by A. Zavarelli
There isn’t time to protest or question him. When I turn back, there’s a flash of movement in which the only thing I see is his fist. Flying at my face. And then blackness.
Only blackness.
When I wake again, I am naked. And my senses are distorted. I’m dizzy and confused by the overwhelming sense of dread coursing through my body. There is vomit lying next to my face, which causes me to wretch. But nothing comes up. And I realize, it is mine.
And then I realize something else. When I feel movement on top of me. Inside of me.
There is a man’s face above me. One I do not recognize.
I try to move. But my body isn’t cooperating. It’s sluggish and heavy. Something is wrong with me, but I don’t know what it is.
There is a low murmur. And some movement. Hands on me, shifting me around. There is shock and pain at another intrusion. From behind.
There are two of them now. Two strangers inside of me.
And then I hear Dmitri’s voice. My confusion and panic halts for a split second in which I believe that he’s going to fix this. That he’s going to make it right.
But when he enters my blurred vision, distorted from my swollen face, I remember the car. His fist. The place he took me to.
He’s in front of me now. Expressionless as he unzips his pants. It isn’t the same man that I knew. The same man that I’ve spent the last month with. He rubs himself on my face, and I try to pull away when he seizes my hair and slaps me in the same spot he hit me before.
The shock of pain causes my mouth to fall open, and he shoves inside, gagging me.
“You better get used to it, kitten,” he tells me. “The pain is your new best friend. This feeling is what you will know now. The only thing you will know. It is better to accept it than fight it.”
I can’t move. I can’t fight back. They’ve drugged me with something, I realize, as Dmitri watches the tears spill down my cheeks. He knows my resistance is futile as well. And he doesn’t care.
“Now give me one more gift,” he says as he uses my mouth. “For old times’ sake.”
He is rough with me. Rougher than he’s ever been. And when he finishes, he does it on my face, smearing the liquid around with his palm before he spits on me and rubs that in too.
And then he’s kneeling in front of me. Patting me on the cheek.
“It’s just business,” he tells me. “That’s all, kitten. Don’t make it any harder on yourself.”
He disappears from the room, and from my life, as another man takes his place. It hurts for a long time. But the lines are blurred and I can’t be sure if it’s the physical or emotional. It never seems to end.
I don’t know how many there are. I don’t know anything but the pain.
And when I close my eyes, I try to find a way to transcend it. Thinking that it will help. But the only thing I can see is Mack’s face. My best friend and my sister and the only person on this earth who loves me.
She doesn’t know where I am. Because I was too angry to tell her the truth.
There’s a well-known saying about everything becoming perfectly clear in hindsight.
In hindsight, I never realized exactly how pivotal that moment was. My best friend and I, sitting in a café together, eating lunch. About to have one of our many arguments. It was the last time I saw her.
People always say they wish they’d known what was about to happen before disaster strikes. I would have said that too, at the time. I would have told Mack where I was going. And then I would have let her talk me out of it.
But looking back on it now, I don’t think I’d say the same.
I had to go to hell to find the person I am today. And in the end, the road through hell led me straight to him.
1
ALEXEI
HUMAN EMOTION IS NOT a linear experience. That which provokes emotion in one may provoke little, if anything, in another. I came to understand this at a young age.
I understand it even better now. As I trace my finger over the rough, cracked wood of the rook that sits atop my desk in these late evening hours. The profound pleasure I feel is at war with equal amounts of rage. And yet, to anyone else, it is merely a worn chess piece.
A chess piece I find myself revisiting far too often.
A shadow falls over the desk, alerting me to a presence in the doorway. When I glance up, Franco is there. He speaks in slow and succinct intervals, giving me adequate time and attention to read his lips.
“Katya is at the door again,” he announces.
“Send her away.”
He leaves without a response and I retrieve the bottle of cognac from my bottom drawer. By the time I have poured and finished the glass, Franco returns. He takes a seat across from me, his eyes on the chess board.
“Your move,” I tell him.
He takes his time, examining every piece. I have already taken control of the center and captured his rook. In several more moves, he will be sunk completely. The thing that Franco always seems to forget is that in his desperation to protect the King, he often leaves the Queen vulnerable.
I would never make that mistake.
“Is everything in place for tomorrow?” I ask.
He looks up at me and gives a simple nod. “It is all in place. The shipment will disappear and Arman will be in your debt.”
“And what of Viktor?”
“I’ve arranged for dinner tomorrow evening. You can speak to him then.”
He makes his move on the board, a careless one at that. I follow suit with an equally careless move because I’m bored of this game and I’d like him to challenge me, at least once.
“He will be reluctant to have you leave the country,” Franco notes. “He won’t want to risk you.”
“Then I will give him no other choice.” I shrug.
“What do you have in mind?” Franco asks.
“A problem with the Russian bank. Frozen accounts, perhaps.”
“Ah.” Franco rubs his chin in thought. “A problem only you can fix. Then you will suggest… two birds, one stone?”
I nod, but it’s only a matter of moments before Franco speaks the rest of what’s on his mind.
