by Skye Warren
The letters on the keyboard are all out of order.
I find the L and press it. Then the U. C. I. A.
Lucia. My name is Lucia. Then I press the backspace button until it’s gone.
The door opens, bringing in a faint breeze, the softest hint of pine. I breathe deep, the earthy scent making my heart pound. I could run now, while Margo and Mercedes are in the back room. I’d have a couple minutes’ head start on Jorge.
The man who steps inside ruins that hope. He’s bigger than I’d thought from looking out the basement window. But it’s his face that makes me still inside. Devoid of emotion. Severe. I can imagine that expression on his face when he shoots someone in the knee as punishment. When he shoots them while they try to escape.
His gaze meets mine, and I shiver at the flat blue of them, as cold and unfeeling as the concrete walls. For a second I’m unable to speak, unable to breathe.
The stockier man follows him inside, and the spell is broken.
The two men fill the small space more than the desk and chairs could. Their shrewd eyes miss nothing—not the cracks in the walls, not my ill-fitting suit. They exchange a glance that I can’t quite read, except to know they aren’t happy.
The second man’s phone rings, and he turns away, speaking in low tones.
The first man turns back to me. He rocks forward on his heels, a glint of cruel humor in his blue eyes. “Conti. Sebastian Conti. I believe they’re expecting me.”
Margo’s words ring in my ears. The report of her gun blasts through my memories. Welcome to MM Textiles. How may I help you? That’s all I’m allowed to say.
“Welcome to MM Textiles.”
One dark eyebrow raises. “Thanks. And you are?”
I swallow hard. “How may I help you?”
His expression turns hard. “I have a few questions for you, actually.”
I can only stare at him, helpless. Afraid.
Margo’s high-pitched laugh breaks the silence. Her heels click on the concrete as she comes inside, no doubt waiting to make her entrance from the other room. “Oh, I’m sure anything you need to know, I can tell you, Mr. Conti. You’ll find I’m very helpful when I want to be.”
A flash of something dark—dislike? Anger?—flashes through Mr. Conti’s eyes before they crystallize once more. “And you are?”
“Margo Rizzoli,” she says, voice brimming with pride. “I spoke to your assistant on the phone. And this is my sister, Mercedes.”
Mercedes appears behind her, pale beside her vibrant sister. She smiles, more placating than predatory. “So pleased to meet you, Mr. Conti. We were thrilled to hear you’d be visiting us.”
Mr. Conti nods curtly. “Ms. Rizzoli—”
“Please, call me Margo.”
In the pause that follows, Sebastian Conti makes it clear he isn’t to be interrupted. Margo seems to shrink two inches under his electric blue gaze. When he speaks his voice is mild. “Part of the reason I’m here is to speak with the employees. To get a sense for the place beyond the balance sheets.”
Margo’s smile falters. She and her sister exchange worried looks. “Oh…well, you understand, many of our workers don’t speak English. Most of them, actually.”
Mr. Conti meets my gaze. “I think she does. Am I right?”
The question is clearly directed at me, which means I’m supposed to answer. Except I can’t. My throat seizes up. If you say even one more word, Tia will have a very bad day. Anything I do now would be wrong. I can’t ignore a man as powerful as this. Someone will definitely be punished for his ire. Neither can I disobey one of the sisters.
I manage a short nod, my whole body trembling.
Sebastian Conti studies me with the clinical detachment of a scientist, as if observing a butterfly trying to fly without its wings. Margo and Mercedes remain silent, leaving me to struggle on my own. Even the second man has ended his call and watches me with amused curiosity.
“Welcome…to MM textiles,” I say in a small voice.
“She’s a little slow,” Mercedes whispers loudly. “Part of a charity work program.”
My eyes narrow just a fraction, anger and frustration filling me.
Mr. Conti’s gaze sharpens on me, almost as if he’s gratified.
Please leave, I think as hard as I can.
As if answering my prayers, he nods to Margo. “Show me around.”
Her smile looks brittle, but she rushes to obey, leading him and the other man into the main working area. I know the other women won’t speak, because they’ll be too afraid. Some of them speak English, but they know better than to talk to a man like this.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
At least the charade is over now. Maybe things will go back to the way they were, however depressing that’s been. And maybe I won’t be punished for that awkward moment with Mr. Conti. But I know neither of those things are true.
While the sisters show the men around, I sit idly at the desk. I know better than to move, even if no one’s watching. Instead I find more letters on the keyboard and type with two fingers.
The door leading outside is so close. Jorge isn’t guarding it right now. There will never be a better time to escape than right now. Except that Tia would suffer. All the women would be punished if I manage to get free. I can’t do that. That’s the real reason I don’t try to escape—knowing the pain it would cause the other women. I have to stay here.
And if I ever find a way out, I have to take them with me.
I hear footsteps from inside. Only one person emerges from the hall. Sebastian Conti.
The height of him, the breadth of his shoulders, fill the front office. They steal all the air, and I can only drift, hollow and weightless in his orbit.
