After everything that had happened, being forced to strip naked in front of a crowd no longer seemed frightening.
Milo stared at the ceiling of the small room he had been hiding in for the past two days. It was barely big enough to hold a bed and a chair. The walls had water stains on them, and the floor creaked if he shifted his weight.
It was not a room anyone would choose. But Milo had not chosen it for comfort. He had chosen it because no one would look for him here. He wished it would stay that way.
He lay still on the mattress, arms at his sides, eyes open. The smell coming up from the fabric beneath him was stale and damp, the kind that settled into a place after years of neglect. He tried to ignore it. He had ignored worse.
He closed his eyes.
His brain did not give him silence. After all that had happened, it went back again. To that day.
Thirteen years ago. He had been seven years old.
He remembered the night clearly. His uncle had brought him to the Hartley house and left without saying goodbye. Milo had stood in a large, bright room, not knowing what was happening or what was going to happen next. The house was enormous. Everything in it looked expensive. He did not belong there, and he knew it even then.
A boy had walked in. He was twelve years old, taller than him, and he looked at him with an arrogant smile.
"My name is Michael Hartley," the boy had said. "But you will call me Nero. Everyone does, because that is what I want." He had paused, then added, "I asked my father to buy you. Without me, you would have ended up on the streets. So now you are my slave."
Milo had already been crying most of that day after his whole family died in an accident. He had been scared since the moment his uncle told him they were going somewhere. Nero's words made it worse. He had stood there shaking, unable to speak, unable to move.
There were other men in the room. He did not know who they were. Their presence made him feel smaller.
Then Nero gave his first order.
"Since you belong to me, you do what I say. Take off your clothes. You won't need them anymore."
Milo was too frightened to refuse. He didn't fully understand what was happening. He only understood that Nero was serious and that there was no one in that room who was going to stop it or help him.
He stood there the rest of the night, naked, while Nero slept peacefully in his room.
It was only when Andro Hartley, Nero's father, came through later and saw him that anything changed. Andro said nothing to Milo directly. He told a servant to take Milo to the quarters where the household staff slept.
That night, Milo thought the worst was over.
He had been wrong.
As the years passed, Nero did not grow out of it. He got worse. More controlling. More unpredictable. The older Nero got, the tighter his grip became on everything around him — and especially on Milo.
Milo lost count of how many times Nero had ordered him to undress in front of guests. It had happened so many times that at some point the shame had stopped coming. He had not decided to stop feeling it. It had simply worn away, like skin over a wound that keeps reopening.
He became numb.
If he refused anything, Nero would take him to his room privately. What happened there, only Milo and the household staff knew about.
Afterward, Milo would be unable to get up for days. And he was not allowed to rest either, because if Nero called and Milo was late, there would be more punishment. It did not matter how badly he was hurt. It did not matter if he could barely stand. He was expected to come when called.
He had tried to run before. More than once. Every time, he had been found and brought back. Each time, the punishment had been enough to make him think twice about trying again.
But he had tried again anyway. This time, he had planned it more carefully. He had not told anyone, not even the police. He had learned.
He had avoided the obvious routes, the shelters, the places Nero's people had found him before. He had traveled far from the city and taken a room in a place that had no reason to be connected to him.
He had almost believed it would work.
Milo exhaled slowly. His whole body felt tight. Even lying still, his muscles were braced, waiting for something. He told himself he was safe. He told himself to breathe.
He fell asleep without meaning to.
He didn't know how long he had been out. It couldn't have been long.
He felt hands on him before he was fully awake—someone grabbing his arm and pulling him upright. His eyes opened fast.
The man standing over him was Sean, Nero's bodyguard.
Milo's stomach dropped.
"Sean." He said the name in a choking voice.
Sean was one of Nero's men. Broad, calm, efficient. He never raised his voice. He never had to. He looked at Milo now the same way he always did — without anger, with no expression, just doing his job.
"You should not have done this," Sean said. "You know what will happen."
Milo pulled back against the wall. "Please. Sean, please. Just let me go. Tell him you didn't find me. Please, help me!"
"Nero will kill you or me," Sean said, without any change in his tone. "I am not going to risk my life."
He pulled Milo off the bed and put him over his shoulder. Milo fought the whole way. It did not matter.
They brought him back to the Hartley house.
He was put down in the middle of Nero's study. His knees hit the floor. Sean stayed beside him.
Nero was in the middle of a meeting. Several men sat around the room — serious faces. Milo didn't dare lift his face. He was shaking too much.
Andro Hartley was there too, standing near the window with his arms crossed.
Nero glanced over at Milo. His expression did not change.
"Welcome back, Milo," Nero said. "Wait for me. And you know how I expect to find you later."
Milo knew. He had always known. He undressed without being told twice, and he knelt on the floor, looking down.
Andro turned away from the window. "What the hell is this? Can't you be more serious?"
"Dad." Nero's voice was flat. "You agreed not to get involved with him. He is not affecting anything right now."
Andro pressed his mouth shut for a moment. Then he moved on. "The situation with Portello needs to be resolved. We put a significant amount of money into that alliance. Now Nicolo is dead. Salvatore is a crazy bastard. Whatever we think of him, we need them on our side."
"I will handle it," Nero said. "I am telling you I will take care of it."
The conversation continued. Business, money, names Milo did not recognize. The men spoke as though he was not there. He stayed where he was, cold, on the hard floor, and he waited.
He didn't want the meeting to end. As long as they were talking, nothing else was happening. He held onto that. He focused on the voices, the words, anything that kept him in that moment and not on what came next.
But it ended.
The men filed out. Andro was the last to leave. He didn't look at Milo on his way out.
Then it was just Nero.
Nero crossed the room in a few steps. He stared down at Milo with an expression that Milo had seen many times. There was no calm left in it.
"Bring him to my room!" he ordered.
Milo trembled as he was dragged all the way to the man's room.
Milo groaned softly as his body was pushed into the middle of the room. He bowed his head and remained motionless, praying to anyone to help him.
Because he was sure today was the day he would die.
"You actually ran," Nero said. His voice was quiet, which was worse than shouting.
Milo closed his eyes, trembling as he heard Nero's footsteps approaching.
"After everything I have done for you. You ran. Again."
Nero reached over and grabbed a framed photograph from the desk. He swung it down.
Milo raised his arms over his head. The frame hit hard. He did not run. He did not make a sound yet. He had learned over the years that begging too early only made him more angry.
"I feed you," Nero shouted, the quiet gone now. "I give you a place to live. And you do this. You son of a bitch!"
The frame broke. Milo cried silently. The pain was so real. But he didn't move. He felt liquid running down his back. He didn't need to look to know it was blood.
Nero picked up a vase from the side table.
Milo felt the hit across his back. "Aargh!" He felt the pain travel up his spine. It felt like his bone had broken. He didn't look.
It's so painful.
Nero swung the vase again.
Milo widened his eyes. He grabbed Nero's leg, pressing his forehead to the floor.
"I'm sorry," he said. His voice cracked. "Please. I'm sorry. Please stop. It hurts!"
Nero kept shouting. He kept hitting. He didn't care that Milo kept begging and crying.
He only stopped when Milo was unconscious, with blood around him.
"Damn you! Take him to his room! Don't feed him!" Nero shouted at his servant.