by LP Lovell
The doctor simply clutches his bag, waiting for me to direct him to a patient. He’s a quiet man in his mid-thirties, and I suspect he dislikes working for me, but not the money I line his pockets with. I walk out of the office, and his footsteps click over the tile behind me. Once outside Anna’s door, I pause, debating on knocking, but it’s my house. Why would I knock? Pushing the door open, I stride into the room to find her absent. My temper starts to tick up as I glance at the closed balcony doors. She escaped once, but surely she wouldn’t try it again? She wouldn’t get very far.
With a growl, I shove open the bathroom door and find her sitting in the bathtub. She doesn’t even look at me, simply stares straight ahead, her chin resting on her knees, which are pulled to her chest. Her long blonde hair sticks to her face and neck in damp strands.
“The doctor is here to look at you,” I say. She slowly unwinds her arms from around her legs and pushes to her feet, turning to face me. Water runs down her skeletal form as she looks at me, or rather through me, making no effort to cover herself. I take a towel off the rack and hold it out for her. As soon as she takes it, I turn away and walk out of the room.
I grab a tank and some tracksuit bottoms from the closet that Maria stocked for her, tossing them into the bathroom and shutting the door.
“Give her a minute,” I say to the doc who is lingering in the bedroom doorway.
After a few minutes, I open the bathroom door and find Anna fully dressed. Taking her by the elbow, I help her hobble to the bed. She never says a word, never argues, never fights, but when I look into her eyes, I see nothing but anger that seems to fuel a raw defiance in her submission. Yes, she may seem fragile, but there’s a fire concealed beneath her icy exterior. I see it, no matter how well she may try to hide it.
“I have work to do,” I say dismissively as I help her onto the bed. I don’t have time for this. “Come and see me when you’re done, Sebastian.”
“Of course.” I turn around and leave the room. I check in with a couple of the guards by the front door and don’t even make it to the office before I hear the doc call my name.
Turning around, I find him walking towards me, his face pale and his hands wringing awkwardly in front of him. “I think…I think someone is going to have to hold her down.” I glare at him, and he hurries on. “Her ankle is badly broken. I need to x-ray it, but I suspect it needs setting. She needs at least a general anesthetic for that.”
“Okay, so why do you fucking need help? She can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. Just get on with it,” I snap.
He shakes his head. “She seems to have a fear of needles.” Of all the things she could be scared of: needles. He shrugs one shoulder almost apologetically. “Perhaps you could spare one of your men?”
I glance toward the door at the two broad, tattooed men armed with automatic rifles. My men are good guys, but I’m not sure I trust them with a pretty little sex slave, not to mention the fact that they’ll probably terrify her. “I’ll do it,” I grumble.
He nods like one of those damn dogs and turns around, walking back up the stairs.
“Do you know what drugs she’s been taking?” he asks me.
“No. She was given methadone in the last twelve hours.”
“I need to know.”
It isn’t uncommon. Traffickers have been known to kidnap girls off the street, but slaves must be compliant, and no matter how broken, a girl will always long for her freedom, perhaps even risk death to escape. So, they drug them, get them so hooked on heroin that they won’t leave because they can’t be without their source. She doesn’t look like a heroin addict. She lacks the sallow, feral look they usually possess. She’s thin, yes, but not withered.
He opens the door to her room, and she remains on the bed, her back pressed to the headboard.
“Anna, are you going to tell the doctor what you take? Or don’t you know?”
She drops her forehead to her knees, her entire body trembling. “Please,” she begs quietly.
“Please what?”
“Please, no needles.” Her voice is panicked.
“You either speak, or he takes blood. Your choice.” I wait a moment, and she lifts her head, staring straight ahead at the wall.
“Ketamine,” she whispers.
“How long have you been taking Ketamine?” The doctor asks.
“I don’t know.” Another hoarse whisper.
He nods. “Okay. I can’t help you with withdrawal, I’m afraid. You’ll have to ride it out.” She says nothing. “Now, I’m going to need to x-ray that ankle.” She eyes him like a cornered animal, scared but willing to attack at a moment’s notice.