“Do you believe this is wise, Mr. Nikolaev?”
“Are you suggesting I am unwise?” is my reply.
He shakes his head. “You are many things. Unwise is not one of them. But I feel as though you might be acting impulsively. It is out of character for you.”
Out of character for me is leaving the sanctuary of my home. This is what Franco refers to. There have not been many occasions where I felt the need to leave. Every time I do so, I risk exposing my secret to those around me. To my fellow Vory.
Leaving the country is an even bigger risk. However, it is one I must take.
I meet Franco’s gaze. “Sometimes we must do things that we’d rather not. Is part of life, yes?”
“You have lied to Viktor,” he answers. “If he ever uncovers what you have done to retrieve this girl, there could be a war…”
“Considering that you and I are the only two souls who know, I find it highly unlikely. And besides, who would replace me?”
Franco makes a gesture with his hand, conceding.
“Nobody can replace you. This is why you take such risks. But this girl, I worry about her.”
He does not need to tell me the many ways this could go wrong. I have gone over them myself ceaselessly. It will undoubtedly strain my relations with Lachlan Crow and our Irish alliance. I gave them my word I would find her, and I did. But neither the Irish nor Viktor are aware of my true intentions with the girl. He will be angry, as Franco so obviously reminds me. But my position within the Vory is secured for life. Perhaps this is why I take risks. But I have weighed all sides of this matter carefully.
The end result, and the only result that matters, is that I will not be chained to Katya for the rest of my life. Franco knows this. And yet, I indulge his worries out of respect. He always has my best intentions at heart,
so he deserves to be heard, even though it will not change my mind.
“Tell me what has you so concerned,” I suggest.
“She is likely to be highly unpredictable. It is impossible to say what state she will be in when you first meet her. The things she has been through. She will be damaged.”
I glance at the photograph of the girl on my desk. The one her friend Mack gave me in the hopes that I could find her. That I could save her. It is the photo I have studied night and day for the last three weeks. I know everything about her. I have read all her files. Uncovered all of her history up until the point she was sold. And the things Franco says are true. She is broken. She is damaged. I know this better than anyone.
I pour myself another cognac and raise my glass in agreement.
“And that is why she will be perfect.”
2
TALIA
DEATH.
The word has such a sense of finality to it. But it’s more than just an ending. People die long before they ever make it to the grave.
They die in little ways, every single day.
A loss of feeling. A lack of caring. Sometimes it is slow. Sometimes it has the subtlety of a hurricane.
Death can inhabit the body long before the soul ever leaves.
In my case, this is true. It is the only truth I know.
And I am ready to embrace the death of this life with open arms. I am ready to fly. To find peace.
One more week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight more hours.
Then I will have enough. Enough remnants of the white pills to set me free. If tonight goes as planned, I might even shave a day off that number. Arman is always generous with the pills when he is entertaining guests. To keep me placid. To keep me in line.
After he fucks me.
Because he never fucks me when I’m high. He doesn’t grant me such courtesies. For him, I’m always stone cold sober.
He’s inside of me right now. Fucking me like the filthy pig he is. The same as he always does before a party. This is so I don’t forget who owns me when all of his friends are inside of me tonight. He finishes with a grunt and then tosses me aside onto the stained mattress that I spend my days on.
I don’t look at him when he speaks. I already know what he’ll say. The same warning I always receive. His accent is heavy and his breath is too. Only the words are different this time. I almost miss it through the haze of my despondency, but there’s something in his voice that captures my attention.
It’s difficult to identify exactly what it is. Something sounds off. I’ve never heard Arman nervous before, but right now, that’s exactly how he sounds.
“Tonight is important,” he says. “These men must be satisfied. You must put in effort.”
I don’t respond to him because I never do. He doesn’t deserve my words. My words abandoned me long ago, around the same time my sanity slipped out the door. But the question is there in my eyes when I look up at him, and he answers.
“If you embarrass me tonight, I will flay you alive for all to see.”
Nothing. I feel nothing when he says that. Because his promises of death, no matter how brutal, are always false. He treasures his ownership over me too much to let me go.
His trophy. His prized slave. The American with the pretty blonde hair and vacant eyes. Nothing else matters in this wasteland.
“Karolina!” he snaps his fingers and she appears a moment later, her hands folded in front and her head bowed in submission.
Karolina loves Arman. And she hates me. He always makes her wait outside the door while he fucks me. So she knows her place. She may have her freedom to roam the mansion and his trust, but she will never have Arman’s heart. Because the man doesn’t have one.
He jerks his head at her, and she steps forward without any further instruction. Her hand moves to the locket around her neck, and Arman holds up a finger, speaking to her in a language I still haven’t figured out. Arman is not Russian. This much I know. And he told me once that we were in Bulgaria, but this is not his native land. The rest are just details that elude me.
I may not understand the words that Arman speaks, but I’ve come to understand his mannerisms well. And when Karolina takes one pill from the locket, panic takes hold of me. I need two. Two pills to equal seven days. I hold up two fingers in a plea, and Arman slams his foot into my stomach. My body curls into itself as I launch into a coughing fit and fight for air.
