Chapter 39: Chapter 39

◇ KEL ◇

18 minutes had dwindled since Miles excused himself to take a phone call, leaving me alone with Enzo at the dining table, who also got busy with his phone.

I waited, and waited. I stared at the end of the hall leading to the comfort rooms. Who was Miles talking to on the phone? Was he alone in the men's room?

"Does he think we're dating?"

I turned to Enzo. He was squinting at me and grinning lopsidedly, as if genuinely curious or amused by something. The question caught me off-guard, but he seemed rather interested than prying. "Maybe." I looked away and drank some water.

"So, he thinks we're on a date?"

"I suppose."

"Did he ask?" Enzo leaned in. His folded arms rested on the dining table.

"Not really."

"But what'd he say? Last time you talked over the phone."

"That I should stop talking to you."

Enzo chuckled. "Fair enough." He drank water from his glass and then kept staring at me. "Would you date him?" He smiled when I kept my lips shut. "If he tells you he wants a serious relationship?"

Did he think so? Why? "Yeah." I glanced away. "I guess."

"Have you told him that?"

"I don't have to." I made a face.

"Why not?"

"He knows it."

"How? If you never told him you love him."

"Words are overrated." I let out a short sigh. It wasn't like I could deny it—he'd already figured out how I really felt for Miles. I was a bad liar so I didn't attempt to dissuade him. He seemed interested in my issues with Miles.

Maybe he found it funny or amusing, and...immature? "You're scared he won't say it back," Enzo muttered.

"No. Just...I know he's not gonna do anything about it."

"Why not?"

"He's just gonna tell me to stay away," I muttered. "That I can't keep contacting him. That it's for my own safety...all that stuff."

"But what if he asks you to be in a relationship with him?"

"I dunno..." I shrugged. Why was he asking me all these hypothetical questions? "He's not the relationship type."

Despite my currently anxious state, Enzo tried to remain casual and nonchalant. Not a speck of judgment in his tone and words. "When he asked you to move in, he never hinted at anything?"

"No. We weren't even friends that time. We've hung out a few times but we weren't really..." I paused, opting to spare him the details from my memories. My brain was just distracted by other things. "He knew I hadn't found a place yet, so he just offered."

"He was seeing Niccolo then. Right?"

"Yeah. But Miles didn't say much about it. I just thought...he was someone I could trust because Paul said they'd been friends for a while."

"I see." Enzo faintly nodded a few times while he held back another grin. He looked quite satisfied with my explanations. He was about to ask me something else but his phone rang again. He excused himself and took the call.

While I waited for Miles to return to his seat across from mine, my thoughts wandered again.

1) "He's a close friend. A really good friend."

2) "It's funny but I'm like, his roommate and part-time maid. I live with him rent-free, though...among other upsides."

3) "He's helped me deal with a lot of things and he's someone I can count on."

Those were the lies I'd fed my brain for the past couple of months, just to avoid having to confront and deal with the truth. Well...make that half-lies.

If I had any courage in me, I would've confessed to the truth long before I had to start convincing other people that Miles and I were "just really good friends".

It was so fake and unnecessary. Agreeing to pretend we were in a relationship was just out-and-out stupid. Then Miles admitted he had to do it just to appease his parents in some way. Although I only agreed to it because he'd asked for my help, still, we lied. Why did I even agree? I must be going off the rails. My judgment was just flawed—flawed beyond repair.

I used to think we would never cross that line. Until the delirious, often irrational thing constantly beating in my chest started harboring feelings for my roommate. I sighed. The situation just felt so unfair.

Was it wrong to fall for the guy who helped me overcome my inner demons and hauled me out of a depressing mental state? The one friend who helped me realize I could live my life the way I wanted?

Medical school and my family topped my priority list at the moment, but Miles was a close third. These past months, I'd been convincing myself that leaving him in Italy would be best for us both, considering the recent circumstances.

Except now...my opinions on the issue seemed to have taken a different turn. A private one-on-one with him occupied my mind. I kept quiet, with no definite idea as to why he just showed up here in New York.

Was it a quick business trip? Did he like working for his father? Or perhaps the Falcos just wanted to make sure I kept my mouth shut about what I witnessed back in Umbria?

