to Milo’s hands. Now that Milo was sitting under the bright lights of the dining room, the damage was visible.
Milo’s palms were bright red, covered in small, raw blisters from handling the wooden sticks for hours. His knuckles were bruised, and there were tiny nicks on his fingertips where the wood had scratched him.
Salvatore shook his head. He stood up and walked to a cabinet in the corner of the room, pulling out a small white dical kit. He ca back and sat in the chair next to Milo.
"Finish your food," Salvatore commanded.
Milo slowed down, finishing the last of the bread. When the bowl was empty, Salvatore reached out.
"Let see your hands," Salvatore said.
Milo hesitated, his fingers twitching. He wasn’t used to people touching his wounds to heal them; usually, when soone grabbed his hands, it was to restrain him. He slowly placed his palms up on the table.
Salvatore opened a small tube of antiseptic ointnt. He reached out and took Milo’s right hand in his own. Salvatore’s hand was larger, his skin rough and calloused. He moved with surprising gentleness. He began to rub the cool, clear ointnt over the red blisters on Milo’s palm.
Milo froze. He felt the heat of Salvatore’s skin and the coldness of the dicine. The room was very quiet. He could hear the sound of his own heart beating fast against his ribs.
He looked at Salvatore’s head, noticing how the man was entirely focused on the task. Salvatore was treating the wounds as if they were important.
"Does it hurt?" Salvatore asked, his voice low.
"No," Milo whispered. "The dicine is cold. It feels better."
Salvatore moved to Milo’s left hand. He rubbed the salve into the scratches on his fingers. Milo’s hand was trembling slightly. Salvatore’s thumb moved over the center of Milo’s palm, a slow, rhythmic motion that made Milo’s breath catch.
The air between them felt heavy and warm. Milo’s face felt hot, and he couldn’t look away from Salvatore’s hands.
The heavy sound of the dining room door opening broke the silence. Roderick walked in, his face wearing its usual neutral expression. He stopped when he saw Salvatore holding Milo’s hands, but he didn’t comnt on it.
"Sal," Roderick said. "Arson just called from downstairs. He said the bastard in the basent is dying. He’s losing too much blood. Arson wants to know if you want to use him for anything else tonight or if he should just let him die."
Salvatore’s expression changed instantly. The gentleness vanished, replaced by a cold, hard look. He dropped Milo’s hand and stood up, snapping the dical kit shut.
"Tell Arson to keep him awake," Salvatore said. He didn’t look at Milo. "I’m coming down now."
Salvatore turned and walked out of the room imdiately, followed by Roderick. The heavy doors clicked shut, leaving Milo alone at the table.
Milo sat there for a long ti. His hands felt slick with the salve, and his skin was tingling where Salvatore had touched him.
His heart was still pounding, and his face was still flushed. He had never been cared for like that before. He looked at the empty bowl and then at his hands. Salvatore had treated him as if he mattered.
He felt happy, as if a heavy, invisible burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He felt a deep urge to do sothing in return. He wanted to show Salvatore that he was grateful.
He looked around the kitchen and saw a teapot on the counter. He decided he would make so tea for Salvatore. He’d probably be tired when he returned to his room.
Milo washed his bowl, moving carefully to avoid getting the salve wet as much as possible. Then he carefully prepared a pot of chamomile tea. He found a tray and placed a clean cup and the teapot on it.
He walked out of the dining room and asked a guard in the hallway where Salvatore’s bedroom was.
The guard pointed toward the grand staircase. "Second floor, at the very end of the right wing. You’ll see the only room there."
Milo nodded and said thank you. He climbed the stairs, balancing the tray carefully. He reached the second floor and walked down the long, carpeted hallway.
He was stunned by the decorations on the walls of the corridor. He had never been to the second floor before. There were many paintings and beautiful vases.
After taking so ti to look around, he found the large doors. It was the only room there. He was sure it was Salvatore’s room.
The doors were slightly ajar. He pushed them open with his elbow and stepped inside.
The room was massive. It slled like cedar. A single lamp was lit on the nightstand, casting a warm glow over the dark furniture. Milo walked inside and set the tray on the small table near the window.
He heard a muffled noise from the other side of the room.
Milo turned his head. He saw a large, heavy curtain that partitioned off a section of the room, likely where the bed was located. He heard a soft, wet sound, like a groan.
Milo froze. What was that? Is there soone there?
Milo remained quiet as he walked toward the curtain. He thought soone might be injured or resting. He never imagined the man could have a partner or soone staying in his room.
He reached out with a trembling hand and pulled the heavy fabric aside.
Milo’s breath caught in his throat. He stood frozen, his mouth falling open in shock.
On the large, silk-covered bed, a man was lying flat on his back. He was completely naked. His wrists were tied together in front of him, and his ankles were tied together.
A black silk blindfold was tied tightly around his head, covering his eyes. A leather ball gag was strapped into his mouth, stretching his lips wide.
The man’s chest was heaving, his skin covered in a thin layer of sweat. When he heard the sound of the curtain moving, he began to move slowly.
Milo stared, his heart sinking into his stomach. He seed to recognize the man. He was the one from the dining room. Why was he here, tied up and naked?
He looked around the room, expecting to see soone, but no one was there.
What is this? What should he do?
The man was naked and tied up, so he must be in danger. He should help him. Right?
But what if it was Salvatore’s order?
Why would Salvatore want his people tied up like that?
Why does Salvatore want to kill the man?
Milo stood in the center of the room, trapped between his fear and confusion, staring at the prisoner on Salvatore’s bed.
Milo, what should you do?
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