Chapter One
I don’t know how long I’ve been here, four months possibly five. Time passes in strange ways when you have no means to mark it. At first, I counted time by the meals I received, but after a while they became fewer and less dependable. I know for sure I’ve been here one full season. The men went from wearing long sleeve shirts to T-shirts.
My prison is a small room with a rusty bed that squeaks anytime I shift position. A tiny wooden table with a small stool takes up one corner and a toilet and sink hide behind a ratty curtain in the other. No windows, no TV, nothing to read but an old copy of Wiseguy by Nicolas Pileggi. I wasn’t one for reading crime novels in the past, but I can recite every single word by heart now.
I hear the familiar sound of the key retracting the lock and my stomach sinks. I pull at my ratty sweater wrapping it around my midsection a little tighter. Like that is going to help protect me from them.
I hear his boots scuff on the hardwood and sweat breaks out along the back of my neck. Shit, it’s him. My skin crawls when I see his sausage-like fingers holding a tray of food for me. His hairy stomach pushes out below his T-shirt and bulges over the top of his jeans. As soon as he spots me he gives me his lopsided smile.
“Hola, chica, how are you today?” His voice is raspy and his accent is thick, but I understand every word. His body language is enough in itself. “I ask you a question,” he barks at me.
“Fine,” I say through the lump in my throat.
He stands holding the tray above me. Finally I raise my eyes to meet his and he smirks, showing me how much he enjoys having this power over me. I’ve had enough encounters with this man to know that he won’t leave without wanting something in return. Luckily up till now it’s never been anything sexual—just more head games. But that doesn’t mean he’s never insinuated it. I feel my body tremble, shaky fingers pulling at the hem of my cotton nightgown that is sitting mid-thigh. I don’t need to give him any ideas. His gaze drops to my legs and he licks his lips.
“Beg,” he orders, drawing out the word.
My mouth goes dry. He loves this part. I am an animal to him. He calls me his perra, which means dog in Spanish. I feel my temper rise as I try to tell myself to stop but I can’t help it. I am past caring anymore.
I give him the sweetest smile I can muster. “Screw you.” I’d never spoken more than I absolutely had to since I got here, so suffice it to say he is blown away by my choice of words. Normally I do what I’m told while secretly fantasizing the many ways I’d like to kill this man. I try to behave, never wanting to relive my first few days here. The incredible pain after they beat me to a bloody pulp when I didn’t do what was asked made me wise up quickly.
My present adrenaline high is short lived, however, as I watch his eyes narrow and his jaw tighten. He suddenly tosses the tray across the room, shattering the dishes against the wall.
“No food for you, lengua de mierda!” he hisses, taking a step toward me. I cover my ears, tucking my knees up to my chest. This man is large enough to pick me up in one hand and toss me across the room, meeting the tray’s fate. He grabs a handful of my hair and drags me across the room, my knees bouncing along the floor like a rag doll. I barely register the pain—I am more aware that that this six foot, three hundred seventy-five pound man is hovering over me, enraged. Why did I have to get smart! The only thing I have going for me is they haven’t killed me yet. Maybe I am being held for ransom? It’s no secret my father has a lot of money and everyone knows his name—he is running for a second term as Mayor of New York City after all.
I try to force myself up onto my hands but his boot crushes down on my back forcing me down hard. My forehead smacks against the floor making my ears ring. I let out a whimper as my eyes focus on something just out of reach. I hear the sound of him removing his belt and my heart quickens—no, no, no! This can’t be happening. If I could just move a few feet to the right…I muster up all I have and launch myself forward along the floor.
“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is oh, so calm. My fingers wrap around the broken piece of plate and I tuck my hand under my chest to hide it. “Come.” He bends down, grabbing my feet and flipping me over, dragging me back toward the bed. I scream out in protest I kick and wiggle but his grip is too tight. “Feisty little thing, aren’t ya?” he chuckles. He leans over to grab me and I take my opportunity. I shoot upward, driving the sharp piece of glass into his neck. His eyes go wide with shock and he falls to his side with a loud thud, cursing and digging at the object. I scramble to my feet and head for the open door.