The Heir's Secrets [Mafia Games 1]

Copyright © 2020 by MXian

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

Scenes, characters, dialogues and events in this story are all invented. This story contains mature themes, profanity, violence, and sexual content not intended for young readers. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this story or plagiarism of any kind is prohibited by the law.

- Author's Notes - Thank you for giving this a read! This is a rewrite of my first crime/romance/paranormal story. Sit tight and enjoy ❤

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◇ KEL ◇

Milan, Italy

Today wouldn't be any different.

This wouldn't be another one of those days. I had prepared for this, prepared my brain for instances like this.

My breaths had already turned shallow and quick. But I was in control; everything would be okay. I'd make it out of here easily-like everybody else-calm and in an orderly fashion.

I repeated the hopeful words in my head while my eyes focused on the wide mirror in front of me. "You're fine. Keep it together. You're in public. You've done your job...had a good run. Time to go home." I pushed stubborn strands of hair away from my cheeks, ignoring the anxiety welling up in my eyes.

My hand clasped the edge of the cold sink as I tried to stop the voices. They weren't exactly voices, though...more like, unwanted thoughts that threaten my sanity. My lips wrinkled into a frustrated frown as my paper-white reflection stared back at me.

The wipes my fingers crumpled dampened my skin with a coolness my dazed senses could barely register. I rubbed the foundation off my face and the swift, repetitive strokes started to chafe some color on my cheeks.

Two opening shows yesterday, one closing for this afternoon, and all went well. Typical work day-round-the-clock schedule, consecutive shows, nonstop changing and dressing up. My feet and back were killing me but at least I didn't trip or fall off the catwalk.

It had been my routine for three straight weeks now, including the work days I had to get up at 5AM to travel to the city for castings and fittings. I sighed. If I had other options, I'd quit in a heartbeat and find an easier job. But that wouldn't pay off my family's bank loans and credit card bills, would it?

As I leaned against the cold sink, a massive headache weakening my muscles started to bleed my patience dry. If this wasn't an escalating anxiety attack, then why did I feel like passing out on the floor right now?

Because you're weak...

Always been, always will be...

You're nothing but a stupid, gullible, pathetic wannabe...

◇

"Greetings, Ms. Nielsen.

We have received your application letter and regret to inform you that your application has been disqualified due to inconsistencies we have observed on your personal information sheet. We also failed to verify the birth records you have attached to your application files.

UCMLE's scholarship committee reserves the right to reject an application if false information has been provided. Scholarship grants awarded by UCMLE's committee are limited and are on a first come, first serve basis. Providing false or incomplete information on the application forms will immediately result in the applicant's disqualification. Charges of larceny and forgery may also be filed against applicants who knowingly provided false details in the scholarship application forms.

Should you have any concerns regarding this matter, our administrative department will be available Monday to Friday during office hours to provide any assistance, but we cannot guarantee that every request will be honored.

We wish you good luck on your future endeavors.

UCMLE SC Head Office"

It might have taken three re-reads and half an hour before my shock lessened to a manageable degree, only to let the disappointment and reality sink in.

Dropping the impeccably folded paper on my lap, I hunched over on the toilet seat cover, put off by the scrupulous people behind this disappointing act of rejection. I didn't open the letter until I was sure I would no longer have to face any of my employers or agents today. The letter had to wait. I put it off all night and all morning. I focused first on the jobs I had to do today.

All I had hoped for since those weeks of prepping the vexing amount of scholarship requirements, until today, was to be given a chance-a chance to join the list of scholarship awardees, and a chance to make my academic goals a reality this year.

UCMLE, a prestigious international school known to support local and foreign undergrads, provided the much coveted medical scholarship programs to those who qualified and met their exigent criteria. I had been waiting patiently for months. Long, tiring, anxious months.

A positive response was what I expected, of course. However, fate seemed to have a different plan for me and my future.

Modeling was a temporary thing, just a means to support myself financially for the time being, really. Not getting any younger and a lifelong career in the modeling industry? Moving to the North Pole would be less impossible.

A bachelor's degree in the field of study I'd chosen remained as my ultimate goal. But it seemed the odds weren't in my favor.

Not yet, perhaps. I would try again, but that would mean I was out-and-out desperate. Maybe I should just go home and try my luck in other colleges?

That would mean I had to take weeks off work, though. It would cost me more time and money. Although my mom and dad would be glad to help out, I wouldn't dare ask them for help. They had enough bills to worry about.

