Take Me

Chapter Seventeen: Beaten

Crystal. The thought rang out loud and clear in Milo’s head as he inched away from the table and pushed up to his feet. He bit down on a wince as a serious case of pins and needles assailed his legs. It took years to get used to the seiza-style of sitting. He should have just sat cross-legged.

Unfortunately for him, sitting properly was the least of his regrets. He should have known getting involved with someone would lead to drama he wasn’t game for. He had broken his promise. He had allowed himself to entertain the idea of a relationship again. Hadn’t he learned from his experience with Celeste?

There wasn’t any room in his heart for love anymore. As far as he was concerned, it was a useless emotion when applied to people. Love was poison. In the case of Kenji, quite literally.

Worst of all?

Because of Kaz, Milo’s career was in danger. He would not tolerate threats. Especially not from a designer who was getting too big for his head. He could stand to lose many things except for working at Rebel. The magazine was his life. His future. The only place he felt successful. The alternative was a truly frightening existence. His blood ran cold just thinking about it.

His silence was Kenji’s answer.

Turning around, he slid the fusuma aside and stepped out. He should have expected something as underhanded as this. He worked in the fashion industry after all. He had seen worse. Had actually participated in a few blackmails under Cassandra’s tutelage.

To get what he wanted, he needed to play hardball. Kenji was doing the same thing. Milo had to admire him for that. If he was in love with his best friend then who was Milo to stand in the way of that?

Kenji could have Kaz if that was what he wanted. Thank goodness they hadn’t slept together yet. He could still walk away. Heal. There wasn’t much damage to repair to his psyche.

He would lose himself in Paris Fashion Week.

Holding on to the hope of a hectic work schedule to come, he exited Katana into the harsh March weather. He pulled his coat tighter around himself and veered left to walk down the sidewalk, away from the town car. He had no plans of going back to the office. He needed to get his head on straight before returning to his reality.

***

He wandered the city for what seemed like hours. The sun had begun its decent by the time he arrived at the one place that truly felt like home. His feet hurt as he climbed the steps to the townhouse. Leather shoes were the wrong choice for a long walk, but there was no accounting for everything that had happened.

Chilled from the winter that refused to leave, he looked up at the brownstone he had spent many of his formative years in. The red door with its charming owl knocker never failed to bring a sense of comfort whenever he came home laden with a weary heart.

Considering the time of day, most likely no one was home. It didn’t matter since being alone was what he needed. He retrieved the spare key from the left acorn sculpture at his feet and let himself in. The alarm by the entrance chirped. Closing his eyes in a grimace, he struggled to recall the code. Knowing his mother, it would be something as simple as his birthday. But his father was a whole different bag of tricks. If Archibald McLaren had been home recently then the security code would be at least ten digits long.

Hoping his mother was the one who frequented the townhouse, Milo opened his eyes and punched in the six digits that represented his birthday. The angry red light turned green and the chirping stopped. Leaning his forehead against the embossed wallpaper, he exhaled a long sigh of relief. At least he had that going for him.

His father was nowhere near the premises. Good. Milo hoped the stroke of luck would continue into the rest of the day.

Shrugging off his coat and depositing it into the closet by the front door, he wandered around the elegantly appointed house he once called home—and still did when life got too hard. Stella von Stein had been busy redecorating, he soon discovered.

The once blue living room was now a sunny yellow with accents of cream and turquois. The chandelier in the dining room was no longer crystal but ceramic. Made in Italy, most likely. And the austere portraits along the hallways and corridors have been switched out to soothing garden views. His lower lip jutted out as he made his way into the modern kitchen. His mother had been quite busy indeed. He wondered if her sudden yen to redecorate extended into his room.

“Milo, caro mio ben,” his mother’s Italian housekeeper said in her sing-song voice when he reached the Sub-Zero. She even pronounced his name as mee-lo before tacking on “My dear beloved.”

He spun around and flew into the rotund woman’s open arms. “Marta! Mi sei mancato!” Seeing her cheerful face made him feel a million times better already.

