Turning Point||Book 2

Epilogue

Xenia Butler

Red.

All crimson, from head to toe.

I felt like nothing short of a woman dipped in blood. But it was all fucking cosmetics and threads.

The dress, the lipstick, even the cortex and shoes—each shade varied from maroon to cherry. At first glance, one might assume I craved attention, but they couldn't be more mistaken. Red wasn't the issue; it was the transparency of the dress, the bold lipstick, and the provocative heels that I couldn't bring myself to embrace willingly, unless I was coerced into doing so. And I was.

At the hands of Angelo De Rossi.

Shortly after he had fetched me from the penthouse hours ago, I was unceremoniously deposited onto a wooden chair, surrounded by harsh lighting and a phone strategically placed. He filmed me as I pleaded with him, his voice audible in the background as he revealed to his chosen audience that I hadn't been killed by Romano. Fuck him.

His rage seemed to stem from various sources, I deduced, but I could pinpoint two primary reasons: first and foremost, the death of his father, as he vehemently expressed while spitting on me. Secondly, Romano's departure from Sicily. Angelo had hoped Romano would come all the way up here to confront him directly regarding my situation so he could exact his revenge—his exact words.

Pondering the uncertain outcomes of Romano's impending return and Angelo's escalating fury, coupled with the brewing conflict on the horizon, apprehension engulfed me. Uncertainty clouded my mind. The prospect ahead seemed grim—a man consumed by anger and grief, facing off against another driven by frustration and recklessness. It was bound to end in bloodshed.

Following his theatrics, he had directed an older woman, whom I now knew as Noemi, to assist me as if I were incapacitated, guiding me to the shower and dressing me in the clothes he had prepared for the occasion. It was so obvious that he had meticulously planned every aspect, as Noemi had only just removed the tags from everything. How long had he been plotting and expecting me to fall into his trap?

However, such thoughts faded into obscurity as I met Noemi's gaze in the mirror. Her expression held both pity and resolve, suggesting she had witnessed similar scenarios countless times before. In spite of her sympathy, she appeared prepared to do her job.

And with me all dolled up like this, she had succeeded in that regard.

Turning towards her, I couldn't muster the poise to match the elegance of the dress, which felt out of place and not at all my style. "Can I ask you something? And can you promise to be honest with me?"

Noemi initially regarded me skeptically but then nodded, moving around to tidy up the space.

Taking a moment to gather my thoughts, I asked, "Do you happen to know anything about the Black Hand? Salvatore?"

She paused, her hand trembling slightly as she struggled to fit the makeup brush into the bag, nearly dropping it. The mention of the name clearly startled her, evident in her erratic breathing.

I swallowed against a dry throat when she cleared hers. I took a step and stopped. "Please say something."

She turned to me, fear evident in her gaze. "Salvatore?" She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "I've had my share of encounters with him. When they say some men are worse than the devil... they're probably talking about Salvatore."

"Encounters?" I felt a surge of curiosity at what a man like him would do with a woman this old, though I knew it was unwise to dwell on it given that I would likely be meeting this man soon, as Angelo had spitefully mentioned. "Would you be willing to share?"

"I'm sorry, but I cannot disclose such information to you... for my own safety."

Right. I dropped that. But I had something else to ask. "Is escaping him just a fantasy?"

Noemi let out a laugh, the first I had seen from her, but it was dark and brief. "Yes, it's just a fantasy," she replied, finally zipping up the makeup bag. "I've never known anything or anyone to slip past him unauthorized."

A tiny shiver went through me. Tension clenched at my gut and I tasted my own fear on my tongue.

"Do you have any fears?" Noemi's tone took a curious turn.

I nodded, knowing all too well my list of fears, from heights to confinement to the Rossis to darkness.

"I hope darkness and blood aren't among them. You'll encounter plenty of both around him," she remarked. "When he's not killing someone and splattering their blood all over you, he's throwing you in a dark hole for flinching at the sight of a corpse."

Disgusting man. Damn.

Enough was enough. There was no point in torturing myself with tales of him when I had no control over my impending fate. It was better to keep an open mind.

Glancing down at my cleavage, I noticed the crisscross pattern against the neckline—an overtly erotic attempt to cover the center of my breasts. A deliberate failure to do so, no doubt.

My hair, now black, was impeccably styled into a clean bun. Black hair—I never anticipated this day would come. Though I detested the shade, I couldn't help but feel relieved that my usual red locks, often wrongly associated with promiscuity, were absent. Facing a man like Salvatore, I knew I had to assert my autonomy, even if it was just in my appearance. In reality, I understood that whether my hair was black or red, my destiny had been decided the moment he set his eyes on me.

I steeled myself, prepared, unwilling to wait for Angelo to come and forcefully drag me by the hair before I told agreed to be taken to him. I reached out and grasped the handle, pulling it open to venture forth and confront the beast.

With a sigh of relief, I finally arrived at the end of the long corridor, where the lighting was poor. There, Noemi left me, handing me over to a guard as if forbidden to accompany me any further. Her parting words echoed in my mind as I was ushered into a car in the garage, watching Angelo select a vehicle with an air of indifference similar to selecting a watch.

"Whatever you do," Noemi had whispered in my ear near the garage doors, "if you want to stay alive at the Black Palace, and don't want to end up in a dark well filled with your own blood, don't attempt running."

I appreciated her maternal advice, twisted though it may be, but I wasn't certain whether to heed it. I refused to surrender to a life of captivity. I would never be the woman who accepted the role of a puppet, even if escape seemed impossible. I was determined to try again and again, and if I died in the attempt, so be it.

Moreover, I knew Romano would be out there somewhere, plotting to destroy Angelo and ultimately secure my release. If I ended up in Salvatore's hands before Romano could find me, if Romano didn't intercept this convoy during our journey to the Black Hand, it was easy to guess my fate.

Four letters, beginning and ending with a 'd', cold and utterly final: dead.

You might wonder why I had already started to lose hope in my own survival. I wasn't naturally pessimistic, but the mere thought of Romano attempting to rescue me from Salvatore made me lose faith instantly. It was like pitting a devil against demons, and while the devil might seem like the epitome of evil, demons possess a darkness that even the devil would fear. Their malevolence transcended the darkest depths of hell itself, leaving trails of blood in their path.

Darkness, blood—I likely now feared them more than I did a Rossi, or even death.