"Let's see it," I say, and follow him out.
2
VIOLET
It's cold. Not the pleasant kind, not Elio's climate-controlled hallways where even the chill felt curated, owned, set to the exact degree that suited him. This feels industrial, bone-deep, a cold that seeps up from concrete and doesn't stop until it reaches your marrow and sets up camp.
With my cheek pressed against the rough floor I open my eyes.
Move. Get up. Get your bearings.
My body doesn't agree with my brain. Everything hurts. My skull throbs where the gun connected, a deep pulse that radiates from the base down into my neck, and when I try to lift my head, my vision tilts and swims in the dark.
Because it is dark. Not dim, not poorly lit. Dark. The absolute absence of light, the kind that makes you question whether your eyes are open or closed. I blink three times to confirm. Open. Definitely open. Can't see a goddamn thing.
My hands find the floor first as I push up to sitting, the movement costing me. Nausea rolls through in a thick wave, and I press the back of my wrist to my mouth until it passes. My head pounds in time with my heartbeat, every pulse a freshnotification that someone cracked me with the butt of a pistol and I should be grateful I woke up at all.
Grateful. Sure. That's the word.
The floor beneath me is unfinished concrete with a film of grit and moisture that coats my palms. The air tastes stale, recycled, tinged with mildew and rust, and underneath it all the faint chemical burn of industrial cleaner failing at its one job. I try to orient myself by sound and get nothing useful. To my left, there's a sound of dripping water hitting metal at irregular intervals. Above me I hear a hum of electricity, it's mechanical, like a ventilation system that's barely holding it together.
And then there is screaming.
Far away. Through walls, muffled by distance and concrete, but unmistakable. A woman's voice, high and ragged, the kind that's been going on long enough that it's more animal than language.
My body goes rigid. Every muscle locks, and my pulse kicks into my throat, hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
Think. Think. Think.
What do I know?
The guards at the estate weren't Elio's, couldn't have been. They drove me into the hills and the SUV was rammed, the driver's head spraying across the windshield in a mist of red. Then gunfire. Gravel biting into my palms as I was dragged from the wreck.
And Gabriella. Standing there in her black dress and red-soled heels looking like she'd just stepped off a runway, not a scene full of dead men. The cruel satisfaction on her face, like she'd planned every detail down to the shoes.
My friends have plans for you. Better plans. More profitable plans.
I know exactly who did this. Know her face, her name, the perfume she was wearing, the cigarette brand she smoked whileselling me like livestock. That knowledge is mine. I tuck it away in the same place I keep load-bearing information, behind the walls, in the foundation, where nobody can reach it until I decide to hand it over.
Gabriella Rossi, you stupid bitch. You better hope they kill me, because if they don't, I will spend whatever's left of my life making sure Elio knows every single detail of what you did.
The screaming stops.
That's worse.
In the silence that follows, there's nothing but the water dripping and the hum of whatever machinery keeps this place breathing. I strain against the dark, pressing my ear to the wall. Then, further away, I pick up different voices. Quiet, exhausted sobs from someone who's been at it for hours.
Women. Multiple women behind these walls.
My brain, the analytical part that assessed structural damage for a living, starts building a picture. Industrial space. Multiple rooms. Women held inside them. Gabriella's words about profitable plans. The men in expensive suits assessing me like merchandise at a preview.
Jesus Christ.
Bile rises in my throat once more as my brain comes to its inevitable conclusion.
Trafficking.
I've known about it the way you know about something that happens to other people, in other cities, in other lives. Not yours. Never yours.