I sigh, my patience wearing thin. I’m a fucking cartel boss, not a counselor. “Anna,” I growl. She doesn’t move, just stares at the doctor with outright hostility. “For fuck’s sake.” I grab her leg and yank it away from her, eliciting a pained cry as she lands on her back on the bed. I place my other palm on her chest, pinning her down. For a second she’s filled with blind panic, utter chaos running rife behind her eyes, and then she squeezes them shut, a single tear slipping down her temple. When she opens them again, there’s nothing. The tension in her body dissipates, and she becomes…pliant. Obedient. Broken. The doctor stands awkwardly to the side, hesitating to touch her.
“Rafael, I don’t think…”
“I don’t pay you to fucking think, Sebastian. Fucking x-ray her leg.” He wordlessly pulls a piece of equipment from a hefty looking bag and starts laying things out. I ignore him and focus on Anna. Such a broken little bird, driven by base primal instincts, a sheer need to survive and nothing else. Such is the life of a sex slave in the cartel. The whole thing leaves a sick and uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach, the likes of which I’m unaccustomed to. And that, in itself, grates on me. I remove my hand from Anna’s chest, and she makes no effort to rise. I remain where I am though in case she decides to try and defy me again. A few minutes later and the doc is looking at something on a laptop screen.
“It doesn’t need surgery, just a cast,” he says. “It’ll hurt though. It needs repositioning.” He glances at Anna. No reaction. Taking out a needle and syringe, he starts drawing up liquid from a bottle. He creeps closer to her, almost as though he’s trying to catch her unawares. The needle is millimeters from her skin when she snaps out of whatever trance she was in. The tiny little girl goes from flat on her back, to off the bed in a matter of seconds. I make a grab for her, but she dashes backward, barely even limping on her injured leg. Her eyes are wide as they dart around the room, looking for a way out.
“Anna,” I say, biting back the urge to snap at her as my patience dwindles.
She whirls around, hands pawing frantically at the locked balcony doors. With a sigh, I grab her from behind, dragging her up against my chest. She thrashes wildly as I haul her to the bed, climbing on it and pinning her against me. The doctor looks horrified as he watches us. She’s beyond reason, completely feral. As she thrashes against me, my mind flashes to my sister—to a time when it was her I held like this. I swallow around the lump in my throat and tighten my arm around her chest.
“Anna,” I say quietly. “No one will hurt you.” I stroke over her hair like I would a spooked horse—like I used to with Violet. Her chest heaves under my braced arm, and I can feel her heart pounding through her ribs. “Just knock her out, doc.”
“I…” He hesitates.
“Fucking do it,” I grunt as Anna throws her head back, writhing as though she’s in physical pain.
“No, no, no,” she cries.
The doc manages to hold her arm still enough to jab her. She fights, even as the plunger slowly releases the sedative into her veins. He pulls the needle out, and her thrashing causes a drop of blood to well, trickling down her arm as the fight gradually leaves her. I inhale a deep breath, and the scent of raspberry shampoo clinging to her hair invades my senses. Her breathing evens out, and she becomes dead weight in my arms, her cheek resting agains
t my chest. Glancing down, I see her fingers clutching at my shirt slowly go lax. Her lips part slightly, and long lashes fan over her pale cheeks. How can a girl who is undoubtedly tainted by god-knows-how-many men, look so innocent and pure?
The doctor clears his throat, and I snap my gaze to his, shifting my weight out from beneath Anna’s tiny frame. “Do what you need to,” I say gruffly and leave the room without a backward glance.
Too close. She hits too close to home.
Nine
Rafael
Twenty-four hours. The little Russian has been in my possession no more than twenty-four hours, and Dominges has requested a meeting. I haven’t had to meet that man in person since the turf wars four years ago, and yet the second I have one of his former slaves he calls a meeting? Too coincidental.
I get out of the car with Carlos on my right and Emilio on my left. Emilio is my best shot, and when you’re not quite sure what you’re walking into, it’s always best to take the guy who has a knack for putting bullets between eyes.
