Page 47 of No Sweeter Poison

I shuffle through the cards in my wallet and extend the black one to her. I never use it and it’ll be better if she has some semblance of independence she can hold on to. Even if it’s with a credit card I’ve given to her.

She looks down at the credit card, brows pressed together. “I’m not taking that.”

“You can’t use yours because your transactions could be tracked.” I hold up the credit card. “Take it. Rack up a few hundred thousand dollars in debt, it’ll make you feel better.”

Her lips purse and Dahlia’s eyes ignite. Torn between pride and stubbornness, she eventually snatches it from my hand. “I’m going to max it out.”

I make my way to the door. “It doesn’t have a limit.”

“Well…then, I’ll rack up a bill so high you’ll need a ladder to reach the top!”

I almost laugh. “Have fun with that.”

Dahlia crosses her arms over her chest, chin lifted. “I’m an expensive habit.”

I hover at the threshold. “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I can afford it.”

THE WHOLE KIDNAPPING THING

Dahlia

“S o, what exactly do you guys do?”

Lettie suppresses a smirk. “Are you sure you want the answer to that question?”

Not really. It’ll kind of undo all the progress I’ve made in not hating and fearing everyone. But we’re at a hair salon and what else is there for two women to do at a hair salon other than gossip?

“What do you think we do?”

“I think you guys are a bunch of criminals.”

The words leave me before I can help myself but Lettie doesn’t seem to mind. She laughs, something very rare for her, and adjusts the towel around her shoulders. The second we walked into the salon, a fair-skinned, light-haired woman put Lettie in a styling chair and soaked her roots in bleach at a speed that was both impressive and frightening. I sit across from her on a bench by the window, the sleek, modern interior of the salon at odds with the cobblestone roads and stone buildings outside.

Lettie flips a page in her magazine and says, “You should get your hair done. Your color looks like shit.”

My jaw drops, slightly offended. “Does not.”

“Does too.” She quirks a brow. “The red is starting to look pink. It’s tacky.”

On that, I can’t exactly disagree. Red dye is notoriously difficult to maintain and even though I always keep the color an inch away from my roots, my whole head needs to be touched up. I’ve never gone this long between hair appointments and I’m in desperate need of a trim and deep conditioning.

“Here.” She leans forward and snatches up a color catalogue from the counter in front of her then extends it to me. “Sit down. I’ll translate for you.”

I move to the styling chair next to her and flip through the catalogue. Once I find the perfect shade, I remove the little clip with the formula number and extend it to Lettie. The hairstylist returns and Lettie takes over translation for me. The hairstylist nods and puts a cape around my shoulders before taking the color catalogue to a back room.

“So…criminals.” The corner of her mouth lifts as she flips through her magazine. “Not too far off.”

“Are you?” I frown. “Is it organized crime? Like the mafia?”

“In a way. Not so much anymore. Alejandro’s been trying to legitimize the family for years but hasn’t been very successful,” she answers truthfully. “There are too many moving parts.”

“Where does your money come from?”

“No drugs and no human trafficking. Honor among thieves and all that. Abuelo comes from a different generation. Diego calls us gangsters with class.”

“Diego’s an idiot,” I say.

She laughs again. Twice in one morning, what a miracle. “He has his moments.”