The atmosphere in the mansion has felt more tense over the past few days. Usually, the servants joke and chat in the kitchen, but this time it feels quiet.

All of this has been happening since Maureen took over everything. Salvatore had appointed her as the primary house manager.

She was an older woman with a face that looked as though it were carved from cold stone. Fredo called her the "crow woman" because she was thin, tall, and her eyes were sharp like a crow’s.

But he certainly wouldn’t dare call her that to her face. Or he’d end up without food for a week.

While Roderick focused entirely on security details and guard rotations, Maureen took control of the staff, the cleaning schedules, and the budget.

Maureen was a woman of strict logic, which was why Salvatore trusted her. Within twenty-four hours of taking the lead, she had implemented a rigorous financial plan.

She audited the pantry and concluded that previous spending had been wasteful.

In the kitchen, the tension was palpable. Luke, the chef, had complained many times about the dishes he was forced to prepare.

"That bitch," Luke muttered as Milo walked in. "She expects me to feed dozens of grown men on a budget meant for a boarding school?!"

Milo stood quietly by the table. He was so tired and hungry after training with Salvatore. But he knew what Luke was muttering about. Everyone had noticed it before.

He was used to having as many plates as he wanted, and now he only had one portion like everyone else.

He grabbed a plate and asked Luke for food.

Luke reached for the plate and began to assemble Milo’s breakfast. Usually, there would be a mountain of eggs, several sausages, and thick slices of ham.

Today, the plate looked barren. There was one thin slice of ham, a small wedge of cheese, five olives, and a single piece of toasted bread.

Milo took the plate. He looked at the food, then at Luke. The portion was less than half of what he usually ate.

But he didn’t complain, of course.

"Thank you, Luke," Milo said softly.

"If you’re still hungry, don’t tell me," Luke snapped, though his eyes were apologetic. "Tell Salvatore. That woman is a nightmare. I won’t cook a single extra egg until he tells her to back off."

Milo managed a polite, weak smile. He sat down at the long wooden table. He wouldn’t tell Salvatore about something like that.

He had spent years eating scraps at the Hartley mansion. He was used to small portions.

He chewed slowly, trying to trick his brain into feeling full, but the hollow ache in his stomach remained.

A few minutes later, Fredo walked into the kitchen. He looked at his own small plate, then glanced over at Milo.

"Hey, kid," Fredo said. "Not enough? Usually, you finish three plates."

Milo shook his head. He didn’t want to complain. "No, it’s enough. I’m fine."

"You’re lying," Fredo grunted. "Your stomach is probably touching your spine. This Maureen woman is going to have a revolt on her hands if she doesn’t let us eat enough. Go get some apples."

Milo just nodded. He finished his last olive and stood up. He washed his plate in the sink, dried it, and put it away. He didn’t have time to argue about food.

Salvatore had given him a specific time to be ready.

He noticed everyone had already started their day.

Milo went to his room to get ready. He followed his new routine with mechanical precision. He shaved his body and washed his skin, making sure he smelled good.

He dressed in formal clothes—the white shirt that fit his slim frame perfectly and the black trousers. He checked his reflection.

He looked like a professional, though his face was still a bit too pale.

He walked out onto the terrace. Salvatore was standing there, smoking while talking to Roderick.

The morning sun highlighted the sharp angles of Salvatore’s face.

Milo was always struck by Salvatore’s beauty. He smiled; he didn’t know why he was always happy to see that man.

When Milo stepped onto the terrace, Salvatore stopped talking. He fell silent for a moment, his eyes scanning Milo from head to toe.

His expression was unreadable; a flicker of something intense crossed his features before he settled back into his usual composure.

It wasn’t the first time he had seen Milo in those clothes, but he was still stunned by Milo’s perfect posture.

"You look very good," Salvatore said. He reached out and unbuttoned the top button of Milo’s suit jacket, making him look more relaxed.

Milo felt the heat rush to his cheeks. "Thank you, Sir."

"Come on!" Salvatore said, gesturing toward the driveway where a black car was idling.

Roderick nodded and went to the driver’s seat.

Salvatore led Milo to the car, opening the door for him to sit next to him.

As they drove away from the estate, the silence in the car was comfortable at first. Salvatore rolled down the window and finished his cigarette, looking relaxed.

"Milo," Salvatore said, his eyes on the road. "What do you think is better? To shoot people and be a man the world calls evil, or to be a good man who follows the rules and dies because of it?"

Milo was caught off guard by the question. He stared out the window at the passing trees. He thought about his life with Nero, where he had tried to be "good" and obedient, only to be broken daily.

Then he thought about Salvatore, who was clearly "evil" by the world’s standards, but who held power and provided safety for him.

"I don’t know..." Milo said after a long pause. "I just want to live peacefully. I don’t want to be a good man, and I don’t want to be a bad one either. I just want to live without fear."

Salvatore let out a short, dry laugh. "A peaceful life. That is a luxury most people in our world never get to taste. You have to fight for peace, Milo. It doesn’t just happen."

The car slowed as they approached a more crowded part of the city. Salvatore’s tone became more serious.

"We are going to meet a lot of people today," Salvatore said. "Some of them are business associates. There is a high probability that your old master, Hartley, will be there as well."

Milo’s body went rigid. His hands began to tremble in his lap. The mere mention of the name felt like a cold blade against his skin. "Nero... will be there?"

"He might be," Salvatore said, glancing at Milo’s shaking hands. "He’s still looking for you. He thinks you’re a piece of property he can just take back. I know you hate him. But as long as that man is breathing, you’ll never truly have that ’peaceful life’ you want. You will always live in fear."

Milo’s breathing grew shallow. The terror was overwhelming. He could almost feel the weight of the iron collar around his neck. "Sir, I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to see him. Please."

"I’m not sending you back," Salvatore said. Then he pulled out a sleek, black handgun. He held it out toward Milo.

"But you need to understand something. Peace is bought with lead. If he approaches you today, and if he tries to lay a hand on you, shoot him."

Milo stared at the gun as if it were a venomous snake. He didn’t reach for it. His mind was screaming.

I... I can’t. I can’t just shoot someone. I’d go to jail. I’m not a killer.

"I will protect you," Salvatore said, his voice flat and cold. "If you shoot Nero Hartley in self-defense while you are under my protection, you don’t need to worry about anything else. The only thing you need to worry about is whether you have the spine to pull the trigger."

Salvatore took Milo’s hand and forced the gun into his palm. The weight of the metal was heavy, and it felt wrong in Milo’s hand.

"Take it," Salvatore commanded. "Keep it in your waistband. If he forces you to come back, if he tries to drag you to his car, don’t cry. Use the tool I gave you."

Milo gulped, his eyes watering. He looked at the gun, then at Salvatore. The man looked completely serious. There was no room for negotiation in his gaze.

"I hope for your sake that we don’t run into him," Salvatore said, turning his eyes back to the road as they entered the hotel district.

Milo couldn’t find his voice. He really hoped they wouldn’t meet Nero.

He simply nodded, tucking the cold metal of the gun into the back of his trousers. It felt like a heavy, dark anchor.

He realized that the "peace" Salvatore was offering wasn’t a gift; it was a battlefield. And as the car pulled up to the grand entrance of the hotel, Milo felt like he was walking toward his own execution.

"Please, don’t let me meet Nero..." Milo prayed silently.