It turned out that Mila was hungrier than she originally thought she was. And being waited on hand and foot was an... interesting experience for her.
Not to mention, the food that was brought was really, really good. Maybe even too good.
Mila dug in, sitting cross-legged on the bed with the tray balanced on her knees. There was roasted chicken, vegetables that actually tasted like something good, and bread that still had steam rising up.
She couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten like this. Normally it was just a cup of Mr. Noodles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
When she finished, she set the tray aside and stared at the door.
It was still locked. It had continued to be locked for two days now, except for the servants who brought her food. But she didn't mind it as much as she thought she would.
Being locked in this room had given her the time she needed to come up with a plan.
And she was done playing nice with others.
Mila stood up from the bed, wincing as her shoulder still protested her movement, and walked to the bathroom. She needed clothes and she needed to get out of this room.
Finding the spot where she had crumpled up her bloody jeans, she pulled a single bobby pin out of a seam.
Some old habits were just too hard to get rid of.
A foster brother, back when she was twelve, had taught her how to pick locks using anything handy. Of course, a bobby pin was the easiest thing to use so she always made sure to have at least one on her at all times.
According to him, she was a complete natural... which was probably why he eventually taught her how to boost cars, too.
Mila walked back to the bedroom door and knelt carefully, keeping her weight off her injured shoulder and not caring that she was still wearing the towel.
The lock was simple. Sure, it looked pretty, all glittery and gold, but it really wasn't anything for her to worry about.
She slid the bobby pin in, feeling for the pins inside.
With a decisive click, the door that had been closed for two days opened.
Rising to her feet, Mila let the small smirk appear on her face as she slipped the bobby pin onto the top of her towel. No point in leaving her new home without it. And if anyone asked, the door had been unlocked the whole time.
With a shrug of her shoulders, she stepped into the hallway.
She moved quietly, her bare feet silent on the marble floor as she quickly made her way down the stairs. It wasn't like she was trying to escape, and it wasn't like she would get very far in her current outfit, but she needed a computer, and Dante would know how to get her one.
On the main floor, far away from the front door, there was a massive, luxurious hallway with multiple doors. Perking up her ears, she could hear voices coming from one of them.
The door was cracked open just enough for her to see inside. It was an office with dark wood and leather furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the grounds beyond.
Dante stood behind the desk with his back to her, and another man sat across from him, probably around Dante's age and dressed in a sharp suit as he leaned back in his chair like he owned the place almost as much as Dante did.
Mila knocked lightly before pushing the door open without waiting for either of them to respond.
Both men turned, and Dante's eyes locked on her immediately. His expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted and tightened as the other man's gaze dropped briefly to the towel before returning to her face. He didn't smile, but there was something quietly amused in his eyes.
"You got out," he said, cocking his head to the side.
"The door was unlocked," Mila replied evenly with a shrug. "Not my fault that my dinner came with an opened door."
The other man stood and buttoned his jacket as he moved toward them. The closer he came, the taller he got, he was just a few inches shorter as Dante, and with dark hair and sharp eyes that made every one of Mila's instincts flare in warning.
"Marco Russo," he introduced himself. "Dante's… friend."
Mila nodded once. "Mila."
"I know."
That stopped her.
Marco gestured toward the chair he'd just vacated. "Sit."
"I'm fine standing."
"Sit," Dante repeated.
Mila's eyes flicked to him and then back to Marco before she sat, the leather cold against her bare legs as she adjusted the towel to make sure it stayed in place and folded her hands in her lap.
Marco leaned against the desk with his arms crossed. "You jumped in front of a bullet for me."
She snorted softly. "You don't say."
"Why?"
Mila met his gaze. "Someone was about to get shot."
"And that was your problem?"
"It seemed like it at the time."
Marco's mouth twitched—not quite a smile. "You didn't know who he was."
"No."
"You didn't know what you were walking into."
"No."
"And yet you still did."
Mila exhaled slowly, already feeling the beginnings of a headache settle in. "Are we going somewhere with this?"
Dante stepped forward, his presence filling the space between them. "He's asking if you were planted."
Her stomach dropped.
"Planted," she repeated.
"Sent," Marco clarified. "Paid. Positioned."
Mila stared at him like he was an idiot and then laughed, the sound coming out sharp and bitter enough to make both men go still.
"You think someone paid me to jump in front of a gun?" she asked. "Do I look like I have that kind of job security?"
"You look," Marco said carefully, "like someone who doesn't belong in that café."
"I was there for the coffee."
"With forty-five dollars in your bank account."
Mila's chest tightened, hating the fact that they had looked into her.
Of course they had.
"Fine. I went there for cheap coffee and the free internet that goes with it. I needed to find work," she replied flatly. "Odd jobs. Temp shifts. Whatever pays. But they never last long, and I needed another job."
"And yet you had time to sit in a café," Marco pressed.
"I was looking for more work."
"On what?"
She hesitated.
"My laptop."
Dante's eyes narrowed. "Where is it?"
"I don't know," Mila admitted. "I left it at the café."
Marco and Dante exchanged a glance.
Mila's pulse quickened. "Why? Do you have it?"
Neither of them answered.
She leaned forward slightly, ignoring the pull in her shoulder. "I need it back—or I need a new one. I don't care which, but I need to find work."
"Why?" Dante asked.
"Because I have bills that need to be paid."
"You're here now. I pay all the bills. You don't have to worry about your bills anymore."
"That doesn't mean my bills instantly disappear," she snapped. "I still have people depending on me, and I can't just disappear and expect everything to pause."
Marco tilted his head. "What people?"
Mila clenched her jaw. "That's not your business."
"Everything about you," Dante said quietly, "is my business now."
She stood abruptly, the chair scraping back behind her. "I didn't ask for this."
"You inserted yourself in my life the moment you saved me."
"You said it yourself; I saved your life. That doesn't mean you own me now."
"And now I'm saving yours."
Mila's hands curled into fists. "I don't need saving. I need a job, and I need money, and I need to get back to my life."
"Your life," Marco cut in, "was torn apart this afternoon."
She froze.
"What?"
Marco straightened. "Your apartment. Someone went through it. Thoroughly."
Mila's breath caught as she looked between the two men. "When?"
"Today. A few hours after the café incident."
Her mind raced—her apartment, her things, the few belongings she actually cared about.
"Did they take anything?" she asked.
"Not that we know," Marco replied. "But they were looking for something."
Mila swallowed hard.
Dante stepped closer, his hand lifting to rest at the back of her neck—neither rough nor gentle, but grounding.
"What were they looking for, Mila?"
She met his eyes. "I don't know. It's not like I have anything of value—and even if I did, I would have sold it long ago."
The room went silent as Marco watched her carefully and Dante's grip tightened just slightly.
"You're lying," Dante said.
Mila didn't flinch. "I'm not."
"Then why," Marco asked, "does a woman with forty-five dollars and no fixed income have an encrypted laptop worth more than her rent?"
She raised an eyebrow like she thought they were crazy.
Dante's thumb brushed against the base of her skull. "What are you hiding?"
"I'm not hiding anything," she said, her body shivering at his touch, though it had nothing to do with the fact that she was still sitting there in nothing but a towel.
Dante leaned closer, his voice dropping until it was nothing more than a breath against her skin. "Then why don't I believe you?"