Chapter 3
There was no farmhouse in the Algarve.
There was no shared freedom.
There was no heroic martyr enduring the scum of the earth to keep his young lover pure.
Gabriel had racked up four million euros in gambling debts chasing a high in luxury casinos. And when the loan sharks came to collect with baseball bats and asset freezes, Gabriel hadn't sold his luxury cars, his penthouse in Monaco, or his vintage watch collection.
He had sold Milo.
He had packaged Milo up like livestock, wrapped him in a pristine white ribbon of athletic tape, kissed him tenderly on the forehead, and signed him over to a ruthless criminal syndicate as a lifetime indentured asset.
Milo was the payoff. Milo was the golden goose that Vance was going to run into the ground on rigged exhibition tours, underworld private matches, and high-roller private parties for the next ten years to recoup Gabriel’s gambling losses with interest.
And Gabriel was going to fake a shoulder injury tomorrow night, walk into the players' tunnel, take his private car to the airport, and leave Milo in the hotel room for Vance’s enforcers to collect.
*Good boy. You’ve always been so good for me.*
A violent tremor tore through Milo’s chest, rising up into his throat. He dropped the paper onto the bench, clutching the edge of the locker as his stomach heaved. He gagged, tasting bile and the sweet mint of Gabriel’s kiss from ten minutes ago.
Ten minutes ago.
Gabriel had held him right here. Gabriel had rested his chin on Milo’s head, his heart beating in that steady, calm rhythm, whispering about clean air and ocean breezes in Portugal. While knowing that in twenty-four hours, Milo would belong to a monster.
Milo looked down at his taped wrist.
The clean white zinc oxide. The perfect tension. The way Gabriel had smoothed it down with his thumb, whispering that he would never let anyone else touch Milo’s hands.
It wasn't protection.
It was an inventory inspection.
Gabriel was inspecting the goods before delivery, making sure the merchandise didn't scuff before the handover.
*He kept me in the dark so I wouldn't run,* Milo realized, a cold, terrifying clarity suddenly piercing through the roaring panic in his head. *He kept me isolated from agents, from coaches, from friends. He told me the world was full of wolves so I would never look at the leash he put around my neck.*
The burner phone in the bag buzzed again.
Milo didn't flinch this time. His trembling hands went completely, eerily still.
He reached into the bag and pulled out the small black phone. The screen was lit up with an unsaved number, accompanied by a text message preview:
**[VANCE]:** *The offshore books have capped the line at 14.5 million. straight sets, Gabriel. Do not get creative out there. If your kid starts rallying and pulls a set back, the hedge collapses and my people take it out of your hide before you reach the tarmac. Make sure he stays on a short leash.*
Milo stared at the glowing letters until the screen faded to black.
*Make sure he stays on a short leash.*
Milo’s gaze drifted slowly to the full-length mirror mounted on the wall opposite the lockers.
He saw a young man staring back at him. Dark hair damp with sweat, slim, wire-strong frame, eyes that had spent three years wide with admiration, always tilted upward toward a golden idol who didn't exist.
He looked at the boy in the mirror, and for a fraction of a second, he mourned him. He mourned the kid who had believed in grand, sacrificial love; the kid who had gladly surrendered the spotlight because he thought his partner was carrying the sky on his shoulders.
Then, that boy died.
A slow, chilling breath expanded Milo’s ribs.
The grief didn't spill out in tears. It didn't erupt into screams or broken rackets. Instead, the heat in his blood crystallized into something diamond-hard, completely devoid of mercy.
Gabriel wanted a straight-sets loss.
Vance wanted eight million euros on a guaranteed offshore upset.
And they both expected Milo to be the meek, docile little boy who would miss his returns on command, hang his head in quiet disappointment, and wait in his hotel room to be carted off like cargo.
Far down the tiled corridor, the heavy fire doors clanged open.
The rhythmic, familiar squeak of Gabriel’s sneakers echoed against the walls, accompanied by his light, whistling breath. He sounded relaxed. Relieved. Like a man who had just taken his medicine and was already looking forward to his flight out of the cage.
Milo didn't rush.
With steady, deliberate fingers, he stacked the contract papers in their exact original order. He slipped Schedule C beneath the debt tally, replaced the thumb drive, and slid the stack back into the leather folio. He smoothed down the flap, placed the folio back into the hidden zippered lining of Gabriel’s bag, and pulled the zipper closed until it rested in the exact position it had been in five minutes ago.
He picked up his water bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a long, slow sip.
The water was cold, washing the sour taste of bile from the back of his throat.
The locker room door swung wide.
Gabriel stepped inside, rolling his right shoulder. A small white square of medical gauze was taped just below his deltoid, smelling sharply of antiseptic and iodine. He looked up, his amber eyes instantly finding Milo, softening with that effortless, practiced tenderness that had fooled the entire tennis world.
"All done," Gabriel said, offering a tired, boyish smile as he walked toward the bench. "Chen gave me twenty milligrams of triamcinolone. The joint is completely numb. I won't feel a thing tomorrow."
He stopped in front of Milo, reaching out a hand to cup the side of Milo’s face.
Milo didn't flinch. He didn't pull away.
He leaned into the warm, heavy palm just as he had done a thousand times before. He looked right into those clear, beautiful amber eyes—eyes that had watched him sleep, eyes that had promised him a future, eyes that had cold-bloodedly priced his soul at four million euros.
"Did it hurt?" Milo asked. His voice was soft, melodic, perfectly modulated. Not a single fracture betrayed the ice storm raging beneath his skin.
"Just a pinch," Gabriel murmured, his thumb brushing over Milo’s cheekbone with infinite gentleness. "Nothing I can't take for us. Did you rest? You look a little pale, sweetheart."
"Just tired," Milo said, allowing the faintest, saddest curve to touch the corners of his lips. "Thinking about tomorrow. Thinking about what happens when the match is over."
Gabriel smiled down at him, his expression overflowing with fond, patronizing pity.
"Don't think," Gabriel whispered, leaning down to press another warm, lingering kiss to the top of Milo’s head. "Leave the thinking to me, Milo. Just play your part, miss when I tell you to miss, and let me handle the rest. Tomorrow night, everything ends."
Milo looked up into the mirror behind Gabriel’s shoulder.
He saw Gabriel’s tall, muscular form enveloping him, looking like the very picture of a guardian angel shielding his lover from the world.
