Turning Point||Book 2

Salvatore

Angelo had vanished into thin air about an hour ago with his riches, his crew, and all things Rossi. Meanwhile, I held onto the girl. She was no longer for the Rossis.

Another perfect deal sealed. Shame his father couldn't have conducted business this smoothly with me. Instead of a simple task of selling my drugs and handing over the profits, I was met with a shipment in ruins and corpses littering my property.

Merda di maiale.

Truly, there was no value in Santo being alive. That's why I savored the news of his death last night. The only regret I had was that it couldn't have been my own gun that did the job.

Leaning against the doorway of her lodge, I observed Cecelia working on the butterfly's hair, a scarlet tint staining the white towel. The black shade had vanished, replaced by her usual tint, and she didn't seem too pleased about it.

There must have been a reason why she had changed the color, and I didn't care enough to ask. I just wanted the red back. Fucking color of a slut.

She had a towel snug around her chest, teasingly revealing more than I could handle staring at, yet withholding the goods. It was a tormenting blend of agony and ecstasy.

Cecelia glanced my way with a strained smile as she let the damp locks cascade down the butterfly's shoulder. I'd insisted on the dye to rid her of that unsightly shade, and I'd kept Cecelia close for the past hour, ensuring she lacked for nothing. Bath, food, drinks, anything at all would be provided if she could only snap her fucking fingers.

Surprisingly modest or just loathing this place enough not to make demands, the latter seemed more plausible, as she'd been curled up in her space since I sent her away from the strip lounge. She'd refused to ask for anything and Cecelia had reported her sobbing her lungs out.

But frankly, I couldn't give a rat's ass if she felt at home or nah. I simply wanted her here.

As Cecelia headed for the dressing table to fetch whatever tools she needed to style the hair, I sauntered into the room without hesitation.

"I can handle it," the butterfly retorted with a low yet firm tone, addressing her assistant. "I'm not helpless, I can freaking dry my own hair. Jesus!"

Cecelia stared at her in disbelief and snapped, "shut it," before turning to me with a glance that begged for forgiveness on the butterfly's behalf, excusing the girl's lapse in manners.

I didn't find it particularly challenging to overlook her insolence. Normally, I'd have instructed Cecelia to administer a harsh slap across the woman's cheek, but I was testing my patience, seeing just how much I could tolerate her antics.

"Let her," I eventually conceded. Cecelia dumped the tools on the bed and stood before the girl with a cynical air, awaiting her compliance.

Unfortunately, it seemed we were dealing not just with rudeness, but sheer stubbornness. The girl didn't move, didn't even act like she would. 

"You'll dry your hair now. I won't ask again," I made my stance crystal clear.

"Or what?"

Damn. Her audacity caught me off guard. My lips parted in disbelief, mirroring Cecelia's widened eyes. Stepping forward, I closed half the distance between us.

"Or what?" I reiterated, incredulous at her nerve. She had the gall to nod in response, so I chose to lay down the ultimatum. "Or I'll pluck them out, chunk by chunk, straight from your skull."

Her honey eyes darkened, locking onto mine for a tense moment before a subtle shake of her head broke the stare. Then, she erupted into sobs, loud but brief, lasting no more than thirty seconds. Pulling herself together swiftly, she wiped her face, regaining composure.