MILO

9. A Road Diverged

"Kiara," he hums, amusement glistening in his eyes. "A woman should never be burdened with the knowledge of such gruesome matters."

I cock my head to the side. "I thought you said you were a feminist, Mr. Di Vaio? Believe me, I think I can handle it."

"Perhaps," he muses, his gaze drifting over to a flight attendant near the galley. He waves two fingers in the air before snapping his eyes back to me. "But I would hate to strip you of your innocence. Some things are better left unsaid."

"My innocence?" I blink, an incredulous scoff escaping my lips. "I think that ship sailed when you shot two men right before my eyes, don't you think?"

He sighs, a pensive look on his face. "There is innocence of the eyes and innocence of the soul, Kiara. It is important not to confuse the two," he states. "And believe me, there are far worse things to witness than a bullet entering the brain."

"How very poetic," I note in a light tone. "But everything is connected. Your eyes, heart, mind, soul. It makes one being. What the eyes witness seeps into one's soul. You can't compartmentalize morality, Mr. Di Vaio."

"In my line of work, Kiara," he says, his jaw tensing. "It is required."

"Perhaps you should rethink your line of work then," I muse, resting my head against the wall of the plane, my brain buzzing from the vibrations. "It seems like a steep price to pay for eternal damnation."

"Eternal damnation?" He lets out a boisterous laugh, drawing perplexed glances from his associates. "Oh, Kiara, what is it that you think I do? Murder children? I can assure you, in the hierarchy of evil, I'm nowhere near damnation."

"I don't think that's your call to make," I state in a sharp tone.

His eyes harden. "Nor is it yours."

I scowl at him, my blood pulsing with irritation. Who does he think he is? Does he expect me to waver on my stance? Accept that murder is just an unfortunate byproduct of his chosen profession?

No. I won't.

There are universally accepted notions of right and wrong.

And he's wrong.

For the next hour, we sit across from each other in silence. He reads the newspaper and I read Dante's Inferno.

Hell.

Based on the headlines of worldwide newspapers and the political and social turmoil across the globe, perhaps Hell is not such a foreign place after all.

Although Mr. Alighieri's prose is quite thought-provoking, it's also emotionally draining. When I reach my daily limit for allegorical narrative, I shove The Divine Comedy back into my purse, opting to switch to a lighter tale, perhaps Cold Comfort Farm, granny's favorite.

As I attempt to fish out my Kindle, my fingers glide across the pistol at the bottom of my bag. It's unnerving that something so small holds so much destructive power. I pull the Ruger out of my purse, twisting it in my fingers, examining it with a careful eye.

"I would prefer if you did not point a loaded weapon in my direction when we are thirty thousand feet in the air," Milo says, peering over his newspaper.

I frown. "How do you know it's loaded?"

"A party trick," he smirks, mocking my words as he lowers the paper.

"Hilarious." My frown deepens. "But, seriously, how? I'm curious."

He sighs, clicking his tongue. "I can tell by the way you're holding the gun, Kiara," he explains. "The tiny muscles in your wrists are a dead giveaway."