We approach the front of a run-down Mexican restaurant. The windows are boarded up, the paint peeling off the frame and a sign hanging off the front of the building. Carlos raps on the glass front door, and the yellowed net curtain on the other side twitches before the door opens. One of Dominges’ men looks us up and down, and I grin at his lack of trust as he steps aside. Inside, the place is actually clean and maintained. Little tables have checkered tablecloths with red glass candles burning. The smell of meat and beans fills the place, reminding me of Maria’s cooking.
Dominges unfurls himself from a chair in the middle of the room and holds his hand out to me. “Ah, Rafael. Good to see you. Thank you for coming.” I take his hand and nod. I do not like the man, but the cartel is as much about politics as it is about cocaine and blood. My being here is a sign of respect I must afford another boss.
He takes his seat again and unfastens the buttons of his suit jacket. As I drop into the chair across from him, I’m acutely aware of every man in the room. One by the door, two standing behind Dominges, and I suspect there will be one or two out back somewhere. Carlos shifts behind me, and I know he’s analyzing everything: their size, guns, and possible exits.
Dominges takes a metal tin from his inside jacket pocket and opens it, revealing a neat row of cigars. He offers me one, and I take it, placing it between my lips. One of his men steps forward, lighting it for him before doing the same for me. The thick, cloying smoke invades my lungs as I inhale deeply.
He takes a long drag, his eyes fixed and narrowed on me. Never a good thing.
“You have something of mine,” he says finally.
I lift a brow. “Oh, and what is that?”
“A Russian girl. I’d like her back.” He smiles like a shark. He isn’t asking.
I laugh and lean back in my chair as I release a long stream of smoke between my lips. “She’s not mine.” I tilt my head to the side, studying him casually. “I believe you negotiated a fair sale via a fence. The buyer paid for her, and now he owns her. All seems squared away to me.”
I can see his jaw grinding, the muscles flickering beneath his skin. “And where do you come into this, Rafael? It’s common knowledge that you don’t deal in slaves.”
I shrug. “I don’t. I’m just…minding his investment.” I have to tread carefully here. Dominges is no direct threat to me, but I also don’t need him thinking that I’m pulling deals behind his back. And since even I think Nero is being shady; he has reason to be suspicious. His eyes narrow on me, and his knuckles rap impatiently over the table. I’d sooner pull my gun, and put a bullet between this fucker’s eyes than make niceties with him, but this is the diplomatic part of being a boss. Rage and distaste for certain business dealings are not enough to start a war. “I was simply told that Andre was negotiating the sale of a girl, and I was to look after her for a sizeable sum of money.” I shrug. Not technically true, but Dominges doesn’t need to know the finer details. My ‘friendship’ with Nero Verdi doesn’t need to be public knowledge, especially given what he’s done for me in the past.
“Then tell your buyer that I’m willing to refund him, plus a little extra for his trouble.” He snaps his fingers, and a man steps out of the back, dragging a girl with him. She’s bound and gagged, her blonde hair sticking to her damp cheeks. Blood streams from her wrists where the cable ties have cut into and chaffed her skin. The shirt that she’s wearing has been torn and hangs off her, barely covering her breasts, and her denim shorts hang open, telling a story that makes my temper spike. A terrified whimper makes its way up her throat, and I silently plead for her to shut the fuck up before he hurts her some more. “Looks just like her, doesn’t she?” A sick smile pulls at the corners of his lips as he drags his gaze over the bound and helpless girl.
I exhale a long breath through my nose. I have learned over the years that I can never be weak, and yet this is the one area where I struggle to maintain the strength I’m so known for. “Why?” I ask. “You were willing to sell her then, so why not now?” Curiosity claws at me. “Is there something special about her?” Surely if there were, then he wouldn’t have sold her in the first place, but Nero has me on my toes because the Italian would not buy a Mexican sex slave and go to all this trouble without reason.
He growls and slams his fist on the table in a rare loss of control. “She’s a fucking whore. I want her because she escaped,” he snarls. “And people are talking. That little slut is making me look weak. I’m going to make an example of her.”
