AGE NINE
"Listen up, kid, and listen good. In this dog-eat-dog world, it's kill or be killed. You gotta have ice running through your veins and steel forged in your heart."
Salvatore: "Loud and clear. Ice in my veins, steel in my heart. Got it."
AGE ELEVEN
"Chin up, Soldier. Never fucking forget: fear is your greatest weapon. Make 'em tremble in their boots, and they'll do whatever the hell you want."
Salvatore: "Got it. Fear equals respect. I'll make sure they never forget who's in charge."
AGE TWELVE
"Salvie, you catching my drift? There are no second chances in this game. You hesitate, you're as good as dead. You gotta be cold, calculated, and always one step ahead."
Salvatore: "Understood. No room for slip-ups. I'll be ruthless and stay ahead of the game."
AGE THIRTEEN
"Let me paint you a picture of darkness, Salvie. It's not just the absence of light; it's a force in our world. It's the shadow lurking in every corner, the whispers echoing in the silence. Embrace the darkness, let it consume you, and you'll wield power beyond your wildest dreams."
Salvatore: "Got it, uncle. Embrace the darkness. I'm on board."
AGE FOURTEEN
"Man, let me school you on guns. They're more than just tools; they're extensions of your will. When you hold a gun, you hold power. But remember, with great power comes great responsibility."
Salvatore: "Damnit. Responsibilities don't scare me."
AGE FIFTEEN
"Salvatore, in our line of work, blood is currency. It's spilled to make a point, to show dominance, to send a message. But remember, once blood is shed, there's no turning back. It stains everything it touches."
Salvatore: "Hmm, I like the sound of that."
Lombardi. That was the only name I couldn't forget if I tried. His words were etched in my veins, haunting me even thirty-six years after he'd started his teachings. Lombardi, the man who had imparted his wisdom to me, never lived to see me put it into action. Wanna know why? My bullet found its mark in his fucking groin.
I wasn't no backstabber; I was just a student of Lombardi's twisted philosophy. Kill or be killed, that was the creed. His words dripped with venom, urging me to embrace the shadows, to spill blood without remorse. And when the time came, I did just that.
My first shot at nine hadn't been fatal, but at fifteen, it was treacherous. Lombardi Bianchi—my father's damn brother—met his end in a lake, courtesy of a bullet from my gun. He likely drowned before the bullet could finish him off because I knew Lombardi had indulged in women, power, and violence, had learned to kill and leave no trace, yet he had neglected to learn how to swim. A bloody mistake. He should have heeded his own advice—acquire no weakness.
Who on earth could be vile enough to take down the man who raised him, taught him the game, and kept him flush with cash?
Me.
I left a trail of darkness wherever I went, sucking the life out of everything I touched. Some days, it was a choice; other days, it was like I was cursed, draining the world of its color. Blood, guns, violence—I pranced in the shadows like I was born for it. Fear? Nah, that's for the weak.
I never doubted my kills; they all had it coming. If you questioned that, you were next on my list.
Weakness? Never felt it.
Then, there was her. The instant she walked into my world—no, I had walked into hers—fear clawed its way into my mind, refusing to be ignored. Don't grasp it, and you risked losing it altogether. I didn't want to lose it. Grasping it was more than a mere challenge; I didn't compete. When I desired something, I obtained it, regardless of where it was or what could happen of I did.
Salvie's fear of losing it consumed him. This was a truth I couldn't hide from myself. No one could know though, especially not about this monstrous fear gripping me—this obsession with obtaining that one elusive thing. And letting anyone in on your fears?—big mistake I'd not start to make now.
Every time I entertained the thought of letting that contest go, my body tensed, my heart skipped beats, and the urge to slam my fists into portrayed surfaces usually took divine intervention to quell.
I craved her. There was no denying it.
Red.
Her every move, every flutter of those red wings to him, I had it all mapped out. Knew her alias, that damned slutty nickname. Butterfly, wasn't it? Funny, how something so delicate could hold so much power over me.
Another funny thing is, in my line of work, information was as easy to come by as breathing. Nothing about her I couldn't know if I wanted to.
When he worked his way around her body, I knew what he called her. I knew every intimate detail of her life, every fucking secret she shared with him. I had my damn ways, and if you knew them, you'd call me more than just Salvatore Bianchi. You'd call me the Black fucking Hand.
Butterfly...
Red.
My obsession wasn't just about conquest; it was about pure, unadulterated lust. That much was undeniable.
But what was it about this woman that drove me to such depths of desperation? What made her different from the others?
