by J. D. Weston
Duska and Emma stood opposite each other on each end of the gangway in an exchange of lust and desire for mind and unequivocal beauty.
“You have been lucky, Emma,” said the lady. “An opportunity such as this is rare. Rarer still is a second chance.”
“He changed his mind?”
“As men so often do.”
“I’m scared. He looks angry. Will he hurt me?”
“If that’s what pleases him, Emma. Some men like to be rough. They like to see the pain and fear on your face. They like to hit you and hurt you. But remember. Every slap of his hand and strike of his whip is a step closer to freedom. Fail him and he will discard you. But love him, touch him, kiss him, and you will have a future like no other.”
“But I don't want him. I don’t want to kiss him. I don't want to touch him.”
“You sound like a little girl. What happened to the lady I saw in you? Stand up straight.”
Emma did as she was told. But to raise her chin with pride and strength seemed beyond ambition.
“Duska will take your place in the container. She will be ferried to some far off place and locked in a room. She will be drugged, fed slop not fit for pigs, and kept alive for one purpose and one purpose only: to serve the customers. She will have men every hour who will pay to do to her as they wish. She will be beaten, slapped, kicked, and abused beyond your imagination. Then, when the man has finished, a new customer will arrive. A new customer with different desires. But you, Emma, you will eat the finest foods, wear the finest clothes, and have only one man to satisfy. When you have learned to truly satisfy him, your ordeal will become less arduous. No man, no matter his appetite, has a hunger for such things for any length of time that you cannot endure. Do not waste this chance, Emma.”
With one hand on the handrail, Emma took a single tentative step onto the gangway. The steel was cold on her bare skin. Her mind was numbed and dizzied by the ordeal. She turned back, seeking confidence from the lady, but received only a single nod.
“Go now, Emma, and when you are lying in the sunshine and only birdsong fills the air, think of me. Think of your parents and how proud they would be. Think of your mother’s smile knowing that her baby girl is safe and provided for with a wealth beyond imagination. Be proud of yourself, Emma.”
Lingering longer than she had anticipated, Emma locked eyes with the lady one last time. Her subconscious straightened her legs and her back. She pulled her shoulders to offer her chest to the world. As she turned and looked down at Mr Francesco, who watched her with admiration, she raised her chin.
The two girls walked slowly, each with one hand on the chain link. On Duska’s face, misery had eaten away the victorious smile she had worn and tears had pulled the makeup from her eyes just as a slow trickle of water forms stalactites in the darkest of caves.
Duska’s eyes wore the cruel distaste of bitter resent. Emma could offer a brief morsel of sorrow and pity before she averted her eyes and allowed the girl to pass. Readying herself for a well-deserved slap or a shove into the water below, Emma held onto the chains until Duska’s shadow grew long and her heeled footsteps ceased their metallic click on the gangway behind her.
Staring up at Emma, Mr Francesco opened the rear door of the car. It was an invitation, an offering of kindness designed to bring her hope and to speed the delivery of his prize.
The fear Emma had felt as she’d been led to the container passed with her first footstep on the concrete dock. She turned back to find the lady and Duska looking down at her. She wanted to call out but knew her fears would go unheard. She wanted to turn but knew that she would be caught and punished. She wanted to fall to the ground and sink below where the fires of hell would burn the sins from her memory. But she knew that she would be scooped up and that life would continue regardless.
All that remained for Emma was the hope that one day she would be strong, that one day she would be like the lady, confident and untouchable. Searching the lady’s face from afar, trying to find one last clue in her eyes, Emma clung to the post of the gangway with a silent plea for help. As if reading her mind, as if the lady could hear her garbled and chaotic thoughts, she mouthed a single word.
“Power.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Standing in the doorway with the scruffy guards loitering behind, Mr Saint basked in his glory.
Frankie started forward. But Mr Saint held out his hand, halting Frankie with his command of the space. With one hand on the door, ready to close it at any moment, he smiled at Frankie with pity as if there had been a bereavement and he offered Frankie his condolences.
“What are you doing, Saint?”
“What does it look like? I was told you were good, but we never thought you would get this far.”
“Where’s Emma?”
The question went unanswered at first. Then the sound of high heels on the steel deck approached.
Sophia stepped into view holding a girl by the arm.
“Emma is destined for greater things, Frankie.”
“You bitch. You played me.”
She shoved the girl past Frankie to the rear of the container and stood beside Mr Saint as a doting, faithful daughter.
“Who are these people? You can’t toy with their lives.”
“That’s where you are wrong, Frankie.” Sophia spoke under the admiring gaze of her father. She held a handkerchief to her face to stem the foul smell but lowered it to speak. “We can do as we wish. Who would suspect a wealthy humanitarian business man and his perfect protégé daughter of such atrocities?”
“Who are these people?”
Frankie stepped forward but Sophia lingered in the doorway, unafraid. The guards behind her closed in.
Judging the distance to the door, Frankie gauged he could make it in ten steps. Ample time for the door to be closed. He would take his chances with the guards. He just needed to buy time.
“These people have no lives. They are the vermin of Athens. Pickpockets, prostitutes, and drug addicts, every one of them.”