Money was becoming an issue these days, seeing as my dad was in and out of the hospital, battling respiratory complications his illness had once again triggered. I sighed and composed a short prayer in my head.

God willing, my dad's current condition would improve in the coming months. Rather unlikely, but we still prayed for his health to improve after this fourth hospitalization. The constant prayers might just work.

My eyes shut tight while my palms covered my face, and before I could finish the prayers in my head, my phone's shrill noises broke off my thoughts.

New message

From: Jill

"You busy?"

Today 3:19PM

◇

"Mykaela? You there? Kel?"

The familiar female voice made me relax my fist and momentarily forget about my unsettling thoughts. The oddly painful sensation in my gut told me it wasn't going away anytime soon. I should be used to this type of rejection by now, given the nature of my current job, but the constricting feeling in my chest just wouldn't go away.

"Yeah," I muttered after putting my phone on speaker mode. It was my sister, Jill, calling to check up on me all of a sudden. I didn't want any more family drama, so I took the call when I saw my older sister's photo and name on the screen.

"Are you still at the show? Sorry. Really wanted to be there but the hubs had to fly out."

"It's fine." I zipped up my coat until it totally covered my shirt.

"You sound weird. Eat breakfast and lunch yet?" Jill asked over the line, probably worrying about my skinny figure.

"Yeah. I'm fine." I used a more pleasant tone to cover up my lie. My voice didn't falter, thankfully. I put the call on the background to check if I had unread messages. Wait-

It was way past lunch. Miles could be around the area. I should text him now.

"Sure?" my sister asked. "What'd you eat? Don't say eggs again."

"Yeah. Precisely." I took a deep breath, pretending my rapid heartbeat didn't bother me. "How's baby Meesha?"

"Always sleeping when not hungry. Mom keeps saying you're still too skinny." Just like that, Jill moved on to more pressing family issues. "She keeps Googling recent photos of you and Miles; it's hilarious."

"Ugh. Please don't tell me she found posts of his self-portraits," I droned on. I'd been praying my puritanical parents hadn't stumbled upon my roomie's latest paintings yet.

"Too late." Jill laughed a little. "Her mouth just hung open for an entire minute. Can't blame her, though. Your boyfriend's got mad painting skills. I mean, whoa..." Jill paused to giggle again. "Those paintings looked so...anatomically correct."

I sighed. She was referring to the nude paintings Miles just finished. "For the hundredth time, not my boyfriend." I paused to think. "He likes guys. Jeez...this is gettin' exhausting." Not my problem our parents didn't believe my roommate only let me live with him because I liked to clean and cook.

"Maybe he's bi. Did you even ask?" Jill teased. "Anyway, no after-parties tonight?"

"Not interested." I abstractedly stared at my recently retouched and free manicure. Perks of being a full-time model. Lately I just didn't have the time to pamper myself, or deal with the usual anxiety disorders we working models had to hide on a regular basis. I'd easily choose to lounge in bed reading my new cardiology and pathology ebooks rather than spend all night partying with younger models whose last names I didn't even know.

"Why? You're goin' out with Miles?"

"Got somethin' else planned." I mumbled the white lie while checking my message inbox.

Why hadn't Miles replied? Was he busy hanging out with friends?

Impatience started intensifying my headache, so I decided to text him again. "Driving to the venue now? Pls wait in the parking lot," I sent twice.

He wasn't supposed to pick me up this early, but I just needed a friend right now. A comforting hug would be real nice, too.

Better days ahead, K. Better days will come.

I stepped out of the toilet stall where I'd been hiding, while doing some arms-above-the-head, standing yoga poses. I could barely breathe the first time I read the rejection letter.

My last panic episode months ago being the worst, I actually did some research. Turns out I had an anxiety disorder. I'd tried some self-treatment I read online, because, if I hadn't, Miles would've dragged me to a psychiatrist in a heartbeat. Which was the last thing I would go for. My bank account said enough. Seeing a shrink? Just out of the question. For now, at least.

"How true is it that his family's filthy rich?" Jill's voice drifted off to a whisper, her tone curious and a bit playful.

"They run two businesses, I think."

"Sounds accurate. The rumors are true, then," Jill muttered on the other end. "By the way, Mom told me to remind you to submit another application to NYU School of Med."

