"What did you wish for, Mommy?" I'd ask.
"That you'll have a better life than mine," she'd always say, kissing the top of my head.
She died before I turned fourteen—cancer that moved too fast for treatment we couldn't afford anyway. Then it was just Jason and me. Sometimes he was okay—making me dinner, helping with homework. But more often he was angry, controlling, violent. I never understood why he hated me somuch until I overheard him on the phone once. “Stuck with my bastard half-sister after my mom died, what a fucking joke."
So much for Mom's wish for my better life.
I stare at that solitary star and make a wish anyway. Not for rescue—I'm not that naive. Just for strength to survive whatever comes next.
I close my eyes, too exhausted for tears, and think of Mr. Torrino and his dark eyes that seemed to see through me, that voice calling me doll and good girl.
Gah! I pull the pillow over my head. I should absolutely not fantasize about him. He’s probably done exactly the same thing to every girl at the club. He’ll move on to Cinnamon or Destiny next time.
Fury
I watch from the shadows as they escort her to a four-story walkup apartment building—a run-down piece of shit.
The cartel thug gives her a shove toward the door, says something I can't hear, then returns to the waiting black sedan. Instead of leaving, the car simply parks across the street. Two men sitting inside, watching the building.
Fucking prison guards.
I circle the block, mentally mapping the building's layout, figuring out which apartment is hers. It's not difficult—third floor, northeast corner. The only unit with a light that flickers on fifteen seconds after she enters the building.
I watch for another twenty minutes from my vantage point in the alley. Through the sheer curtains, I catch glimpses of hermoving around. She changes clothes. Sits on something low—a mattress maybe.
I don't like what I'm seeing. These aren't standard precautions for a simple employee. This is how you guard valuable merchandise.
Something's very wrong with this picture. I need answers.
I floor the Maserati to the King’s clubhouse. I take the back entrance to my room, managing to avoid any distractions from the brothers along the way, just as I planned.
I exchange the suit for something more practical—black tactical pants, black long-sleeved shirt, boots, and grab a simple B&E kit. A small bag with lock picks, tactical gloves, and a balaclava.
Two hours later, when the streets are quieter and the night deeper, I return. The car with the guards is still there. The lights in her apartment are out now.
I move silently as a shadow, using the fire escape on the building's blind side. I shimmy along a ledge until I reach her apartment. The window is small but large enough for someone my size to squeeze through with minimal effort. The lock is child's play.
Inside, I ease through the darkened apartment, noting the sparse furnishings, the multiple mattresses on the floor. While she clearly shares this shitbox with others, she’s currently the only one home.
I find her asleep in the living room, curled up on a thin mattress beneath the window. She looks even younger in sleep, her face soft. Pink-tipped hair splayed across the pillow. She looks small and fucking vulnerable. She’s got some sass in her, though. I saw a glimpse of it tonight.
I crouch beside her. I know this will scare her, but it’s necessary.
Her eyes fly open the moment I touch her shoulder. Before she can scream, my hand clamps gently but firmly over her mouth. She thrashes, panic in her eyes, until I pull up my balaclava with my free hand, revealing my face.
"Shh," I whisper. "It's me. I'm not going to hurt you."
Recognition flashes in those blue eyes, followed immediately by confusion. I slowly remove my hand from her mouth.
"What are you doing here?" She whispers, scrambling to sit up, pulling her oversized t-shirt down over her thighs. "How did you find me? How did you get in?"
"I followed you home," I admit. "And I came in through the bathroom window."
"But why?" Her voice trembles. "What do you want from me?"
"Answers," I say simply. "The cartel has you locked up like Fort Knox. You're obviously valuable to them, and I want to know why."
She wraps her arms around her knees, making herself smaller. "Why do you care?"
