Massive. Luxury. A vessel the ultra-rich use for Mediterranean vacations. White hull gleaming even in low light. Multiple decks. Windows lit from inside, making it look warm and inviting.
It’s the perfect cover. Anyone watching would think we’re models heading to a photo shoot. Or rich people's entertainment heading to a party. Not trafficking victims being shipped to Moscow.
One of Dmitri's men approaches. He’s older with gray hair.
"I'll supervise the shipment personally, Boss." His voice is respectful but firm. "Stay here. Let things cool down with Petrov."
"No," Dmitri replies. "I'm coming."
He looks directly at me when he says it.
Message received. He's coming to make sure I suffer. To make sure Ivan never finds me. To make sure this punishment is complete and permanent.
The guards herd us toward the yacht, single file like prisoners. Like cattle into a chute. Hands on our shoulders keep usmoving. Keep us from running even though there's nowhere to run.
The dock is empty other than us. No witnesses. No one to see. Just fog and water.
Dmitri boards first, then we follow, one by one, up the gangway. We pass crew members who don't look at us. Who've learned not to see what they're transporting. If they do, we’re objects, not people with lives and dreams of our own.
Dmitri’s hand finds my arm again as I step onto the deck. "Can't have you damaged before sale." He squeezes hard. "Need you looking pristine when buyers come. But once you're sold? Once you're his property and his alone?" He leans closer. Breath hot against my ear. "I hope he makes you scream every single day for the rest of your miserable life."
I don't respond. I can’t.
The reality is settling in now. Really settling in. Not only knowledge but understanding.
The fog. The yacht. The other women. The way the crew won't make eye contact. The way Dmitri is smiling despite his bruised throat.
This is happening.
This is real.
I'm being trafficked.
The word sits wrong in my head. Trafficking. That's something that happens to other people. To girls in documentaries. To statistics in news articles I scroll past.
Now it's happening to me.
I look back at Chicago.
The city lights are already disappearing into the fog. Distant. Unreachable.
Somewhere in that fog, Ivan is looking for me.
He has to be looking for me.
Right?
29
IVAN
The first ship reeks of sweat and tobacco.
I'm crouched between shipping containers, watching men move across the deck. Their clothes are filthy—dirt that comes from actual work. Not the cultivated grime of criminals trying to look tough. Real sweat staining through fabric. Real exhaustion in their movements.
They're hauling crates. Cigarettes, probably, based on the smell and the weight they're carrying. Standard smuggling operation.
Wrong fucking ship.