Ugh. Not again... I rolled my eyes. I'd applied into that same school two years ago. So far, not even a short rejection letter to show my folks. Hence my decision to move to another country to try working as a model here, because, apparently: no hard cash, no medical degree.

"K, she really wants you home," my sister went on. "She found videos of Miles drinking and partying. So, now Mom and Dad's more convinced your roomie's bad influence."

"Fine. Tell 'em I'll make time this month." I stood alone by the sink, unsure of what else to say.

Although I didn't appreciate the idea of another drastic change in my everyday life, I would submit another slew of scholarship applications to the medical schools in New York, just to appease my mother's worries. I frowned.

My entire savings couldn't even pay for half of my tuition should I choose to resume my studies in New York. And now my parents wanted me to quit my only job and go back to university?

After saying goodbye to Jill over the phone, I let my shoulders droop.

It wasn't until I heard a clicking sound that my senses went on full alert again, acknowledging the complete silence around me. The bathroom looked clean and the lights stayed bright enough, but the space was still rather small. The tension was again building up in my chest.

Darn those rejection letters. I should have just thrown them in the trash right away. Shouldn't have read them over and over. It shouldn't have bothered me that much, but I still hightailed it. Packed up and left New York. Left my family and friends just like that.

Luck was on my side when I'd met Miles again, or else I wouldn't have mustered up the will to just move away from home and make a living in a foreign country. And owing to his laudable niceness and very generous parents, I was able to follow through. If someone asked me, I'd honestly say I now loved my life here in Italy.

Then my message alert tone paused my train of thought again. It should be Miles. I checked my phone. Yep. He sent a reply: "Just parked in the far left. Where u at?"

"Thanks. Omw out." I sent the reply fast, mindful of my dizzy, aching head and cold hands. I shoved my phone back inside my satchel and headed out of the ladies' room.

It's just a short walk. Five minutes tops. Deep breaths...

No negative thoughts.

"You're fine. Miles is waiting out there," I reminded myself.

A minute later, I started jostling my way out of the crammed lobby, politely mumbling "Excuse me" and "Sorry" every now and then. My vision began to blur when a ringing in my ear intensified, drowning out the party music playing over the blaring speakers, the sounds of champagne glasses tinking, high heels click-clacking, and the loudening buzz of the conversations around me.

Jeez. I needed to get out of here. Now.

My stomach rumbled again. I took another deep breath and kept up a steady pace. I could make out the sidewalk behind the building's wide windows. There weren't as many people loitering by the entrance-twenty or so.

To seem perfectly normal, I smiled at the guard who opened the entrance door for me. "Hi." I put on a smile, which disappeared soon enough when I made it out the huge glass doors.

An array of vehicles lined either side of the sunlit street. I started my hasty strides towards the parking lot, thankful that my intakes of breath weren't as forced and noisy. Street noises echoed around while my eyes skimmed the multi-colored lines of parked cars.

My anxious search didn't last a minute because I soon caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired guy in a familiar pair of sneakers. He stood by a black sedan with his back to me, his attention held by his cellphone.

Ah...my happy pill.

I wanted to call out to him, but my throat felt funny, almost compressed.

"Hey." Miles spotted me and put his phone away, his brisk steps accompanied by dark, scrunched brows. Old paint smudged the hem of his wrinkled shirt. During season breaks, if he wasn't doing print jobs, Miles spent days and nights in his studio just painting and painting, until he would eventually lose either inspiration or concentration.

"What's up?" Miles asked upon reaching my side. His brows crumpled more when he noticed I'd gone stiff as a board in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Let's go home," I managed to say without stuttering.

My timid response seemed to bother him. Miles pulled me close to his side. He even bent down to peer at my face. "What?"

"Later," I mumbled before handing him my bag. Miles had already placed his arm around my back. I sped up my steps even though his ride sat a few cars away. My fingers curled inside my pockets while I blinked away the dizziness and warm tears filling my tired eyes.

"You look like you're gonna be sick."

"Just hungry." I glanced behind and fought the urge to cry, holding back the other reason why I felt like I was going to bawl any second now.

Crybaby. No one really likes you. You don't take anything seriously.

You're a quitter. You made that conscious choice over and over. Live with it.

Ugh. The negative thoughts still lingered. I should just sleep it off the minute we get home.

I tried my best not to cry as Miles and I rushed along the busy sidewalk.

"You sure?" Miles didn't seem to believe me, probably because he could easily spot my lies. We reached his parked car in no time.

