Chapter 6 - Shadows at the Salon
Three days later, the rain returned, drumming a steady, melancholic beat against the glass front of Bell & Finch Salon.
Emma was sweeping up stray locks of hair near station three, humming quietly to herself, trying to convince her brain that her life hadn't fundamentally changed. Sure, Vincent Moretti had texted her every single day since the gala—simple, grounding messages like *‘Eat lunch,’* or *‘Are you working late?’*—and sure, her chest did a strange, fluttery gymnastics routine every time her phone buzzed.
But she was a hairdresser. He was... whatever dangerous, complicated thing he was. They lived in different galaxies.
The bell above the door chimed.
"Welcome to Bell & Finch, we're actually closing in—" Emma started, not looking up from her dustpan.
"I don't care about your hours, Miss Parker."
Emma froze. The dustpan slipped from her hand, clattering against the linoleum.
Standing just inside the door wasn't Vincent.
It was an older woman with iron-grey hair pulled back into a severe bun, wearing a tailored navy Chanel suit that cost more than Emma’s entire wardrobe. Flanking her on either side were two of Mateo’s muscle-bound associates, blocking the exit.
Elena Moretti. Vincent’s aunt. The matriarch of the family.
Emma’s breath hitched, but she forced herself to stand up straight, dropping the broom into the corner. She wiped her hands on her black apron.
"Can I help you?" Emma asked, keeping her voice steady, refusing to let her knees shake.
Elena stepped further into the salon, her sharp, predatory eyes sweeping over the cheap styling chairs, the rows of shampoo bottles, and finally landing on Emma with freezing detachment.
"You have a great deal of nerve, young lady," Elena said, her voice smooth, cultured, and dripping with venom. "Turning my nephew upside down. Making a spectacle of our family at the annual gala. Do you have any idea what kind of target you’ve painted on your back?"
"I didn't ask to go to your gala," Emma replied, lifting her chin. "You should be yelling at your nephew. He’s the one who dragged me there."
Elena’s eyes narrowed into slits. A thin, humorless smile touched her lips. "Vincent is young, and he is... distracted. Men in his position often suffer from temporary lapses in judgment. They collect stray cats, or in this case, hairdressers from Logan Square."
Emma felt a hot spike of fury burn through her chest. "If you came here to insult my profession, you can turn right back around. The door is behind you."
"Bite your tongue, girl," Elena hissed, stepping closer, the sheer aura of authority washing over her. "You think you can play in our world? Vincent’s enemies are ruthless. They don't fight fair in ballrooms. If they realize he cares about you—if they realize you are his weakness—they won't argue with you. They will carve you out of his life permanently."
Elena reached into her designer handbag, pulling out a thick, heavy white envelope and tossing it onto the counter with a sharp slap.
"There is fifty thousand dollars in cash in that envelope," Elena said coldly. "Pack your bags, close this little shop, and leave Chicago by nightfall. Consider it severance pay for a job you were never qualified to do."
Emma stared at the envelope. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Logan Square rent. Her mother’s medical bills. Fifty thousand dollars could make all of that vanish.
Then she thought of Vincent. She thought of the way he looked at her across the diner table, stripping away his armor.
Emma slowly looked up, meeting Elena’s icy glare head-on.
May you like
"Keep your money," Emma said quietly, her voice ringing clear in the small salon. "And tell your friends that if they want me gone, they’ll have to tell Vincent themselves."
***
