Milo Sinister 2 Novels & Stories

"Enough." I roughly pushed open the toilet door and returned to the table. I grabbed the meat cleaver from the self-service area. My determination was firm. If justice was the price I had to pay for my second life, then I had the right to determine my steps completely. Wilky Milkya was dead. Right now, Arthemisya Zacceline has to live as I wanted. But before that, I will avenge Milky's death.

"Order is the only thing that keeps the Feds from the door. And lately, the Cavallo name is synonymous with chaos. Moretti is in a hole. Marcus is... well, Marcus is no longer answering his phone. And then there is the matter of the 'Ghost'." ​He turned his head toward me. He didn't look surprised to see me lurking in the shadows. He looked expectant. ​"Come out, child," Silas murmured. "Don't hide in the dark. I’ve spent my life studying the dark. There’s nothing in it that can surprise me." ​I stepped into the light of the foyer. I felt Enzo’s gaze snap to me—a silent, furious warning—but I ignored it. If Silas was here to audit the Cavallo assets, he needed to know that the most valuable

Get me a saw. **Tito:** Here boss. **Kai:** Hold out his dick. (Kai stood up) Lucas pleaded weakly. His eyes were full of fear and he struggled with the little strength he had left. Tito’s boys held Lucas and Tito held the cap of his penis. Kai sawed it off gently. Smiling as Lucas screamed, blood and catarrh coming out of his nostrils. Blood gushed out of the spot his penis once stood. Tito’s boys let him go and he fell. He kept muttering inaudible statements. His lips moved and it looked like he was probably saying his last prayers.

"Is that what you call it?" He pointed a trembling finger toward the glass window behind me. "Look at them. Look at what your ambition did to them!" A wave of nausea washed over me as I slowly turned my head. Through the clear glass, my squad sat scattered across the bullpen. Miller was slouched in his chair, a thick fiberglass cast wrapping entirely around his right arm and neck. Santos had a black eye so swollen it looked almost black, his chest tightly bandaged under his shirt from three cracked ribs. Two other officers sat slumped at their desks, nursing dark, hideous contusions, their faces pale with pain.

(Sienna's POV) The dark was absolute. Not the soft dark of a bedroom or the gentle dark of a car at night. The specific crushing dark of a sealed wing with no windows and no emergency lighting and someone who knew exactly where the breaker was. Milo made a small sound beside me, not quite a cry, the sound he made when he was working very hard to be brave. I dropped to my knees and pulled him against my chest before the second heartbeat had passed, his small arms locking around my neck with the desperate strength children do not know they have.

“You’re not mad about the picture, are you?” She stopped so suddenly he almost ran into her. Gal turned and looked him dead in the eye. “Why did you send that stupid picture anyway?” He tilted his head, already grinning like he’d won something. “Well,” Milo said slowly, “I just wanted you to see what a werewolf looks like...” He chuckled, “half naked,” he concluded with a wink. Gal stared at him in horror. “You’re so gross…so petty.” “Really?” he asked, looking mock-offended. “So you deleted it, then, since you don't like it?”

Milo's eyes went wide with realization and he pushed my wrist away from him, looking towards Sylar worriedly then shrunk against me. "I'm so sorry," he whispered to me then tried to sit up. I rubbed Milo's back to bring him comfort. "No," I whispered. "Milo it was self defense." "He killed him though," Sylar muttered. "He could have knocked him out or something.... He killed both of them." Milo's eyes went wide and he looked towards Stormy's ashes in shock then started to tremble. He looked a little freaked out and I could hear his heart starting to race as he looked towards his bloody hand.

​I looked down. ​Milo, who had been crying for the last hour, was suddenly wide awake. He had wiggled his arms out of his yellow duck fleece. With zero survival instincts and absolute baby fearlessness, Milo reached his tiny, chubby hand across the center console. ​His little fingers clamped firmly into Kaelen Thorne’s thick, dark beard. ​"Da!" Milo squealed happily, giving the facial hair a sharp, aggressive yank.

There were more important things to attend to than my wounds. "No, he doesn't. He's only angry and doesn't know the truth. You also don't know the truth. That's why I want to keep you safe!" As we ran through the gallery, we found an enemy standing in the hallway. I immediately recognised him. He was Colin's warrior. My blood boiled— the ones that hadn't spilled at least. But Mila pushed me behind her. "I got this!" Before I could say otherwise, she snarled and ran with inhuman speed towards the man. She climbed up his body in swift, easy movements and slashed through his throat with her claws before snapping his neck. He was dead before his body hit the floor.

As a precaution the inside is lined with industrial plastic, the kind you use when you don’t want blood to stain the floors, and painted with pine sap. I pull back the flap and peer inside. The smell hits first. Rotting flesh, urine, and sweat. The thing in the corner stirs. "Milo," I say conversationally, stepping up into the truck. "It seems you weren’t completely full of shit after all. We just met some of your old friends." Milo lifts his head, or what’s left of it. His face is a ruined mess, eyes swollen shut, lips cracked and barely clinging to his gums. His arms are twisted at odd angles, the skin barely holding together over the shattered bones beneath.