"Let's just go home."

"You okay or d'you need to throw up?" Miles opened the passenger door for me and leaned against his car. "You don't wanna eat out? Or we could grab dinner along the way."

"I'm good," I said when he kept waiting for me to speak up. "Just having a nervous breakdown."

◇

◇ KEL ◇

His phone wasn't on loudspeaker, but I could hear enough. His dad just had this deep and clear-cut, usually authoritative voice.

I grabbed my satchel and pretended not to listen in before I unbuckled my seat belt. Ignoring Miles and his glances took some acting skills. I just didn't want him to think I was eavesdropping.

He reclined in the driver seat, frowning, his attention currently held by an unexpected phone call from his parents. Mr. Falco asked another question over the phone as Miles parked in front of the house.

"Sì, Pappa." Miles pulled the car keys out of the ignition as I stepped out of the passenger seat. "Erm...sì. Aspetti, forse verrò," Miles said, his obvious reticence thinning his voice. With his cellphone pressed onto his ear, he muttered more Italian phrases and stepped out of his car, hurriedly and with a mild frown I got used to seeing every time he talked to his parents on the phone.

Consistent and quite curiosity-piquing, but definitely none of my beeswax. The phone call just got past the five-minute mark. Interesting. Miles didn't talk to his family often.

Why? Not sure. He rarely visited or called his parents, as far as I could remember. Granted, they were busy with the family business, but, they were merely a two-hour flight away. To give Miles some privacy, I proceeded to the front lawn of our quiet abode.

Well, I barely had the right to imply partial ownership of the high-priced house and lot. But for several months now, the simple but elegant two-storey house had been my home away from home, my secure and private residence away from the busy city...Miles being my freehanded landlord slash roommate, of course.

He caught up to me sooner than I could unlock the huge front door. The drive from the show venue lasted two hours or so, my aching back and legs telltale signs of my overworked state.

"Feelin' better?" Miles murmured with a pout.

"Kinda," I sighed. Sleeping in all weekend, for sure.

Fashion Week always did me in. Grueling. Time-consuming. The only thing I appreciated right now was the apparent fact that my head didn't feel like it was being jackhammered from inside my skull, and the possibility of a bigger paycheck this week.

"Rest up; you're exhausted." Miles watched me fumble with the keys and held my purse for me.

"Want something to eat?" I unlocked the bolts. The heavy, solid hardwood door made me wince. My limbs ached whenever I would make sudden movements. Dinner and a good night's sleep to recuperate from the runway stints would definitely help.

"I'll cook. Haven't eaten all day, have you?" Miles lingered in the doorway, his car keys jangling in his hand. "Want something heavy?" he asked when I ignored his questioning.

I was already in the hallway to his spacious kitchen. "Um...sure."

He nodded faintly, walked into the kitchen, and flipped some lights on.

I just about dragged my feet until I reached the dining room. Did he want some snacks? Or we could have an early dinner.

"No more shows?" Miles took raw meat and vegetables out of the tall fridge. "Free tomorrow?" He switched the stove on and kept his back to me, his hands quick with the ingredients.

"Yeah. So tired," I muttered. The exhaustion forced me to just say "tired" instead of thoroughly exhausted. I stretched my achy back and enjoyed watching him get busy. I chose one of the eight dining chairs.

The wide table served little to no purpose, frankly. The only time the dining set wasn't totally empty was when Miles let the security staff enjoy a warm home-cooked meal with us, which was a rarity. Miles loved his privacy.

"Rare or medium rare?" Miles asked. "Mykaela..."

"Yeah." I smiled as the aromatic smell of meat cooking distracted me from falling asleep with half of my torso on the speckless dining table. "Cook it your way."

"Still finishing a painting. Can't drive you around if you'd like to go somewhere later."

"Goin' out's the last thing on my mind right now." I massaged my temple and reclined.

Strange how my headache and dizziness just vanished after a two-hour drive with Miles behind the wheel. I didn't even nap for a whole hour.

"My headache's gone." I moved to another chair, the one nearest to the stove. I loved watching him cook. Miles Falco...slaving away in his own kitchen to fix me a meal-such a rare sight. Almost funny, actually. "What's your secret? You're always better than painkillers."

"You just like me that much." Miles smirked when he caught me staring from afar. He flipped the pinkish pieces of meat and let them crackle on the pan.