He smiles at me, and I wonder if he means it to disarm me. Because it’s the scariest smile I’ve ever seen, small and dark. The kind of smile a panther would give you as it stalks you through the forest.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
My gaze falls to the keyboard, where my fingers are typing away, all on their own. L. U. C. I. A.
My name is Lucia. I can’t say that.
“Okay,” he says, almost as if he expected my silence. It’s a game for him. “Let’s try a different question. How long have worked here?”
Since I was a little girl. “How may I help you?”
His lips twist in a wry smile. “It would help if you stop bullshitting me.”
My gaze flies to his.
“I know you’re not slow,” he says, his gaze speculative. “I may not know what the fuck is going on here, but I know you’re the smartest person in this shithole. That’s a skill I had to develop early, finding that person.”
I press my lips together. My fingers move faster and faster over the keyboard, but who knows what I’m typing? I’m not even looking at the keys or the screen. I’m looking at him.
He takes a step closer, his shrewd gaze seeming to take in everything—my ill-fitting suit, my too-big shoes. My hair that hasn’t seen a brush except for Tia’s fingers. “I noticed something interesting. How many are there downstairs? Twenty? Thirty?”
Thirty-nine women. Do our lives mean so little to him that he doesn’t keep count? Of course he doesn’t. We’re coffee beans in a jar, meant to be used up and thrown out. My hands clench into fists. I hate that he sees my helplessness, my anger. He’s a stranger. And if he’s working with Mercedes and Margo, not a very nice one.
He cocks his head. “Only two cars outside, though.”
What does he expect? Sweatshop workers don’t drive away. They don’t leave at all. I’m on the verge of telling him that, the words on the tip of my tongue, ready to tell him exactly what I think of men like him—
Footsteps sound on the stairs.
The stocky man appears at the top. “We should go,” he says in a low tone.
“Wait,” Margo says, appearing at the top of the stairs, her voice wheedling. “The ball. The Christmas ball. We’re invited, aren’t we
? It’s for all employees of Conti Industries, isn’t it?”
The men exchange another glance that sends dread down my spine.
“Yes,” Sebastian Conti says, his voice cold. “You’re all invited.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Conti. And you too, Mr. Daly. It will be wonderful to get out.” Margo laughs as Mercedes comes up behind her. “My sister and I work ourselves too hard.”
Sebastian says nothing. His gaze slides to me before he turns and leaves.
“We’ll be in touch,” the other man says.
Then he’s gone too.
As soon as the door closes, Margo’s smile turns into grim determination. Her eyes turn shrewd. “We need to go shopping.” Her gaze snaps to me. “Take that stupid slut downstairs. She’s going to have to bust ass to make up for missing work this morning.”
It’s only when I hold down the Backspace button that I read what I’d written. While Sebastian Conti had been speaking to me, I was typing help me help me help me help me. Which proves I’m as stupid as Margo says I am. Why would a man like him help me?
By the time Mercedes rounds the desk, the screen is blank again.
She grabs me by the arm and pulls me down the stairs, back to my room. It was probably a storage closet when this sad building was first built. I’m the only girl to get a private room, another nod to my father’s old status.
“Change into your clothes,” she says, with a huff of impatience. “And bring those out when you’re done. You better not leave anything on them.”
The door shuts behind her. At least I get to change back in private. It’s small things I find to appreciate here.
I pull the skirt down and step out, one foot still inside when I hear the low voices outside. Without thinking I hop onto the crate and strain to the ledge. I’m still naked, the concrete radiating cold against my bare skin.
“What did you think?”
“The place is a dump,” replies a deep voice. Sebastian.
“It’s a dump that makes money. Their profits are impressive for such a small operation. I’m not sure how they’re doing it.”
“Which means you don’t want to know.”
“Even if there are problems, we could probably find a buyer. At least sell off the parts.”
“It’s not worth the liability. I’d rather burn it to the ground.”
“But—”
“Shut it down.”
My hands are shaking as I feed the fabric into the ancient sewing machine. The loud whir is a familiar comfort. As long as I’m working, no one yells at me. No one hits me. Even with the comforting rhythm of the machine, I can’t calm down.
Over the mechanical roar, echoing inside my head, I can still hear Sebastian’s words. He wants to close this place. No, he wants to burn it to the ground.
This is more than a sweatshop. It’s home.
The thread pulls taut, forming a perfect row of stitches over the blue floral fabric. It’s a pretty sundress, the kind I imagine a woman wearing at a picnic. She’s in a park with miles of deep green grass. A man strolls behind her, holding a heavy wicker basket full of wine and cheese.
That’s someone else’s life, just like this will be someone else’s dress.
What will happen to us if they burn this place? Will they leave us inside? A chill runs down my spine. It would solve the liability problem.
Tia corners me at the end of the day, when all the fabrics have been put away and soup has been served for dinner. “Who were those men?” she whispers. “What did they want?”
She’s one of the only women who speaks fluent English. It’s just her and me, really. The other women sit quietly or speak in Spanish when Mercedes doesn’t see. Margo has already left for the day. No doubt Jorge is standing guard at the door again.
“It was some kind of inspection. They had me act like a secretary.”
Tia’s forehead creases into deep lines of worry. “What does it mean?”