I had women lining up at my door, a collection of every type imaginable. Dark to fair; short to tall; lean to thick; innocent to wild. All colors of hair possible. If I wanted every type for the night, all I had to do was snap my fingers and they'd all queue at my bed. They didn't have to consent; I simply took what I wanted, and they knew better than to refuse me touching them.
With a harem at my disposal, why had I fixated on just one woman, as if she embodied every desire I craved? Why had I tailed her every move, why had I made Caleb write those pathetic threat notes to her? What was it about her that made me willing to pay a hefty sum just to have her?
The answers were like wiseguys playing hide and seek, buried deep under layers of desire and obsession. But I'll tell you one thing: tonight, she would belong to me, bending to my will without question.
I had just got off the horn with Angelo De Rossi. He was bringing her to me. Puttana!
I paced around my lair before swinging open the door to go downstairs. This joint might have been registered under my name, built to my taste, but everyone knew it as the Black Palace, for obvious reasons. Everything tied to me had a touch of darkness. Didn't even need to push it, they naturally slapped a fitting name on everything I laid claim to, and if "Black" wasn't in it, it wasn't fitting.
In this building, I had so many staff that I'd lost track of most of their names. Simple tongue clicks and finger snaps got me the attention I needed, so why bother memorizing alphabets? The only things worth committing to memory were locations, the code of deals, important contacts. And... a name. Xenia.
Couldn't shake it off, could I? Branded in my goddamn head, it was.
One of my staff bowed as I passed, trailing me to the lounge downstairs, asking if I needed more than just setting up the butterfly's bedroom. She was my oldest employee by far—Cecelia, unmatched in loyalty. She managed the tasks of the other females in the house, while Luca handled the males. As if my plate wasn't already overflowing like a shitty buffet line, HR work was the last thing I was going to tackle. Let's file that under "things that would never happen."
That's why I had Cecelia and Luca. Both siblings, anyway. In their early thirties.
"Is her tub ready?" I inquired of Cecelia, sinking into one of the plush seats in the lounge. I lounged, crossing my legs, lettin' the robe fall smooth-like to the ground on one side, a touch of class in every move.
Cecelia nodded and signaled to the bartender stationed nearby to pour me a drink when I raised my left hand.
I paid no mind to the subtle disagreement unfolding between the two of them, though they weren't speaking aloud but gesturing. It escalated until Cecelia delivered a swift smack to the girl's head, shattering a glass in the process.
They both gasped.
I opted to tune out the noise and chaos. I had bigger fish to fry than dealing with one clumsy girl and another wary one who knew just how trigger-happy I could be.
"And her nightdress?" I shouted over them.
"Ready, Boss."
"How sexy is it?"
There was a moment of hesitation before the response came, "Black, lacy, your favorite."
Hmm. If Cecelia claimed it was my favorite, then she had undoubtedly raided the shop for the finest. I trusted her judgment even more than I trusted that Angelo had heeded my warnings not to lay a finger on the butterfly. If I discovered he had, he'd become nothing more than a rug for her to trample over. Then, his blood would mar her carefully made-up face.
Argh, makeover. That was where I placed my trust in Noemi. She was the best. The best at dolling up my dolls. The best at transforming innocent women into vixens, and vixens into sirens. What I desired was what she delivered, no questions asked. I had sent her over to Angelo's from my dollhouse to work her magic. The butterfly was beautiful, but I didn't just want her to be beautiful; I wanted her to drip of sex.
My drink was finally placed in my hand by the bartender, and I took a sip, my eyes glued to the time. Angelo and I both lived far apart, and I had timed him to arrive in less than thirty minutes now.
I grew impatient with waiting. I decided to light my cigar, blending indulgence with my gin.
Suddenly, visions of her flooded my mind once more. The first encounter I had with her. Some might call me a bully for pulling up in a black Lamborghini Urus at the club's parking lot to taunt her. But truth be told, I hadn't been there for her in the first place. I had gone there for Santo, the dead bastard, who had let his weaknesses bring him down. Fortunately, I had spotted her with some other man, walking.
Jealousy and possessiveness had never gripped me so intensely before. Much more crazy it from a stranger.
I couldn't quite pinpoint what had compelled me to order my driver to slow down, why I had glanced her way more than twice, or why I had attempted to scare her by zooming off. But in the end, it all paid off, didn't it?
I had someone tail her even before I found out she was Caleb's neighbor and friends with his girlfriend. My cards were laid out, and she would unwittingly play right into my hands. Both Angelo and Caleb had individually pledged to deliver her to me, and to expedite matters, I had promised to grease their palms with cash.
But then, they had to come with bad news.
Romano.
Fuck him to the darkest parts of hell for hovering.