Everything just smelled divine. My stomach wanted to jump for joy. No runway shows until next week-now I could eat whatever I wanted. My stomach grumbled while my nose enjoyed the scent of garlic and raw meat cooking.

"Eat everything on your plate. I'm not stepping out of the basement after this."

"Sudden bout of inspiration?" I smiled and waited for him to spare me a small grin. More often than not, he behaved like the serious, loner type. And we hadn't had a proper conversation since he sped out of the show venue's parking lot. "You done with the biggest?" I asked with more enthusiasm. His newest paintings must look breathtaking. "Can I take a look?"

"Definitely not." Miles kept his gaze on the stove. The barbecue sauce on the pork chops made noise over the intense heat. "I'm not even done shading the first one yet."

"How's your Mamma and Pappa?" I asked out of sheer curiosity.

"Fine."

Counting out the scraping and crackling noises on the stove, the entire kitchen and dining room fell silent when Miles didn't further our conversation.

Something bothered him. I could sense it. He was never this reserved, except when he got busy behind a canvas. Miles hadn't looked me in the eye since that kiss back at the show venue.

It wasn't really a kiss, though. More like, an awkward lips-on-lips contact. Between friends. Plain old friends. Never been the "with benefits" kind. Not in the romantic sense, at least.

It wouldn't be an issue had the circumstances been different. If it was him who gave me a kiss, I wouldn't put any meaning behind it. At times, he was just that easygoing and affectionate towards his friends after a couple drinks-not that he had a lot of friends.

But we both knew I'd kissed him earlier because of something else entirely. Miles seemed uptight that I hadn't come clean about it and my panic-stricken behavior earlier.

Perhaps he was just waiting for me to start a discussion about it. Fine. I'd let the cat out of the bag, just so he would stop being fairly unsociable. I walked towards the stove without hesitation and then hugged him from behind. "Thanks."

"For what?" Miles stood still and stopped angrily scratching the frying pan with the spatula-like he'd rather do construction work than kitchen duties.

"For being the chef today and for picking me up early."

"Not gonna happen again, so don't get used to it."

"Hey. I'm tryin' to be nice here." I stopped hugging him to pinch his arm.

"Fine- Just, get off me." He chuckled while his free hand tried to push me away. "You'll get oil burns."

"Fine. Be mean." I backed a few steps away from the warm stove and kept my hands to myself. Was he dodging the serious conversation I was just about to start? Good thing we were back to being friendly, though.

"Get the cayenne." Miles continued to stare at the brownish pork chops making noises on the hot pan. "And parsley."

"Got it, chef." I was just about to tend to his request when my ringtone trilled. I froze and gripped my phone.

Could it be the university offices?

Did they have to reprimand me over the phone, too? Did they actually blacklist me? Jeez. Another headache I didn't need... I badly hoped they didn't actually think I would forge records just to qualify for that scholarship. Honestly, I still had no idea why they thought I submitted counterfeit documents.

They were all certified true copies-I swear. Why did their rejection letter warn me for allegedly sending them fake background records? Would they report me to every medical institution in the country?

Dear God...I hope not.

My anxiety didn't escalate into panic mode when I read my sister's name on the screen. For a moment, I just stared at Jill's photo, her big smile and light brown curls promptly reminding me of our mom.

Jill took after our mom, whereas I inherited my stick-straight dark hair and strong features from our dad. Jill and I hadn't been in constant communication all year long since our last serious conversation on the phone, which had resulted in an argument about me leaving the U.S. on a whim.

I took the call and stepped away from Miles. "Hey. Baby's asleep?" I asked my sister over the phone.

"Yeah. Hey." Jill's hoarse voice greeted me, her tone urgent. "Mom wants to take Dad to the hospital."

◇

◇ KEL ◇

"Dessert? Bought pudding and chocolate cake." Miles glanced at me.

"Thanks. Maybe later," I replied as I stood still. I gripped my phone, secretly anxious for a call or a text from an unregistered number. Jill's quick phone call surprised me as much as it was informative. I had to keep it short and casual, or else Miles would think I was having another panic attack.

Part of me just didn't want Miles to notice anything unusual. I glanced around the spacious basement. Paint-smeared cans, scrapped lifesize canvasses, and soiled, overused rags littered the floor of the studio, and most of them were just days-old trash waiting to get stuffed into large garbage bags.

