Twisted Roses

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2023 Sienne Vega All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, visit: www.siennevegaauthor.com. Cover Design by Steamy Designs First paperback edition January 2023 contents Content Warning 1. 1. Delphine 2. 2. Delphine 3. 3. Delphine 4. 4. Salvatore 5. 5. Delphine 6. 6. Salvatore 7. 7. Delphine 8. 8. Salvatore 9. 9. Delphine 10. 10. Salvatore 11. 11. Delphine 12. 12. Delphine 13. 13. Salvatore 14. 14. Salvatore 15. 15. Delphine 16. 16. Salvatore 17. 17. Salvatore 18. 18. Delphine 19. 19. Salvatore 20. 20. Delphine 21. 21. Salvatore 22. 22. Delphine 23. 23. Delphine 24. 24. Salvatore 25. 25. Delphine 26. 26. Salvatore 27. 27. Salvatore 28. 28. Delphine 29. 29. Salvatore 30. 30. Salvatore 31. 31. Delphine 32. 32. Salvatore 33. 33. Salvatore Twisted Roses Playlist Coming Soon: Savage Roses Prologue - Stefania Chapter 1 - Salvatore Also by Sienne Vega Stay Connected Bonus Scene About the Author content warning Hi readers! Quick check-in before we begin Twisted Roses, the next chapter of Salvatore’s and Delphine’s story. There is some subject matter that might be upsetting for some readers. Please see below: Graphic sex and violence Graphic depictions/mentions of nonconsensual sexual violence Graphic mentions of child abuse Brief mentions of human/child trafficking Brief mentions of murder suicide I strongly advise you not to proceed if any of the above topics are upsetting for you. This book is not suitable for readers under the age of eighteen. Spoiler alert: Please note this book ends with story threads unresolved. Salvatore’s and Delphine’s story will continue in book three of the series, Savage Roses. Otherwise, thanks so much for reading! xoxo, Sienne 1. delphine “You’ve been making remarkable progress, Delphine,” Alicia Keeney says. She studies me from where she sits poised in her lounge chair, her legs crossed at the ankles. The late-afternoon sunlight lances through the blinds and makes her bright eyes more crystalline. More piercing. I aim a gracious smile at the therapist. “Thank you. These sessions have been an enormous help. For the first time in a while, I feel hopeful for the future.” “That’s always encouraging to hear. Have you been writing in your dream journal? Even the bad ones?” My smile falters for the briefest second before I blink and catch myself. “Yes, every morning. No bad ones in recent weeks.” “Good, good. You’re making strides toward healing. Though you should remember, we all have a misstep or two along the way. No survivor’s journey is a straight line. How about we pick up where we’re leaving off next Wednesday? Same time?” I leave Alicia Keeney’s office without looking back. The early evening rush has started—cars clog up the streets and people beeline for the subway. Potent smells like garlic and pepper waft out of apartment windows as dinner is cooked and served. Above distant skyscrapers, the sky tinges gold and the sun sets. My favorite time of the day. Next to nighttime. I can be alone—I can be whoever I want. I leave the narrow street Doctor Keeney’s office is located on and move toward the subway. In the past I would’ve been headed home to Salt and Pepa and my new apartment in Centennial Village. Lately, I’ve picked up a new hobby. I grab the subway on the next street over and settle into a seat in the corner of my car. I’ll be riding it a while. Right out of Northam and into a neighboring city. Tonight, I’ve chosen Easton. By the time I return home, it’ll be past midnight. Possibly a couple hours later than that. Most of the city will be asleep. Except those out for a good time... or a bad time. I should know. I’m one of them. * * * The stop I get off on is called Shadwell. It’s not a particularly safe part of the city. As I depart the subway car and step onto the platform, a man in tattered clothes lurches by with dark circles and vacant eyes. He’s high out of his mind as he wanders the station. I pull my blazer tighter and stride forward, ignoring the open leers from a few constructor workers nearby. I nab the first taxi available on the street outside. My driver nods at the address I show him on my phone and then cranks up the radio on the dash. Easton is a lot like Northam in several ways—big buildings, headache-inducing smog, crowded streets, and no sign of a leafy tree or plant life for miles. My driver drops me off outside the address I’ve requested and then speeds off once I’ve sent the payment through. I check the time. Surprisingly, I’m early. Over the next hour, I head up to the studio apartment, set down my briefcase from my long day at city hall, and shed the layers of my ADA costume—my silky blouse, tailored blazer, and sleek pencil skirt are hung up. I shower and put on a very different kind of costume. Whereas my daytime attire was professional and designer, the slinky dress I put on cost about twenty dollars at some fashion boutique in the mall. A smokey eye, red lip, and spritz of perfume later, I’m almost ready to go. The last touch is the wig I’m wearing tonight, a dark and blunt-cut bob. I leave the closet-sized studio apartment without any idea when I’ll come back; I’m only ever on-the-go when I stop by and use the space for some quick privacy. I take the subway a second time, riding deeper into the city. Another thing Easton has in common with Northam. The