“I was fifteen.”
His breath is sharp. “What was his name? Do you remember?”
I blink open, staring at him. Finally, I say, “Which one? I remember everything about them—the way they smell, the feel of their hands holding me down, the sound of their grunts.”
Santo’s eyes widen. “How many?”
“Three the first time. Too many to count after that. Six years is a long time to keep track.”It’s a lie, one of the few that comes easily.I remember every single man my father offered me to as a way to get what he wanted.
I was the perfect pawn—the undeniable key to any deal. Whatever my father wanted, he got,and I paid for it.
“Valentina. You’re saying you were raped by three men at fifteen? And then continued to be raped until you were twenty-one?” He sounds a mix of incredulous and murderous.
My brows pinch together as I look away from his face. “Well, it wasn’t rape. Like I said, I never said no, so it can’t be rape.”
“What are you talking about?” He’s angry, and I try to pull my hand away. I don’t need his anger, not now.
“Let me go,” I insist.
His face softens, but he doesn’t let go of my hand. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to scare you?—”
“I’m not scared of anything,” I hiss.
He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know why not. I’m scared of plenty of things.”
“It’s weak. And Reyeses don’t have weaknesses.” I repeat the phrase that’s been the framework of my entire existence.
Santos just stares at me like he can’t believe what I’m saying.
“I get it. You don’t believe me. No one does.”
“I believe you,” he says, his voice filled with a convection that instantly makes me trust him. “But it was rape, V. I’m sorry—I hate that that happened to you, but you were fifteen, and it was three adult men. Not saying no isn’t consent, child or otherwise.”
“That’s not what my father said.”
His jaw goes slack. “Yo—your father?”
I nod. “It was his associates.”
“Your father traded you for wealth.”
“I guess.” Discomfort begins to curl in my stomach, making bile crawl up my throat. The memories are beginning to blotch out my reality, pulling me beneath the dark, frozen surface. “I don’t—I can’t talk about?—”
Instead of pushing me or simply releasing me, Santos pulls my head to his chest. I freeze, shocked at first by the gesture, but I quickly melt against him, the racing drum of his heart beneath my ear filling my head.
I close my eyes and wrap my arms around his waist, allowing myself to seek comfort in him.
Just for a single, forbidden moment.
TWENTY-EIGHT
VALENTINA
September 11th, 2005
Even with barefeet dangling over the pond, and icy rain drizzles around me,I feel nothing.I stare down at the once silken, lightly tanned skin of my legs, now dotted in purple and black, finger shaped bruises,and feel nothing.Hair billows around my face, free of its normal tie, ratted and wet on my bare shoulders,but I feel nothing.
Earlier, I felt every finger biting into my skin as they held my ankles and wrists, pawing and tearing at my skin as I screamed. They told me scream louder. I felt every fist full of hair they ripped from my skull, every wet pass of their lips on my cheeks and forehead as they told me how much of a pretty little girl I was. I felt every time they destroyed me for their own pleasure.