Whichever the case, I needed to talk to Miles alone. I excused myself when Enzo got busy with calls again. A tinge of dread in my gut just pushed me to follow Miles. I just wanted to hear him talk about the things he'd been up to.

Alone in the hallway leading to the men's room, I reached the door with the blue signage and knocked on it twice. Maybe, just maybe, he would let me in and we could finally talk in private.

"Miles?" I glued my ear to the door and waited for an answer.

Instead of hearing his voice, I only heard some muted noises of someone groaning, as if they were in great pain.

My heart skipped a beat at the realization. I put my hand on the metal knob and knocked another time. Of course it was locked. "Miles?"

"What?"

Finally. "Hey. You okay?" I pressed my ear onto the door again. Now my heartbeat seemed to have sped up a notch.

Miles answered with another muted grunt, followed by some clicking noises from the other side of the door.

I pulled back when he opened up. I caught the look of pain on his face before he tried to mask it with a deep scowl. "What's... Are you okay?" I stepped inside the comfort room when he backed off to let me in.

Miles didn't answer the question as I watched him lean against the sink. He was limping a bit.

His black business coat lay beside the sink. His broad shoulders drooped every time he breathed out loudly. Was he hurt?

"What?" I asked, noting his pale lips. My hand swiftly locked the door before I took brisk steps to reach him. Now I stood next to his slouching figure.

His intakes of breath sounded ragged. His dark, messy hair covered most of his face while Miles kept his head down. He was scowling.

I tried not to gawk. It shocked me how different—even unusually cocky—the Miles I just saw outside acted compared to this pitiful guy in pain standing beside me. "What's wrong?" I stood close. He kept grunting from what seemed to be excruciating pain.

"Nothing." Miles wheezed through clenched teeth. His right hand was clutching something underneath his shirt.

His stomach? "Tell me what's wrong so I can do something." I stepped closer. Veins formed crooked lines along his arm and looked like we were about to burst under his tan skin. I held his tensed arm. The sudden physical contact forced him to look at me.

My nearness trapped him against the sink while I inspected the rest of his body.

No cuts, bruises, or swelling. No superficial wounds or anything else that looked out of place.

"It's fine. Just...wait outside." Miles glanced away and used his sleeve to wipe the sweat off his face.

"Stop lying." Although I felt like sulking, immediate concern for him made me worry now. I touched his cheek and tilted his chin to make him face me.

For some reason, he had trouble looking into my eyes. One moment I'd catch him staring, and then he would look away as though our physical closeness bothered him.

"Why're you...are you squeezing your chest?" I tried to lift his shirt to check what his hand was holding underneath. "Any chest pain?"

"No." Miles lightly pushed me with his hand on my shoulders. He turned away. His warm breath smelled of medicine, and something metallic.

Like...blood? What the heck. Was he using again? "What part's the most painful?" I said a bit louder. To check his temperature, I palmed the side of his neck. "Hey."

Miles only grunted.

"Can't help you if you won't tell me anything."

"I'm fine," he muttered in between deep intakes of breath. A sheen of sweat stayed on his forehead. "He's still outside?"

"Yeah. Looking for you, too." I tried not to frown and took out my handkerchief. Why wouldn't he just tell me what's wrong? "I need to know what hurts." I wiped the sweat off his pale face, his damp neck, and muscular arms. I paused when he flinched.

His hushed but consistent swearing also indicated his pain level. "Just my stomach."

Stomach? Had he been experiencing frequent stomach pains? "From one to ten, how painful is it?"

"Manageable now." Miles wheezed again.

Seeing him hurting this much hurt me, too, only bunching up my negative thoughts. Should I bring him to the ER? It was only a five-minute drive away. "Let's get it checked in the emergency."

"No. I'm fine." Miles shook his head.

I held his forearms. The warmth of his breath contrasted the odd coolness of his skin. No jaundice or extreme changes in his complexion, though, and his right hand no longer clenched his waist.

"You need tests if it's your stomach you're worried about." I put on a straight face to conceal my anxious thoughts. Digestive pains were no joke. One day you're up and running, then, next few days you could be struggling for breath on your deathbed.

"It'll go away."

"Could be something way more serious if it happens often."

"I'm good. Stop worrying," Miles mumbled before glancing to the locked door. "Had lunch yet?"