I have to resist the urge to squeeze my eyes shut and block everything out as he finishes his instructions to Karolina. There is still a part of me that hopes he will be merciful, but that part is foolish. He leaves the room without any further regard to me. It’s for the best, I realize. Because I might be able to fool Karolina, but I can’t fool him.
And there is still one pill.
One pill is better than nothing. She hands it to me and I slip it into my mouth and under my tongue. And then she shackles my legs to the hooks along the wall, leaving just enough leeway for varied positions. I want her to leave now, but she doesn’t. Instead, she glances back over her shoulder, and a cruel smile takes over her features when she turns back. She kicks me in the stomach twice more and then leans down to spit on my face.
“Dog,” she mutters in a heavy accent. “Enjoy your evening.”
She sashays from the room and I’m left gasping for air, horrified as I realize that I swallowed the pill whole in my coughing fit. Seven. It was only supposed to be seven days. Now it’s eight.
Tears blur my vision, and I collapse onto the fluid stained mattress in a heap. My eyes land on the familiar lines etched into the wall by my nail, and I retrace the line from this morning with my finger. Repeating the same word over and over in my head.
Seven. Seven. Seven.
At some point, the music upstairs begins to vibrate through the ceiling. I know it won’t be long now. Drinks first. They’ll all be drunk when they come down here. Sometimes that’s better. Other times, it’s worse.
The door opens. I don’t look. But I hear Arman’s voice. And feel the eyes of his guests as they inspect me. This is Arman’s version of a dinner party, his slaves offered up as dessert. They talk amongst themselves, deciding who gets to go first. Sometimes they share. Sometimes there are so many on me at once I can’t breathe. And I like that sensation. The air slipping from my lungs. I want them to empty completely and steal everything away. But it never happens.
Because Arman would kill them if they killed me.
The door closes behind me, and I’m left with only one man. I can tell by his breathing. One breath, one man. It doesn’t matter what he looks like. I rarely see their faces anymore. I rarely see anything, other than the lines on the wall and the numbers in my head. Seven. Seven. Seven.
A zipper comes down. And then the sound of foil tearing. Arman makes them wear a condom when they take me. And they don’t get to hit me either. I wish they would. I wish they’d hit me so hard I could fade into the blackness. But that special privilege is reserved for Arman only. And he’ll never let me go.
He’s inside of me now. This faceless man. And everything is one dimensional. The pill has entered my bloodstream and I feel nothing. I only hear him. Grunting and cursing.
I count the lines on the wall. And the lyrics to Angel of the Morning by Skeeter Davis play through my mind like an old record. My mother’s voice. I sing along with her. And see their faces. Three empty, vacant faces of my brother and sisters. Lying on the bathroom floor.
Water in my lungs. Air slipping away. Clawing, thrashing. And the soothing song my mother sings while she holds me under.
My eyes flicker open and shut, everything distorted and sharp all at once. Seven lines. Seven days. Angels in the morning. Mother’s hand on my cheek. Gasping for breath as I cough up water and see the halo of her hair surrounding her in the bathtub.
They are all gone. All but me.
Four angels. Seven days.
A grunt. The man behind me finishes. I collapse.
Another takes his place soon after.
Flickers of my foster dad swarm my vision. This man smells like him. Like tobacco and stale sweat. The song plays through my mind again and I sing along, trying to block it out. I need another pill. I need the whole bottle.
“So very sweet.”
It isn’t this man’s voice. It’s my foster dad. Number one. He was the first. He won’t be the last.
I count the lines and time holds me captive. I don’t know time anymore. It’s distorted. Days, months, years, minutes. They are equal to me. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I never know how long it goes on for.
The only thing I know for certain, is that at some point, the sweaty pile of human garbage behind me changes. This one tries to get rough with me because he can’t get his whiskey dick to cooperate. I don’t make it any easier on him, and after throwing me against the wall, he leaves the room, unsatisfied.
The next one murmurs in my ear as he fucks me. He is gentle, fucking me like a lover would. Halfway through he reaches down and touches me, trying to get me off. It makes me want to puke and it’s completely pointless. I feel nothing. Nothing but the void.
He leaves the room and I lie in a puddle of sweat and semen, wondering where the next man is. There’s always a next one and this one is taking forever. I want it to be over so Karolina will give me another pill. The door opens again, and I wait.
But he doesn’t approach me. He watches me. I feel his eyes on me and I don’t know why. Why is he dragging this out? A prickling sensation crawls along my spine and time suspends in the long stretch of silence. There is an unfamiliar urge inside of me to cover myself. To hide my body in his presence. I don’t like his eyes on me. I don’t like anyone’s eyes on me.
Not like this.
Finally, there is movement. And my heart-rate calms as his shoes clip across the cement floor in my direction. I think he’s going to fuck me now. And then he will go, like the rest of them.
Only he doesn’t. He stops just above me. And it’s the scent that always hits me first. That’s the one thing I notice about these men I don’t look at. This one smells good. Earthy like warm oak and spicy like cloves. He is too clean to be in this filthy room. I know it right away.