I should've backed off at the mention of that name, knowing she belonged to a man stricken by madness and a certain kind of rage you only saw in a few. I knew Romano well, knew his nature, his reputation, and what fueled him. I knew that since he had her, he'd kill to keep her. Hell, it only drove my own desire further. That meant I had to play to win. I despised contests, yes. Which meant I had to fight to have it.
Work had consumed me for a while, distracting me from thoughts of her for a few weeks. But the moment I wrapped up my deals, the thoughts of her came rushing back.
My intentions grew more aggressive, my demands relentless. If I couldn't have her, someone was going to bleed. And someone did bleed—Caleb. His body was probably being picked apart by vultures if they found it even remotely palatable in the state I had left him.
How dare he return to tell me that Romano wanted me prepared for war or negotiation? He was a fool to even utter those words because I never took threats well nor did I usually entertain contests. I wanted what I wanted and got it how ever.
Without a doubt in my mind, I had shot him mid-sentence as he delivered that news, putting more faith in Angelo and doubling the price. I had won without a damn fight.
My uncle was right all along. Lombardi, the wise one: "kid, remember this: power is everything. It's not about being the strongest or the smartest—it's about being the one who controls the game. Money, respect, fear—they all come when you have power."
Ten-year-old Salvatore: "Got it. Power is key. Control the game, control everything. I'll make sure they all know who's in charge."
And I had done just that with money, a gun, a threat and blood.
Tell me why I would ever choose to do things differently. My vices typically solved every fucking thing. That's why you'd never catch me in a church praying for redemption.
I didn't need that bullshit when I had the ultimate prize: the world at my feet.
$$$
Standing in front of the mansion right now were four of my men, Angelo definitely among them, and the butterfly. I wasn't there, couldn't be. I had opted to go and wait in the in-built stripping room adjacent to my lair.
I heard voices and footsteps, perhaps not hers, but the mere anticipation of her sent heat waves rushing to my cock.
A knock, and when I uttered a casual "enter," the door creaked open. I was shrouded in dim light, unable to discern faces or colors, only shadows at the doorway. Cecelia was there, Luca too, along with another woman and two more men, but they weren't my focus. Not when I had something better.
My drink had sat untouched for so many minutes, but as I lifted it to my lips and swallowed down my boiling anticipation, I commanded, "The lights, the lights!"
Someone hastened to comply. After a few seconds, they flicked on, revealing her to me. Cavolo!
Nothing had ever hit me so hard, not even betrayal had ever made my blood regenerate into something seething so pretty fast. My cock hardened. No lies, the sight of my women would usually send blood to my cock, but at least they had to do more than just standing like non-compliant mannequins. They had to...let's say strip tease for me, or make some moves that'd promise me what I wanted.
In this very disturbing and rare case, my whole body grew warm, numb, my chest tightened up at just the sight of a woman standing, and all that was happening without me giving permission to these changes. The bizarre thing? It sure as hell wasn't the first time I was getting hard just by staring at her.
Pushing fifty, would be in three years, and even as a teenager with a wayward relationship with women, I couldn't recall ever needing to adjust myself so the prying eyes wouldn't catch my bulge bursting out of my briefs. Oddio.
Heaven bless Noemi. The dress clung to the butterfly's curves like a second layer, emphasizing every dangerous curve. Transparency exposing just enough to set my imagination on fire. Her skin against that shade of red... it was like blood against my pale tiles.
I dropped my drink.
If there was ever any doubt about my love for danger, it was dispelled today when I felt the urge to dive headfirst into the heart of it. But self-awareness was my forte, always had been. The more perilous the situation, the more alive I felt.
I glanced up again, relishing the fear flickering in her eyes for a fleeting moment. "Get over here, doll," I commanded. Then, addressing Luca, I added, "Let Rossi in while you fetch me the briefcase."
Luca vanished into the shadows, while another snap of my fingers set the remaining men in motion, hastening them towards the door. They had an uncanny knack for deciphering my signals, even though every snap sounded identical. I supposed years of working under my command had honed their instincts to a fine point.
As my men reached the doorframe, I noticed something amiss. One of them, damn him, had the audacity to pause for a moment, his eyes lingering on the butterfly's ass before reluctantly tearing himself away. But my sharp rebuke halted him in his tracks once more.
"Form up around me," I barked, rising from my seat with authority.
As if the first warning hadn't been deadly enough, his gaze drifted back to her curves once more before reluctantly meeting my eyes. Normally, my men could ogle the women who passed through without consequence. Most of the girls, whether for my pleasure or others', belonged to the Dollhouse.