“And where are you sending them?”
“To the highest bidder. Somewhere they will have food and warmth, Frankie. Somewhere far from Athens.”
“You make me sick.”
“That’s not what you said last night.” Biting her lip seductively, Sophia turned in the doorway, allowing the sunlight to reveal the outline of her body through the thin fabric of her dress to the pleasure of the guards behind and the amusement of her father. “It’s a shame you weren’t man enough, Frankie.”
“What was it? A distraction? A distraction like the girl on the beach? Who was she? One of Constantine’s hookers?”
“She was disposable, Frankie. And I needed you somewhere I could contain you.”
“There was no call to Emma’s hotline, was there?”
“You can do better than that, Frankie.”
“So what now? You shut me in here and I end up in some other country. Somebody else's problem?”
“We like to keep things clean and tidy.” She stepped aside and gestured at the guards who moved forward, keen to play a part in the game and win Sophia’s favour. “On your knees, Frankie Black.”
“Oh, Sophia, I thought we had something going here.”
Standing behind the guard, Sophia drew in close, leaning her face into his. With her hand on the guard’s arm, she guided the handgun up until she peered along its length.
“You can't do this, Sophia. What about Emma? At least tell me where she is.”
She glanced at her father, seeking approval to disclose Emma’s whereabouts. Then, when assured, she turned to Frankie, smiling that same cruel smile as her father.
“Frankie, girls like Emma are so very rare. The girls behind you are dogs from the street. They are worthless. But girls like Emma, who are as beautiful as can be, intelligent, innocent, and who have the purity of a child? Well, they are like diamonds, Frankie. There are men out there who would not touch the vermin who sit behind you. Instead,
they want a touch of class. They want to shower a girl with gifts. They want to touch the soft skin of a beautiful, young girl and feel their warmth whenever they please.”
“It’s slavery. No matter how you paint it.”
“Slavery? You call it slavery. I call it freedom. Right now, Emma is on board an expensive yacht. She will be dressed in the finest clothes sipping champagne and enjoying the company of one of the richest men in Italy.”
“She’s brainwashed. She doesn't know what she’s getting herself into. She would never leave her parents.”
Sophia grinned as if watching Frankie’s mind unravel her plan.
“Unless she thinks they stopped looking,” said Frankie. “Unless she thinks…”
“Yes, Frankie?”
“She thinks her parents are dead. You told her that her parents died?”
“It is business, Frankie. A girl like Emma can have a life of her own. A girl like Emma can do well and flourish in the wealth of her admirer. One day, she will be free to be the woman she was destined to be.”
Sophia let go of the guard and stepped closer to her father. Placing her hand on his chest, she turned his face towards her. Then she kissed him. She kissed him long and hard, pressing her body into his before pulling away and returning her stare to Frankie.
“A girl like Emma, Frankie, is worth more money than you will earn in your miserable lifetime.”
She stopped, pulled away, and allowed the demonstration of her control to continue.
“Power, Mr Black. She will have a power so strong that men like you will fall at her feet. I might control the world in which I live. I might control all the men who see me.” She raised the hem of her short summer dress to reveal the tanned skin that Frankie had been mesmerised by the previous night. Then she glanced at the guards who stood with open mouths and wandering eyes. “But only one man can control me. Only one man has my heart, Frankie.”
“You were like Emma?”
“No, Frankie. Emma is like me. She has been given a chance at a life that many girls would die for but few ever find.”
A wry smile grew across Mr Saint’s face, wrinkling his tanned skin and angering Frankie.
“You bought Sophia?”
“When she was just a child, Mr Black. I have raised her as my own. I have nursed her when she was sick.”
Sickened at the thought, Frankie turned away, his face twisted with disgust.
“And you…” Fighting to find the words to describe his feelings, Frankie’s floundering grew when Mr Saint rested his hand on Sophia’s shoulder. “You allow this? Do you think this is normal? These poor people have lost their homes. You’ve taken everything. And Emma? Her parents? You watched them day after day going through the ordeal. You’re sick.”
“No, Mr Black,” he said. “Not sick. It is a business like any other and, in business, there must be winners and losers.”
“So you offered to help the Fletchers so you could keep any eye on them? You wanted to make sure they didn’t hire somebody or say the wrong thing. You paid for me to fly out here so you could be sure you controlled the hunt for Emma. You had your…” Again Frankie stumbled on the description of their relationship. “I don't even know what you are to him. Mistress? Slave?”
“Wife, Mr Black.” Mr Saint’s interjection confirmed Frankie’s summary but announced the end of the conversation. “We were married two years ago.”
“And everyone here thinks you’re father and daughter? Well, it’s a good cover for a pair of humanitarians.”
“It was my home town, Frankie,” said Sophia. “My parents died when I was a child and the one man who cared for me was old and weak. I was not destined for a life of poverty.” She gestured at the blinking eyes in the darkness over Frankie’s shoulder. “Not like some. So what was a girl to do when a handsome man offered to take care of me?”
She shrugged as if the scenario was part of everyday life.