It was the only room in the house where my artistic friend didn't observe cleanliness and order to an impressive degree. It was also the only room where I was least welcomed in. Miles loved working on his art in total solitude, quiet and undisturbed.

White lights lit the basement, but not too brightly that I'd find myself squinting. He probably liked the fairly mysterious lighting. Maybe it helped him get in the mood to paint?

He stood in the middle of the room now and his pants looked overused with patches of different paint colors. "You're the only girl I know who doesn't like chocolates."

"I'm just really full," I replied. My stomach just protested at the thought of artificial flavorings and processed sugars. The juicy, meaty steak he'd cooked for me was enough to satiate my appetite. "Want a slice? I'll get some for you."

"No."

Oh. Why was I in here again? He kind of insisted that I come down here with him after I cleaned up the dishes. Did he want to talk about something? "Need help with something?"

"No."

His immediate reply made me sit still beside his paint cans. I stared at his broad back while he continued to paint. "So you...need to talk?"

Was he going to mention the kiss now? Right now? Shucks.

"I think," Miles mumbled while his impressively precise hand painted dark strands on the canvas. "You should ask yourself that."

"Um...okay?" I scrunched my brows at his vague response.

Tiny beads of sweat glistened on his forehead every time he'd turn away from the canvas to grab something from his paint stash. "So?" Miles stayed focused on the painting.

It featured a woman with long hair as dark as a raven. Her slender body was resting on something slanted.

"What happened back at the show?"

"Nothing." I bit on my lip. My voice almost wavered. Sheesh. Such a terrible liar. "Just the usual."

"Did anyone unwelcome approach you?" Miles turned to glance at me. His grin was mild and quite forced. My odd behavior after the fashion show definitely piqued his curiosity.

"No. Just needed a proper meal, and a good night's sleep." I paused to chastise myself internally. I should just tell him what triggered my anxiety again. However, at the moment, I just didn't want to burden him with my personal problems.

Miles wouldn't complain, but I knew he's busy with his own career and I should just learn to deal with my own issues singlehandedly. "Did an agent or director tell you to lose a few pounds again?"

"No." I held back a smile; he still thought I was having trouble eating properly. He cared a lot, sometimes without directly saying or showing it.

"What'd Jill say?"

"Um...Mom drove Dad to the hospital again," I replied.

His long and careful hairlike strokes halted at my reply. Miles cleared his throat, as if surprised by the news. "Emergency?"

"Yeah. Breathing problems again, but...Mom said the pulmonologist will send him home in a few days. Or earlier, if his appetite improves and if he doesn't show any allergies to the new medication."

At my hesitant tone, Miles paused for a moment and studied the colorful painting. Seconds of awkward silence filled the room and made me uneasy.

I could tell he felt the same. Miles only kept eye contact to a minimum whenever he was anxious or bothered by something.

"You wanna go home?" He picked up a thicker brush. His back slouched and remained facing me while his paint-smeared fist clenched beside his hip.

"I can't." I rubbed my palm against my forehead, unsure of what else to say. "I booked three shoots. Dates are next month."

"But, you wanna go home for a bit?"

"Not really," I said. "I need to save up more."

"If you need money, just say so."

His response almost made me sigh. "Not your obligation, but, thanks."

"Just say so if you need it for the bills or..." Miles didn't press on, but his tone denoted a fair amount of doubt.

"Thanks, but no thanks. Can we talk about something else?" I covered my face with my hands to muffle a long sigh. My mom wanted me home, for sure. But I still had jobs to finish this month and the next, commitments to fulfill, and paychecks to collect. I couldn't afford to just drop work to fly back to New York for a quick break and a family visit.

"Okay. Sorry." Miles turned away from the canvas to wipe his overworked fingers with an old rag. The look on his face appeared blank instead of sympathetic. He stepped closer to where I sat, waiting for me to start up another conversation-one that didn't involve surprising phone calls and family issues, perhaps.

"How's your dad?" I asked out of the blue. I tried to maintain eye contact with him. A part of me hoped he was in the mood to talk about his family, even though I wasn't in the mood to talk about mine.

I'd known him for roughly two years now (although we were merely acquaintances then) and I'd been living with him for almost one, but his being tightlipped about his own family still remained a mystery I had yet to unravel.

"What about 'em?" Miles looked away and grabbed something on the paint-stained table. He bunched up his shoulder-length dark brown hair with an elastic band.

"Just...you were talking to your dad and," I muttered. "I wasn't listening in, but..."

