“Why didn’t you tell me I left my watch while I was leaving?”
“It was expensive,” she stated. “I thought I would have a good cry and, tomorrow, find a buyer. Get some cash. No regrets.”
I scoffed. “Greedy thief.”
“Psycho killer,” she said with a small smile.
Silence befell us, but it was not awkward. I waited patiently for her to tell me what she wanted to reveal.
She cleared her throat, unable to meet my gaze as her voice filled the space between us.
“You pretty much know the basics. I was born in Saudi Arabia, but almost immediately, I was carted off here to the headquarters for Italy.”
“Headquarters?”
She nodded. “There’s this organization; it’s secret. I don’t know how they operate or who runs the show, but they make children—based on customer orders, as I learned early on,” she said, and a sick feeling twisted my stomach. “They call those childrenPlants. It’s a trafficking ring—children are being made to—to pleasure adults, and then later, when they turn fourteen, they graduate into more… sex trafficking, and all the crazed shit that comes with it.” She sneaked a glance at me. “That, um—that’s how I’m here. I am one of the Plants. Not many of us get lucky enough to leave without either dying or running away and then being found and dying later.”
I took her hand in mine. “And you have no idea who they are? The people behind this?”
She shook her head. “All I know is that it’s huge. They have branches and headquarters everywhere, and children—all different ethnicities. I know I’m of African and Saudi Arabian descent; the sperm must have been trafficked and taken to Saudi Arabia to get a womb donor, so I would—well, look at it like this. It’s happening every day. With different people. Different children.”
This was the most despicable thing I’d ever heard. It made me see red that she had gone through this and that there was nothing I could do to erase those memories.
“I don’t have a family, background, or place I come from. I don’t have ties to anywhere in the world. I wasn’t made to have ties or roots. I have my name though—even if it was given to me to… to suit someone else’s desires.”
My heart swelled for this woman, as I raised my hand to tilt her chin up and switched to Spanish.“You have a strong name, querida. You own it. And it is very beautiful, just like you are… bright, shining, and very—ultimately—brilliant.”
A smile curved her lips. “Thank you for saying that.”
“Not often do I offer to speak the truth, but this is one reality you need to be assured of,” I said, brushing her chin to her jawline with my knuckles. “Tell me more.”
She nodded. “As I told you before, Manuel saved me, took me out of the business. But it didn’t erase the fact that I went through that shit. I grew up having different—peoplein my mouth, in my body—”
I squeezed her hand, and she squeezed mine, too, appreciating the comfort.
“The houses were built like foster homes, with children. We have two Handlers, one woman and one man. They take care of the children, oversee the adults who visit, take the money, and make sure to keep the children happy. My Handler at that time was Manuel, and also Miss Lola. She passed away a couple of years ago.”
“Manuel was in the business?”
I nodded. “His father was in charge of the house where we lived, and he asked Manuel to oversee it. There was”—she let out a shaky breath—“there was a time when he tried to hurt me; I’d just turned twelve. It was traumatizing, and I should have hated him for it; I should have seen him for the monster that he was, but… I thought, I thought he was my saving grace.
“Even when I was taken to another house, and he promised to find me again when I turned sixteen, I waited every damn day for him to save me. It was a long wait, but he did come; he showed up for me. No one had ever done that for me, no one had ever loved me the way he did, and that easily fooled me.
“But staying with him, being by his side, being in his bed, beingusedby him was just—it was terrible. He was my worst nightmare and my saving grace. I battled with my feelings for years, trying to figure out why his love hurt so much. Until I realized it was not love. Until he woke up one morning and decided I wasn’t what he wanted anymore.” She swallowed. “He threw me away.”
The darkness I caught in her eyes was a budding rage I could tell she had spent years managing to tame.
“He let me go,” she said. “What he had for me wasn’t love, it was an obsession with my body and my face, and he was just done—like he couldn’t look at me, but even all those times that I still stayed, trying to make my decision, I would catch him standing there, just watching me. I was confused because he made me feel insecure, and confident at the same time, and I had had enough. So I left.”
And then she was quiet, something distant in her eyes telling me there was more after that, but I didn’t push.
“Did you love him?”
She shook her head. “No. I wouldn’t call what I felt love. It was toxic. It was not a happy feeling. It was a feeling of longing for something less overbearing. Back then, I thought it was love, and it was okay for love to hurt, but after leaving him, I realized that I was just in my head, wishing for something that wasn’t there.”
Looking up at me, her eyes searched mine. “What I feel with you, Elio, it’s different. It’s new, and it’s scary because it brings out this side of me that I didn’t know I had. Sometimes I don’t recognize myself, but I love it because I feel normal. Ifeel like this is the best side of me. And I’m always eager to see what else I can be, do, and feel with you.”
That brought a smile to my face.