“But the hotel?” said Frankie. “The night we shared.”
“How else was I going to keep you under control? But I’ll give you this, Frankie Black, you are a man of considerable talents, some of which I’ll never witness. It is almost a shame to kill you.”
Offering Frankie a final wink, her voice dropped to a whisper, a sorrowful whisper, as she stood with her back straight, her chest out, and her chin raised. Collecting Mr Saint’s hand, she allowed him to lead her from the container into the sunlight where they turned to face Frankie one last time.
“If you survive the trip, Mr Black, you will be killed when the doors are opened. If you die during the trip breathing the poisonous odour of faeces or of dehydration, remember me when you breathe your last breath.”
Sophia pushed the door closed and Frankie watched helplessly as the slither of light narrowed and darkness rolled into his world.
He closed his eyes, savouring the last morsel of breathable air and his final view of the bright, blue sky. Somewhere out there was Jake. Maybe the son he’d tried so hard for was looking up at the sky at that very moment. Maybe the boy would know how hard his father was trying. Tom and Mary would take care of him. They would have it their way. He just hoped that they would tell Jake how hard his father had tried and the cause for which he had died.
Sophia offered him one final smile. Her tongue slid from her mouth like the head of a snake and moistened her poisonous lips.
But a new voice caught their attention. The victorious sneer on the Saint’s faces turned to a combination of surprise and horror as their hideous plan came crashing down. As if in unison, they closed their eyes in failure.
“This is Penelope Pike broadcasting live and exclusive from Athens in the hunt for the missing teenager, Emma Fletcher.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
The Singing Star wore the flag of Italy. Its sails were full of the Mediterranean breeze, plump like the greed-filled belly of their owner, but as white as the pristine hull of the vessel they pulled across the sea. Far behind, the islands of Greece dotted the horizon, tiny imperfections on a flat line where the deep, glistening blue of the Mediterranean met the fading hues of the blue sky.
With the wind in her hair and the sun on her face, Emma sat alone, savouring the solitude at the bow where two sunbeds sat on the deck. Between them was a low table on which sat a tall glass of iced tea that was laced with slices of lemon and fringed with the fruits of Greece. The grapes and cherries that were too dilute to flavour the cool drink still left a sweet, refreshing tang on her lips.
But the serenity of the calm sea and views, and the luxury of the yacht, were scant distraction from the unknown. Above, the blue skies might well have been thunderheads, black and brooding, and the gentle lapping of the blue sea could have been the wrath of the gods crashing wave after wave. All that remained in Emma’s thoughts were her parents and the lady’s final word of wisdom.
“I see the crew have taken care of you. Forgive me. I had calls to make.”
Leaning against the stainless handrail, Mr Francesco was the essence of pride and power. His seasoned tan reached across his torso, beneath his arms, and below the insufficient swimsuit he wore. It was as if the fingers of shame could not touch him on his yacht where he was king. The outline of his genitalia was clear beneath the thin material but basked in the shadow of the man’s stomach.
“Why don't you take off your dress? The sun is out and we will not reach Italy until this evening. Cool down. Feel the breeze on your body. Enjoy the sun.”
Glancing behind her, Emma expected to find the eyes of the crew peering through the portholes. But she found none.
“Nobody will come. I have instructed them that we would like to be alone.”
The news denied Emma any means of escape and was a precursor to Mr Francesco’s advances. He stepped forward, moving his bulk into the sunlight and casting Emma into shadow. Perching himself on the edge of the adjacent sunbed, he then lay back and tapped the side of the frame.
“Come. Sit beside me where I can see you.”
Maintaining her elegance, Emma slid her legs from the bed, keeping the long slit of her dress held together, then shuffled across and took a sip of her drink, buying herself time to think and to prepare herself for whatever may come.
“You are a very beautiful girl, Emma. Did anybody ever tell you that?”
The games had begun. The charade of lust and interest had moved into the first act. But Emma was as gracious as the lady had taught her to be. She met his wandering eyes as they reached her face, and she held them there with a facade of confidence.
“Thank you. This is a very beautiful boat. You must be very successful, Mr Francesco. Do I call you Mr Francesco? Or would you prefer sir?”
“It depends on the moment. You have a lot to learn. But you must be grateful I am a patient man.”
“And I am a fast learner.”
“You will accompany me to dinners and functions. Business events. You understand?”
“I do.”
“There you will refer to me by my name, Giovanni.”
“Giovanni.” Emma pronounced the name, mimicking the accent, but leaving enough room for clarity. “Giovanni Francesco.”
“But there will be times when sir is more appropriate. I am sure you will see. Do you prefer Emma? Or do your men call you by any other names?”
The question was designed to trick Emma into revealing any historical boyfriends. But she had none. So her response was a truth and allowed her to maintain eye contact.
“I have known no men. Other than my father, of course.”
“Then indeed you do have a lot to learn.”
“I prefer to be called Emma.”
“It’s a nice name.”
“It was my grandmother’s.”
“She is alive still?”
“No. She died when I was younger, as did my grandfather.”
“Was she as pretty as you? I imagine such beauty is a family trait.”