I hesitate, because I don’t want her to be afraid. Like I’m afraid. But in the end I can’t keep this to myself. Maybe that makes me weak. “I think they want to close the business.”
Her eyes go wide. She crosses herself, muttering for God to protect us.
My heart pounds, and I realize I was hoping she’d tell me everything would be fine. That there’s no way the place would shut down, or that if it did, the women would be all right. I’m desperate for reassurance. “They won’t do it, though, right? Mercedes and Margo, they won’t let them.”
“Mercedes and Margo are foxes, shrewd and sharp. The men who walked through the shop earlier are lions, and even foxes bow before them.”
“Where will we go?”
Tia’s smile is small. “The lions do not care what happens to the mice.”
“Maybe they’ll sell us.” Except I already know that won’t happen.
At least we can sell off the parts.
It’s not worth the liability. I’d rather burn it to the ground.
“It’s not true,” I say quietly. “It’s not true that lions never care.”
She raises her eyebrow. “You’re young. Of course you believe that.”
“I’m not that young.” She still thinks of me as the twelve-year-old girl, crying in her arms. It’s been seven years. I’m a woman now, even though I don’t know the things other women here do. About men. About sex. Even though I never want to learn, if men are like Sebastian Conti. Cold. Uncaring.
Her mouth draws tight. “In some ways, you’re wise. But in other ways… you haven’t had a chance to grow up.”
My stomach clenches with grief, with anger. I take a deep breath. Anger won’t help Tia and the other women. “My father had a story about a lion and a mouse.”
Tia drinks her soup, eyes on the door. We can see Jorge standing outside, playing on his phone. The line of his shirt lifts above his gun. In a few minutes he’ll come inside to lock us in the rooms for the night. Sometimes I imagine us rushing him. We could overtake one person, couldn’t we?
Not before Jorge got off a few rounds.
I’d rather live in captivity than sacrifice innocent women. That wouldn’t be freedom.
My father’s presence sits in the room with me, raised by Tia’s words. I remember the stories he used to tell me, murmuring beside my plush pink bed until I drifted to sleep. That spill from my lips now, as familiar as a prayer. “One day a mouse grew curious, and he wandered into the lion’s den.”
Jorge’s gun isn’t the only reason we don’t force an escape. Even if some of us got free, where would we go? We don’t have money or identification. We don’t even have shoes. Margo swears that even if she and her sister and Jorge were dead, other men would find us. They would hunt us down like animals. Those of us who weren’t killed in the process would be sent to the whorehouse, sold to the worst customers to die in the worst possible way.
“Go on,” Tia says softly, her eyes soft and hazy the way they get sometimes.
I speak past the lump of fear in my throat. “The mouse, he got caught. The lion was angry and started to eat him. The small mouse begged him not to. He swore that if the lion let him live, he would one day return the favor.”
Tia pulls the bowl from me gently, and I look down to find my hands trembling. What I’m suggesting is what we’ve been too afraid to do. What I’m suggesting is almost certain death.
Almost.
There’s a chance we’ll succeed. How many lives is that chance worth?
“The lion laughed,” I continue, my voice shaky. “What could a tiny mouse do to save him, the great lion? But he was charmed by the mouse and decided to let him live.”
Tia’s silent a moment. “This story gives more credit to the lion than exists. Most would just eat the meal right in front of them.”
Maybe, but I already met this particular lion. I saw the way he looks at me, and though I’m not experienced, I know what it means with a deep-seated instinct. Sebastian Conti wants me—my body, my innocence. Maybe even my intelligence. You�
��re the smartest person in this shithole.
This lion wants to be charmed.
I take a deep breath. “Then one day, the lion was waking in the forest. His paw was caught in a hunter’s trap. He roared and struggled but could not break free. The mouse heard him from across the forest and ran to help. He nibbled through the ropes and the lion was free.”
“A brave mouse who would do this,” Tia says softly.
“I’m not afraid,” I lie.
“Perhaps. But you must be willing to pay the price.” In her eyes I see reflected the same deep-seated instinct, the years of experience in that brothel. We both knew what it would take to charm a man like that. My body.
I swallow hard. “Better that than let everyone die.”
“Do you really think he’ll kill us?”
“I don’t know. But he said he wouldn’t sell us. What else could he do with us?”
She shook her head, dread settling in her eyes. “Nothing good.”
“Then I have no choice.”
“You do. I could help you escape from here.” Her voice is urgent. “You’re young. You speak English. You have the best chance of any of us to make a life for yourself outside these walls.”
And let them burn? Leave Tia? “I won’t,” I say fiercely.
A long moment passes, my words hanging in the air. Even if the men hadn’t come, Margo would punish all the women if they helped me escape. It would be a death sentence.
“All right,” she says, sounding resigned, as if she knew that would be answer but didn’t like it. “Then you have to find him. Convince him to let us live, however you can. Charm him with everything you have, little mouse.”
I look down at myself, my dirty shorts and thin tank top. “I’m not sure that’s much.”
“You underestimate yourself. And I’ll help you. But before we start planning, there’s one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“If you’re successful, he’ll let you live. He will let all of us live. But there’s a price to pay.”