But not her. She was for me. And even a lingering glance without my say-so meant you were eyeing what was mine. Goddamn it, anytime someone put their eyes on anything that belonged to me, they usually lost their ability to use those features again.
It was a harsh truth: if a man desired something of yours, he'd kill to take it, do whatever it took.
I never overlooked such a trespass.
Something territorial engulfed me as I reached for my gun. "You familiar with firearms, Butterfly?" I inquired, the name catching her off guard more than the question itself.
I could almost see the gears turning in her mind, wondering what else I knew about her. I repeated the question, and she...fuck...innocently nodded.
"Come closer," I ordered, placing the gun in her open hand as she approached. Once the weapon rested uncertainly in her palm, the other guy, who had been escorting this idiot out, raised his own gun toward the butterfly.
I gave him a nod to proceed. Giving a doll a gun meant my own head was on the line, so someone had to ensure I didn't end up a casualty. If the butterfly attempted to shoot me instead of her intended target, someone would deal with her first.
She still didn't grasp the gravity of the situation, her eyes flickering between me, the gun, and the man threatening her. "I'm sorry, what?" she asked, her voice as delicate as a whisper, her accent refined. I knew she wasn't Italian, but hearing her speak up close made me bite down on my lip to suppress a reaction. If she spoke again with that voice, she'd have me at her mercy.
"Hold the gun like you know how to use it," I commanded.
Reluctantly, she complied, but the firearm s didn't feel at home in her hand. Normally, that wouldn't be a turn-on, but it was. Whoever had taught her hadn't done a thorough job. And I liked that.
Graze the surface, never reach the root—beautiful concept. If a man wanted to kill her, she could shoot him first, but then she could miss. Which was good and bad.
I rounded her, standing right there, my gaze at the fool steady, devoid of any flicker of sentiment. "Come on, doll." My voice came out as a gravelly whisper. My cock finding a place behind her ass. "Bring it up."
As she advanced away from me, I matched her pace and closed in on her, my patience dwindling with each hesitant stride. At last, I grabbed her waist with force, pressing her tightly against me, rendering her motionless. She quivered in my hold, her breaths shallow and uneven.
My lips brushed against her ear. She tensed up. "Take it off safety."
To my satisfaction, she complied more swiftly this time.
"Now, finger on the trigger."
She obeyed, but her finger twitched nervously. I had to guide her hand, sliding mine down until I reached hers, ensuring a firm grip on the gun. If I didn't, her bullet would meet Luca who had just rejoined us with my briefcase. Or Angelo behind him bearing a shocked expression.
"I can't, please," she finally muttered through a cracked voice. "Please, I've never killed anyone before."
I took a step back, trying to process what she had just confessed. "You've never taken a life?" I asked, my tone tinged with disbelief, even though I should have figured that out by the way she held the gun and hesitated to use it.
She shook her head, her eyes, when she looked over her shoulder to me, pleading for mercy.
Well, this was a good way to start.
I ran a hand through her black hair, the warmth of her skin burning against mine. Cazzo. "You can't afford to have a clean slate. Such a track record invites trouble, butterfly," I said softly, brushing aside her hair. "It's kill or be killed out here. Now, pull down that trigger."
We stood there in silence, minutes stretching into eternity as my words refused to make an impact on her kind decision. She trembled against me, her resolution wilting with each passing second. I could see the hesitation in her shoulders, the conflict tearing her apart.
Showing her mercy by not allowing her follow through with it was a sign of weakness, letting the moron leave here after what he'd done so audaciously meant I wasn't Salvatore.
I tightened my grip on her hand, urging her to get it over with. "Do it!"
At last, the gun went off, the sound echoing in the stillness of the space. The bullet tore through the flesh of the offender's left thigh, and everyone seemed to gasp. The butterfly recoiled in shock, tossing the gun away with a cry. I caught it before it hit the ground.
The offender's screams drilled the air, shrill and agonizing as he clutched his wounded leg. He stumbled backward and nearly fell. I didn't intend to end his suffering just yet, but his cries were unsettling the butterfly and grating on my bloody nerves.
Carrying out precision with clinical detachment, I took aim and fired a single shot at his head. The deafening sound of the gunshot was soon drowned out by the sickening crunch of his skull. He fell silent, and his body collapsed to the ground with a loud thud.
The butterfly scurried to the wall, quaking like a leaf, tears flowing as her sobs threatened to choke her.
That's all I wanted from her, nothing more. Her offender's corpse lay forgotten under my shoes, as Luca handed over my briefcase and Angelo came closer.
Shouldn't be nothing that simple causing a damn ruckus.