Any thoughts of that other man scatter when Rocco continues,voice disturbingly gleeful, “Those fuckers always go nuts over the skinny ones. Something about how much younger it makes them look.”
Jesus. I’m only twenty-one. How much younger do they want?
Answer: the younger, the more malleable, the more vulnerable, the better.
The more alone.
That’s the thought that makes me fragile, tips me toward my breaking point. I’m alone here. Abandoned by the people who are supposed to care about me the most. My entire family knows Rocco has me tied up, but no one has tried to free me. I’m not surprised, but,fuck, it makes it hard to breathe.
Breathe.
It’s exactly why I have to, no matter what. Because if I don’t figure out how to survive this—and what Rocco has planned next—I’m going to die. No one in the Pagano clan will mourn me, only the money they’ve lost from the sale of my warm body.
Rocco’s rancid breath hits my face. He’s so close, his body hovering above mine. “What a tempting little bitch you are, tied down like this. Ugly, but you’ve still got so much fight. You have no idea how much fucking money you’re going to make me. All the same…”
I barely have time to process that I’m moving before my uncle drags me across the floor by my chains, only stopping long enough to yank my arms above my head. He stretches my arms painfully high, secures the chains from the ceiling somehow. He releases the restraints from my ankles and my knees grind into the cold concrete floor as he positions me exactly as he wants. Captive and kneeling before him.
The sudden change of position makes me lightheaded. It takes a minute before I realize Rocco is circling me. I can hear the uneven tread of his feet.Draaag, step.Draaag, step. Eyesclosed behind my blindfold, I work to regulate my breathing. Slow my pulse rate. Brace for whatever the hell is about to happen next.
Whatever it is, it won’t be good.
Panic creeps into my bloodstream and I do everything I can to fight it off. I don’t want to give my uncle the satisfaction of seeing me break, so I scramble for something to help me stay strong. In my own personal darkness, I let my mind wander…tohim.
I don’t know who he is or why he comes. How he found me or why he even cares, but the moments he sneaks into my cell are the sustenance keeping me alive.
If I were in my right mind, I’d worry about how much significance I place on those flashes of time. Snippets of memory. Like how large his hand was, calloused and warm against my cheek. Like how he smoothed chapstick against my lips, soothing the cracked and bloody surface. Like how patiently he helped me sip water, not shying away when my stomach rebelled and I vomited it right back up.
The human body can’t survive for more than three to five days without water. I’m no use to Rocco dead, but he and his guards can’t seem to remember to give it to me on any sort of regular schedule.
My mystery visitor doesn’t forget. He murmurs encouragement as he helps me drink. At least, I think it’s encouragement. He speaks in a language I don’t understand, his voice so soft I can barely hear it. But whatever he says loosens the vise around my chest, helps me pretend I’m anywhere but here.
His visits never last more than a minute or two.
He doesn’t ask my name. He’s never told me his.
He’s never tried to free me, either. Never made any promises that he will.
But, when things get really, really bad, when Rocco starts to spit vitriol like he’s doing right now, I fantasize that hedoescome. That he materializes in my cell, footsteps as silent as ever, and he cuts Rocco down, cuts me free, and carries me out of this hell.
The most twisted fairy tale, a captive who is anything but a princess, rescued by the darkest of knights.
I have to be honest with myself. If the man has access to Rocco’s subterranean torture cells, he’s not a hero. He’s as deep into this violent life as anyone else. Maybe even as monstrous as my uncle.
But that doesn’t stop me from fantasizing. From giving myself some crumb of hope to cling to, especially when I hear Rocco’s body weight shift ominously, my stomach muscles convulsing as my uncle introduces a new twisted element to his visits.
“Fuck, Sasquatch. I’m starting to worry you’ll forget your family when you’re gone. How about I give you something to remember us by?”
The first punch knocks the wind out of me. A fist straight to my stomach. Rocco’s a brute and when it comes to hurting women, he’s a pro. He won’t hit my face or break any critical bones. He won’t leave any evidence that can’t be covered up with makeup before the auction begins.
Rocco starts to laugh and I let my mind curl in on itself. Let myself remember that other man’s featherlight touch against my cheek. How the cadence of his voice made me feel less alone, how his unexpected tenderness made me feel nothing like the broken mess I am.
I can tell by the shifting of air around me that Rocco’s raised his arm for another strike.
Silenzio. The only wordhe’sever said that I understand.Quiet.
And I am. Rocco’s fist hits its target, an explosion in my ribs that ricochets across my skeleton. I bite the inside of my cheek, the metallic tang of blood flooding my mouth. Between thelack of food and the beating, I doubt I’ll be conscious much longer.
White spots are already dancing behind my eyelids when I hear a new sound. The sing of metal slicing through the air. Oh, God. No, no, no, no, no. Rocco’s just pulled a knife. He’s muttering vile, hateful things and I start to shake. Except, the ceiling is shaking too.