"He said they're coming over."

"Really? For your birthday?" I smiled when Miles only nodded. "How's your Pappa?"

"Fine," he mumbled. "Busy. As always." He faced the canvas and ripped open a sachet of something he used for mixing oil colors.

A moment of silence prolonged when he didn't say anything else. "You don't visit or call them up," I remarked. I was just curious about his parents.

From what he'd shared about his wealthy family, I knew his parents barely had time for him as they were always tied up with the clan's longtime businesses. Miles had also mentioned once or twice that his parents, more often than not, could get a little controlling and domineering.

But to what extent-I had yet to discover for myself. "Why? I mean...I just noticed you don't talk to them often."

"Says the girl who never calls home and ran away twice now." Miles smirked and turned his attention back to his painting.

"Okay- No. " I chuckled. "That's an exaggeration." I shook my head and stood up from the chair to get closer to him.

The canvas he worked on stood far from me, but the strong smell of fresh paint and thinner assaulted my nose. I had to smother half of my face.

"Go rest up," Miles advised when he saw me covering my nose.

"What d'you want for your birthday?"

Instead of answering my question, he ignored me and continued shading the outline of the faceless woman on the painting.

"I need to get you something. Help me out."

"Anything's fine."

"What about a new book?" Why hadn't I thought of that sooner? He loved to read. Tonight I'd look for new and interesting novels online. "No? What about cake? Party stuff?" I asked when he didn't respond. "New boyfriend?"

My suggestion made him scoff. "Right. 'Cause that's just what I need right now."

His evasive reply got me quiet. I stayed standing a few steps behind him.

Maybe he was already seeing someone new? But that was another story for another time. Clearly he wasn't in a chatty mood, and I knew he needed a couple more hours to complete the paintings.

"Are those finished?" I asked of the smaller paintings in the corner of the studio. I sat on the edge of the table with the disorderly collection of painting materials. I even saw a few knives on the desk, and other sharp tools whose purposes I didn't even want to know.

"Barely," Miles sighed. "The new deadlines are fuckin' exhausting."

"Okay. I'm out." I got back on my feet, stretched my aching back, and fumbled for my phone. "Ow!" I flinched when something sharp pricked my hand. "What the he-" I checked my hand.

On the side of my palm was a thin wound taking form.

For a noiseless few seconds, I did nothing but stare at the crooked line of bright red blood staining my pale skin. The warm liquid oozed and lined the side of my palm while a stinging pain registered in my head.

The heck... How did I cut myself?

My gasp must've been loud enough since Miles stopped whatever he was doing and rushed towards me in a blink. "What?"

"I cut my hand."

"With what?" Miles looked around. He sighed when he saw the knife behind me just sitting on the table. He held my wrist gently after inspecting the wound. "I'll clean it up."

"No; it's fine." I pulled my hand out of his grip to stop him from touching my bloody hand. I dismissed his fussing and eyed the stairs, the only way out of his studio and this cold basement.

"It might get infected-"

"I'll just...get the first aid kit upstairs."

"Mykaela-" Miles grabbed my forearm, and our small tug-of-war lasted some more seconds.

"It's nothing," I mumbled. The pain under my skin intensified, but I ignored it. The second I realized he was intent on taking care of it, I stopped resisting.

At that instant, the side of my injured palm hit his face, and before either of us could react, a bright red smear of my blood already stained his parted lips.

Oh you clumsy idiot, I chided myself. My throat constricted at the sight of my own blood on his lips. "Jeez. I'm sorry."

Speechless beside me, Miles let go of my forearm. He lifted his paint-smudged fingers to his lips. He grinned at the splotch of my blood on his skin. "Kinky. I like it."

On impulse, my feet took a couple steps back as my cheeks burned up at his comment. "You're unbelievable." I put my hand behind me and faked a chuckle.

"And you gotta stop giving your parents more reasons to hate me."

◇

◆ MILES ◆

I was exaggerating. Her parents didn't hate me-they were devout Catholics. Like my mom's family. The Nielsens were the "regular churchgoer" type.

Same with their daughter, I couldn't imagine Kel's parents hating someone. But I knew they didn't really approve of our living situation here in Italy. My parents didn't encourage it, either.

Still, I didn't really give a shit. I liked having Mykaela around. She kept me grounded and levelheaded. The past year, she'd been a lot of help to me.