When his mother couldn’t take Milo along on shoots because he had school, Marta stepped in as his primary parental figure. She became his surrogate mother and father. She made sure he was fed and dressed. Checked his homework. And even disciplined him when he got into trouble.

Ear twisting was her favorite punishment when he forgot to clean his room or pick up after himself. The Italian he knew, no matter how clunky due to the lack of practice, came from her. Crying out how much he had missed her and being crushed into her large breasts were their usual greetings for each other. Then she pushed him back and took his face in both her weathered hands.

“Let me look at you.” She gave him a once over before giving each of his cheeks a kiss. “My boy, how handsome you are. But too thin. You do not eat enough.”

Seeing her brought the kind of comfort he needed that day. Maybe that was why he ended up at his mother’s townhouse. Knowing Marta would welcome him with the warmth he was used to drew him home like a carrier pigeon. She was his safe place. She had soothed many hurts and healed plenty of wounds.

“What is wrong?” she asked almost immediately when he didn’t respond fast enough like she had some superpower that enabled her to detect when Milo wasn’t running at a hundred percent.

He deflated in her arms. “Rough day.”

“You tell me about it over food.”

Like a whirling Dervish, she danced around the kitchen. Despite her size, she moved easily, grabbing bowls, spoons, cups, and alike, balancing them in her beefy arms.

Soon ingredients for macaroni and cheese—Milo’s favorite comfort food—materialized on the massive counter. But Marta’s mac n cheese involved prosciutto, pancetta, four different kinds of Italian cheese, and homemade elbow pasta. Basically, every yummy calorie known to man. His stomach growled in anticipation of the feast.

“It’s just work stuff,” he said, pulling open the freezer door and scanning its contents.

As much as he wanted to tell her about Kaz and Kenji’s ultimatum, he couldn’t bring himself to speak about it without breaking down completely. More than a shoulder to lean on, he needed to recharge. Bring himself back to his old self, pre-Kazuhiko Yukifumi.

When he spotted a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Karamel Sutra his heart leaped in appreciation. He grabbed it along with a spoon. Marta slapped his wrist as she placed the pot of water on the stove for the pasta. Milo gave her a grin and kissed her cheek.

She relented with a stern warning despite the smile stretching her lips, “You will ruin your appetite if you start on that.”

He slid onto a barstool opposite where she worked with scary efficiency and started on the best ice cream flavor in the world—lush vanilla on one side, dark chocolate with chips at the other and a long column of smooth caramel at the center.

“Then why do you keep it in stock?”

“You know why.” She let the smile show fully on her pretty, round face.

“Grazie, mamma," he said and meaning it. Warmth suffused his chest as the first sweet bite entered his mouth. It was good to be home. After he swallowed, he switched the topic to something safer to talk about—something that didn’t involve feelings. “Stella’s been busy.”

Marta frowned at him while she cut the pancetta into bite-size pieces. She saw through his dodge. A part of him was still that fifteen-year-old who couldn’t lie to her. In fact, the truth danced at the tip of his tongue. But another part of him was the grown ass man who could handle a little heart trouble by himself. Sure, Marta helped significantly during his recovery from Celeste, but that was something major. This with Kaz was a pinprick by comparison.

He huffed when her stare wouldn’t relent.

“I’m okay,” he said. It was partly the truth. He raised his hand to stall her coming protest when she opened her mouth. “Or I should say I will be okay. I promise, mamma. I know you worry, and I love you for that.”

Her face softened. She could never stay annoyed for long when he pulled out the “I love you” card. Like any mother. She gathered up her fresh elbow pasta and dumped it into the boiling water then started on the cheese sauce before speaking.

“Signora Stella got it in her head to spend your father’s money,” she shrugged.

He knew the connotation in her words without her having to elaborate. A prickle began at the back of his neck. “Are they fighting again?”

“You no worry about it, Milo.” She waved her hand at him as if she was warding off evil. “Your Papa is being a bull, that is all. The Signora would have nothing of it.”

