Hartley Mansion.

Nero sat on the edge of his bed, the silk sheets rustling under his weight. In his right hand, he held the iron collar that Victor had delivered just hours ago. It was heavy, made of solid, polished metal with a reinforced hinge.

It was designed to be permanent, once locked, only the key he possessed could release it. It was supposed to be the final mark of his ownership.

But he felt like something wasn’t right.

Nero gripped the collar so tightly his knuckles turned white. His pulse throbbed in his neck. He felt a strange, nagging unease in his chest, a sensation he wasn’t used to. It felt like he had misplaced something vital, like a part of his daily routine had been ripped away.

For thirteen years, Milo had been there. Even when Milo was being punished, he was there.

But now, the room was empty. Nero’s mind kept flashing back to Salvatore’s face. He had seen the look in the other man’s eyes, a dark, possessive interest that Nero recognized all too well, but not the way Salvatore looked at his Milo.

It annoyed him. It was the irritation of a child watching someone else reach for his favorite toy.

"He is mine," Nero whispered to the quiet room. "Nobody touches what belongs to me. Not even a Portello."

The feeling of Milo being gone was alien. Nero felt a growing urge to drive back to that mansion right now, to break down the doors and drag Milo back by his hair.

He needed to hear the boy’s shallow breathing. He needed to see the fear in those hazel eyes. Without it, Nero felt himself slipping toward the edge of agitation that bordered on madness. He needed to pick up Milo soon.

Very soon.

***

The sun was rising over the Portello estate, casting long, orange shadows across the yard. Salvatore walked past the guards, who were in the middle of a drill, their heavy boots thudding against the grass in a rhythmic count. He felt unusually calm.

He spotted Teo walking toward the back entrance, carrying a large stainless-steel bowl filled with raw chicken meat. Salvatore walked over and, in a rare, quiet moment of affection, reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair.

It was a simple gesture, the kind a father might show a son, though Salvatore would never admit to such a sentiment.

Teo stopped and bowed his head, a wide smile breaking across his face. "Morning, Salvatore."

"Morning," Salvatore replied, his voice a low rumble. He looked down at the bowl. "What are you doing?"

"Ah, it’s my turn to feed Mr. Bogli," Teo said.

Salvatore looked at the meat, then his mind drifted to the guest room. A mischievous spark entered his eyes. "Leave it. I’ll feed him myself this morning. Go wake up Milo. Tell him to have breakfast."

Teo nodded quickly, set the bowl on a nearby outdoor table, and ran toward the house to find Milo’s room.

Milo was slowly rousing himself from sleep. The medicine the doctor had given him had broken the worst of the fever, but he still felt incredibly weak. His body ached.

As he sat up, the rings in his nipples scraped against the fabric, sending sharp jolts of pain through his chest. He winced, his breath catching.

Teo knocked and entered. "Milo! Salvatore wants you to get up for breakfast. Come on!"

Milo stirred. He was used to being on his feet the moment Nero called for him. He almost stumbled, but Teo calmed him down.

"Be careful. You’d better change your clothes and wash your face first," said Teo, feeling nervous himself at Milo’s panic.

"But Mr. Portello... is he waiting?"

Teo shook his head. "Oh, no. Don’t worry. He’ll get his own breakfast. We’ll have breakfast with the other servants."

Milo took a breath, feeling a bit calmer. Then he nodded, took the clothes Teo had brought last night, and changed.

Teo watched Milo change right there in front of him. He didn’t know why Milo was doing it, but he looked away.

Milo was careful with the white shirt he was now wearing because it scratched against the rings.

Milo followed the younger boy as they walked to the kitchen. He moved slowly, his legs still stiff. When they entered the kitchen, the morning shift of servants and cooks was already there.

The room fell silent for a moment. The servants looked at Milo with a mix of pity and intense curiosity. To them, he was "the boy Salvatore had brought home naked" in the middle of the night. The news had spread so fast.

Despite the attention, the servants were polite. They gathered around the kitchen table.

"Are you feeling any better?" one of the older women asked, sliding a plate of eggs toward him.

Milo nodded, keeping his eyes on his plate. He wasn’t comfortable with all the eyes on him, but he appreciated that no one was shouting or hitting him. He began to eat slowly, the food tasted like heaven.

Suddenly, Michelle, one of the younger servants, hurried into the kitchen. She looked at Milo with wide eyes. "Your master is here. Aren’t you going to greet him? I heard he came to take you back."

Milo was in the middle of taking a sip of water. He choked, the liquid going down the wrong way. He coughed violently, his lungs burning. A woman behind him quickly patted his back.

"Are you okay?"

Milo couldn’t answer, he was panicking.

Nero was here? Already?

"My... my master?" Milo asked. His voice was a thin, terrified whisper. The eggs in his stomach felt like lead.

"Yes, Mr. Hartley is in the living room right now," Michelle said.

Milo’s body went rigid. His face turned a ghostly, waxen pale. He felt the familiar, cold grip of panic tightening around his throat.

Not again. Please, let me stay here just one more day, he thought, his hands beginning to shake.