FALLON
The door to the bathroom creaks open, and Milo’s head pops out, a grimace on his face as he tosses his bloodied shirt into the basket by the door. “Fallon, can you please grab me some boxers and a towel?” His voice is husky, carrying an urgency that has nothing to do with his request.
I glance at Leone, whose nod directs me toward the walk-in closet. “Maria always leaves a few spares in there, top shelf,” he says, his eyes gleaming with an unreadable intent.
The closet air is cool against my skin as I step inside. The towels are just within sight, and beyond reach, stacked neatly above. “Leone, a little help here?” I call out, frustration lacing my tone while I yank open drawers, searching for Milo’s boxers.
What I find isn’t cotton or silk. My hand freezes on a sleek, metallic