“Nothing new there.” He breathed out the air he had been holding in and took another spoonful of ice cream. The rich caramel at the center fortified him greatly. The longer he spent in Marta’s company the steadier he became. Then he ventured into dangerous territory by asking, “How is he?”

Marta narrowed her gaze at him before she concentrated on stirring the cheese. One mistake could mean burning the entire thing. Plus, the pasta cooked fast. If she wasn't paying attention the whole thing would be ruined. And Milo couldn't have that, especially since he hadn't had anything to eat since leaving the office to meet with Kenji.

“Your Papa is fine, but why you ask?”

He sucked on his spoon thoughtfully. “Why not? Just because I’m living my own life outside his control doesn’t mean he stops being my father.”

His surrogate mother harrumphed. “You live your life. He gave you that gift. You no need concern yourself with him.”

The censure in her words was clear. It seemed the women in his life made it their mission to protect him from his father. From Stella to Cassandra to Marta. They all took a stand. Milo slid off the barstool and rounded the counter until he reached the housekeeper. Then he wrapped his arms around her waist and hugged her tight from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“You know I’m only free because he wants me to be, right?”

She said something about the Devil being a tricky individual who would stop at nothing to get what he wants in rapid-fire Italian. Milo wouldn't have understood it all if he wasn't standing so close to her. He tightened his hold, knowing her fear. She shared it with Cassandra and Stella.

“Thank you for protecting me,” he whispered. “Thank you for always being there for me. I cherish that.”

She tapped his hands then said, “Ti amo, ragazzo mio. Now, go wash up. Your food will be ready in ten minutes.”

He kissed her plump cheek before letting go. “Can you bring it up to the movie room? I feel like watching something.”

Marta nodded, giving him half her focus. His first real smile since lunch blossomed on his face as he returned the ice cream into the freezer and left the kitchen. With each second that passed, he returned more and more to himself. He pushed away the dark memories involving his father as he jogged up the stairs. There was nowhere else he wanted to be that night.

At exactly ten minutes, he was showered, dressed in his college T-shirt and sweats, and lounging on the plush leather couch of the TV room. Pacific Rim was queued up on the hundred-twenty inch flat screen mounted on the wall. This day called for some jaeger versus kaiju action. Huge robots fighting undersea aliens never failed to make him feel better.

He pressed play when Marta came in with a tray. She handed him a huge bowl of the mac n cheese and a vat of her famous virgin sangria. Milo felt so spoiled, he immediately dug in.

“If you want anything else . . .” she left the rest unsaid as he nodded, smiling—his mouth stuffed full of his favorite comfort food.

He quickly swallowed when she reached the door and said, “I left the suit—”

“I’ll have it sent to the cleaners,” she said simply.

“Grazie mille!”

“Prego.”

He was halfway through the pasta when Marta returned to the movie room, phone in hand. She frowned in such a way that had him hitting pause and setting the bowl aside.

“What is it?” he asked, concern seeping into his words.

She handed him the phone. “For you.”

“Thank you.” He brought the receiver to his ear. She ran her fingers through his still damp hair before leaving to give him some privacy. “Hello?”

“Milo,” Tommy said in an exasperated tone. “The guy who kidnapped you at the Hugo Boss show is here. He keeps switching from English to Japanese and pacing our apartment. I can only understand him half the time.” He paused. Milo’s stomach dropped. He knew what his friend was about to say next. “I think he’s looking for you. Come home and deal with him, please.”

He sighed. Kaz could disappear for days on end but Milo purposefully missed one dinner and the man goes to his home in search of him. He didn’t know whether to be touched or scared. Was it too much to ask for a day to himself to figure s**t out?

The moment Tommy hung up he knew there wasn’t any point in avoiding the inevitable. The longer he prolonged the encounter the harder it would be for the both of them. Kenji didn’t give him a hard deadline, but Milo figured he had meant to end things before Paris Fashion Week. The muscles in his chest constricted.