It doesn’t take long to get the place sorted. We find the girls being kept in a room upstairs, scared, naked, trembling.
Izzy and Noemi coax them out, offering reassurance words and kind smiles.
“What do we do with them?” I ask after we get them covered in tops and jackets. It’s not perfect, but at least it’s something.
No one is around to hear my unanswered question.
I call Nate.
“Enzo? What’s up,amigo?”
“That’s Spanish, dumbass.”
“Who says that’s not what I was going for?”
I sigh. “Can you be serious for five minutes?”
Immediately, his tone changes. “Sure, what’s wrong?”
“What should we do with a group of women who were being trafficked?”
Silence.
“How many?” I can hear the tightness in his voice.
“Thirty-three.”
“Fuck.”
“Any ideas?”
“First—get them somewhere safe. You need somewhere quiet, secure, and private. They’ll be in shock, don’t ask them questions yet. Feed them, give them clothes, blankets, comforts. They need to feel human again.”
“Izzy and Noemi are with them,” I say. “They’re doing what they can.”
“Good. Familiar, gentle faces help. But this can’t stay in your hands long. You need specialists—trauma counselors, medics, translators if needed. Some might be pregnant, injured, sick.”
“And I can’t call just anyone.”
“No. I’ll reach out to some charities I know in New York, see what they can do. But honestly? Right now, you need to put them in a safehouse.”
My mind races.
Gio appears, his eyes frantic, hair mused. “Where is she?”
His suit is disheveled, eyes bloodshot. He has a gunshot wound to his right arm.
I click off the call.
“You need a doctor.”
He shakes his head, clenching his jaw. “Not until I know she’s safe. Whereisshe?”
I motion toward where Izzy and Noemi are congregated with the women on the far side of the room.
Gio’s strides carry him there quickly, his eyes raking over them. His head stops moving when he finds who he’s looking for, his shoulders dropping as some of the tension leaves him.
“Gio?” a trembling girl breathes, eyes brimming with tears, her face splotchy and red.