She took care of household chores, she fed me good food, she curbed my propensity for alcohol and drug abuse, and she was my unpaid personal nurse that time I was going through withdrawal.

With her help and moral support, I quit doing drugs and didn't even need to go back to rehab. Because of her, I wasn't contemplating reverting to my self-destructive ways as often as before. She kept me alive and well, basically.

"How's your hand?" I asked while polishing the finishing touches on the life-size painting I'd been trying to complete for months now. Like the last time I tried painting a big one featuring a female subject, I asked Mykaela to model for me an hour after I helped patched up her injury.

"Fine." Kel glanced up to smile at me, her short dark hair and thick lashes emphasizing the paleness of her smooth complexion as she lay still on an old couch in the middle of my art studio. Her slim arm hid half of her naked chest, while a long lacy dress covered most of her skin-tone underwear and beautiful legs. "Almost done?"

"99 percent," I replied after giving the painting one last color check. The shading looked decent, the gradients quite realistic. To me at least. A gratifying sense of accomplishment took over my thoughts as I stared at the completed artwork.

One more thing to sell and impress my small client base with soon. Considering I wasn't the type to always finish something I started, I felt pretty good about myself right now.

"Can I see?" Kel grinned wider now.

"Yeah. Your job tonight's done," I muttered with a smirk.

"Cool beans..." She gasped upon seeing the finished product, with her arm wrapped around my back as we stood in front of the life-size artwork. "So beautiful."

"Is it?" I watched her smile narrow her pale green eyes and felt even better about my latest work. Maybe I should ask her out to dinner this weekend to thank her for helping me out, once her busy "full-time model" schedule calmed down.

"Yeah. Very." With a giggle, Kel walked away to get dressed behind the canvas. "She looks like me, too. Oh! I bought you new brushes by the way."

"Why?" Did I mention to her that I needed new paintbrushes? When?

"Nothing. I just thought of you, when I passed by that new arts and crafts store after the shoot." She beamed at me again before giving me a hug from behind.

"Thanks," I murmured, waiting for her to say she missed me after I'd been hiding here in my studio for three days straight. Deadlines and all. "How much did it cost?"

"Shh! I'm busy." As she kept staring at the woman on the painting, her pale arms tightened around my waist.

I wasn't a hugger, and emotional intimacy made me cringe more often than not. But with her, it felt kind of natural and effortless. Whenever she hugged me, it gave me a different kind of comfort I wasn't quite used to.

Then her soft palms pressed onto my fly, reminding me that I wasn't wearing briefs underneath my pants. I knew she didn't mean to, but she didn't stop hugging me as we stood in front of the canvas, just enjoying the silence and privacy. Her jasmine-smelling shampoo and roses-inspired perfume distracted me, too.

Shit. I hadn't rubbed one out in weeks. My junk actually hurt now. But I'd rather not say her hug was already giving me a boner. I wasn't on antidepressants anymore-ergo, it's just my libido acting up again.

I wouldn't deny that I'd been crushing on her, though. Just because she was such a good influence. Over the past couple of months, she helped me deal with my issues. Mykaela helped me work on my self-image, my mental health, and improved my outlook on life in general.

Sometimes I thought of her as my tamer, more intelligent, more levelheaded alter ego. We just had a lot in common despite growing up with different backgrounds.

My Italian parents had money, while her humble working-class family were mostly immigrants who sought their version of "the American dream". She grew up with an older sister in a happy household with a normal childhood, while mine was the opposite.

Only child. Often sad. Lonely. Living with psychologically scarring memories that haunted me to this day.

A few times, I imagined her in bed with me so I could show her how much I enjoyed her company. Sometimes I would lust over her, imagining kissing her and fucking her senseless whenever I watched some smut. But I never acted on it.

It would only ruin our friendship-our comfortable bond and our ideal living situation. So I held back. Just common sense, really.

Sometimes, I would daydream about us and ponder asking her to try being in a serious relationship. But then I'd sober up and immediately remember how fucked up my family is, and I'd instantly dismiss the thought of having any future with her. Once the booze wore off, it slapped me with the harsh reality that I was far from the ideal guy she wanted or needed in her life.

So for now I'd keep my dick in my pants and carry on with my routine. I'd rather be alone and stay her friend than risk losing her just because of these asinine biological urges.

Besides, she wasn't the kind of girl who would be up for a friends-with-benefits type of thing. Far from it, actually.

◆