"No. He's waiting outside. Can I take you to the ER?"

Miles tried improving his posture now. "Don't trust a single thing that comes out of his mouth."

I frowned. Was he serious? Deflecting all my questions and backstabbing Enzo now?

"D'you even know why he's here? In New York?"

"I don't know and I don't care," I muttered. I clasped his wrist. Ugh. Why wouldn't he just let me help him? "We're going to the hospital."

He didn't respond. We fell silent. Until shrill rings cut through the strained silence.

I scowled and grabbed my purse. Someone was calling. I checked my phone. It was Enzo, of course. "Hi," I greeted while I tried not to sound nervous.

"You found him?"

"Still in the men's room. I'll be back in a minute. I'm just waiting for him."

"No problem. Tell me if you guys want anything else. Appetizers are here."

"Okay. Thank you," I said before hanging up on Enzo.

To my left stood Miles, still leaning against the sink, no longer grunting in pain. But his lips remained the palest shade of pink. Lack of sleep and proper rest? Possibly. Stress at work? Highly likely.

"No more pains?" I asked.

He could be having trouble sleeping because of the stomach pains. It could be brought on by stress because of his new job, or something more serious, but I knew he hadn't gone to the hospital recently. He was the self-medicating, I'll-fix-it-myself kind of guy.

"You should get it checked if it happens frequently." I sighed when he said nothing. I ended up debating with my thoughts.

Should I mention Enzo's plan to find Niccolo? For some reason, Enzo suspected Niccolo was in Russia. "If the police can't find him, good chance he's somewhere in Russia," Enzo said roughly an hour ago.

When I asked why, he'd said it was a hunch. It just worsened my state of mind. If Niccolo's still alive, where was he exactly? What were the local cops doing to locate him? Did they know for sure that he was still alive?

The local news clips I'd found online a few months ago weren't helpful or informative enough. Did the Falcos know more about what happened to Niccolo?

"Enzo told me he could help, said he's gonna ask his contacts in Russia."

"Russia?" Miles repeated with a scowl. His reaction sounded like the idea discouraged him even more.

"He said he's got connections outside Europe." I swallowed the lump of anxiety in my throat. Now I just hoped Enzo didn't like breaking promises.

"Don't. Don't trust everything he says. Don't take his money, or ask for his help."

"Niccolo could be..." I muttered, my frail voice drifting to a whisper. "He could've been dead for months now, just rotting in a ditch somewhere."

"Yeah. They're remorseless like that. So stay out of it," he sighed after crossing his arms.

Obviously he knew things about the mafia families in Italy, but he just didn't think I should know much. "I was just imagining all kinds of things after your dad questioned me." I bit on my lip. I just couldn't think of anything else to say.

A tense moment dragged on before Miles spoke again. "Sorry," he mumbled. "If he scared you. He just wants to finalize the merger, soonest possible."

"I just hope, nothing bad happens to you, or your mom, and Ricchar and Cloe."

"Don't worry about that."

"How's Cloe?"

"Fine. Much better now. Busy like Charr."

"Tell them I said hi."

Miles nodded faintly. Another lengthy silence passed before he spoke again. "Nicco tried to blackmail me twice," he mumbled after glancing at me. "Suppose he wanted me to...tell him everything about Pappa's secret deals."

Secret deals?

"The Vinciguerras are..." He scoffed. "They've been involved with the Bôzìcs for years now. Loans and other things."

After hearing his admission, I let my frown deepen. Bôzìcs? The Russian mob family Miles, Enzo, and Ricchar told me about?

Did that mean Niccolo's family were already involved with the Russian mafia before Niccolo dug up dirt on the Falcos? Before he went missing?

"The Tomassinis hate snitches. People spying on their business. Got even more paranoid after that ambush. They have a lotta people doing their dirty laundry for them. Can't tell you anything more," Miles sighed. To some extent, he sounded regretful for sharing details.

Would he get in trouble? Most likely. So I wouldn't ask for more information. At least he was talking to me now, and he still trusted me.

"You can't tell anyone." Miles stood closer to me, feigning calmness, his face no longer slick with sweat.

"Okay." I stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

From now on, I should be good at keeping secrets. Right now, it was a matter of life and death.

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