I place the cigar to my lips and inhale again, forcing an image of indifference. The truth is, every time I think of one of those girls in those places, all I see is my mother; a broken whore, or my sister; a junkie willing to do anything for a fix.
“I know you were paid well for her. And by all accounts, you lost her before she ever made it to her buyer. You offered a refund. He could have taken it, had me find her, and pocketed the money. He didn’t. And now you’d rather lose the money just to kill her?” I raise an eyebrow at him. “That’s bad business.”
He grins. “A poor reputation is bad business. She now owes me a lot more than the ten million she fetched.” Ten million! You could buy a hundred of the most beautiful slaves in Mexico for that money.
I glance at him, and the look in his eye tells me he’ll do a lot more than just kill her, and he’ll enjoy every twisted second of it. He snatches the wrist of the girl that was brought in and drags her into his lap. She starts sobbing, twisting her head away from him. “This one is worth a lot of money,” he sneers, stroking his hand down her face and groping at her body. “She’s American.” Some unsuspecting tourist snatched off the street. “Contact your buyer,” he demands.
I school my expression into an icy mask. I deliberately avoid glancing at the girl, though her sobs fill the room. “There’s no point. I know he won’t sell the Russian.” I shrug. “I’m just saving myself the effort of a phone call.”
With a snarl, Dominges pushes to his feet, tossing the girl roughly to the floor as he does. A muffled scream slips past the gag in her mouth as he points a gun at her. I close my eyes for a beat as the sound of the bullet exploding from the chamber echoes around the room. When I open them, Dominges swings his gaze to me, a grin on his lips. My heart pounds in my chest, and I force myself not to clench my fists. Inside, I want to kill him, but outwardly I’m the image of calm. Cold. A cartel boss. My eyes shift to the girl on the floor, wide, glassy eyes stare at me as a crimson pool blossoms around her golden hair like a halo. I pity her, I do, but I have to pick my battles. I couldn’t save her because I can’t care about the fate of every kidnapped and abused girl in Mexico. It’s not possible, and it’s not my problem. The fate that awaited her… she wouldn’t have known it, but that bullet was a kindness, a bittersweet mercy.
“Fuck up her body and hang it in the compound. Tell the girls that it’s the Russian,” Dominges snaps, and two of his men scoop up the bleeding girl before scampering away
. Dominges whiskey eyes swing back to mine, and he drags a hand through his salt and pepper hair. “I had hoped for your help in this matter, Rafael,” he says, feigning disappointment, though I suspect he knew I wouldn’t help him. It’s not in my nature to do him favors.
I stub out my cigar and push to my feet. “You know I don’t deal in slaves, Dominges. She’s just a favor. I won’t go back on my word.”
He snorts. “Ah, yes, the honorable cartel boss.”
I smirk and turn on my heel, heading towards the door. “A good businessman would sell her to me, take the money, and tell your buyer she escaped.”
I glance over my shoulder with a smile. “And tell the world that I couldn’t contain a helpless whore? That would make me look weak.” His face becomes positively murderous, and I chuckle to myself as I walk out of the run-down restaurant.
As soon as I’m in the car, I turn to Carlos in the back seat. “Get your hackers together. I want anything and everything you can find on the Russian girl and Nero Verdi.” I release a long breath and slump back in the seat. “I want to know what kind of collateral ten million dollars buys.”
“Boss,” Carlos says, and I can already hear his phone clicking furiously as his fingers fly over the screen.
Ten million dollars. I shake my head. Seems the little bird is hiding secrets…or she is the secret.
Ten
Anna
I come to slowly, my vision blurring as I blink my eyes open. Bright light pours through a nearby window, and tiny dust particles catch in the sunshine like bits of glitter. The last thing I remember is a needle, and I shudder at the thought. I turn my head into the pillow and catch the faintest trace of a citrusy scent I know far too well for so little interaction: Rafael. He held me down while that doctor put a needle in my arm, and it makes me hate him. I feel violated in the worst way.
