Chapter One
Savannah
I don’t know how long I’ve been here—four months, possibly five. Time passes in strange ways when you have no means to mark it. At first, I counted time by the meals I received, but after a while they became fewer and less dependable. I know for sure I’ve been here one full season. The men went from wearing long sleeve shirts to t-shirts.
My prison is a small room with a rusty bed that squeaks whenever I shift position. A tiny wooden table with a small stool takes up one corner, and a toilet and sink hide behind a tattered curtain in the other. No windows, no TV, nothing to read but an old copy ofWiseguyby Nicolas Pileggi. I wasn’t one for reading crime novels in the past, but I can recite every single word by heart now.
I hear the familiar sound of the key retracting the lock, and my stomach sinks. I pull at my ratty sweater, wrapping it around my midsection a little tighter—like that is going to help protect me from them.
I hear his boots scuff on the hardwood, and sweat breaks out along the back of my neck.Shit, it’s him.My skin crawls when I see his sausage-like fingers holding a tray of food for me. His hairy stomach pushes out below his t-shirt and bulges over the top of his jeans. As soon as he spots me, he gives me his lopsided smile.
“Hola,chica.How are you today?” His voice is raspy and his accent thick, but I understand every word. His body language is enough in itself. “I asked you a question,” he barks at me.
“Fine,” I say through the lump in my throat.
He stands holding the tray above me. Finally, I raise my eyes to meet his, and he smirks, showing me how much he enjoys having this power over me. I’ve had enough encounters with this man to know he won’t leave without wanting something in return. Luckily, up until now, it’s never been anything sexual—just more head games. That doesn’t mean he’s never insinuated it. I tremble, shaky fingers pulling at the hem of my cotton nightgown that reaches mid-thigh. I don’t need to give him any ideas. His gaze drops to my legs, and he licks his lips.
“Beg,” he orders, drawing out the word.
My mouth goes dry. He loves this part. I am an animal to him. He calls me hisperra, which means dog in Spanish. My temper rises as I try to tell myself to stop, but I can’t help it. I am past caring anymore.
I give him the sweetest smile I can muster. “Screw you.” I’ve never spoken more than I absolutely had to since I got here, and suffice it to say, he is blown away by my choice of words. Normally, I do what I’m told while secretly fantasizing the many ways I’d like to kill this man. I try to behave, never wanting to relive my first few days here. The incredible pain after they beat me to a bloody pulp when I didn’t do what was asked made me wise up quickly.
My present adrenaline high is short-lived, however, as I watch his eyes narrow and his jaw tighten. He suddenly tosses the tray across the room, shattering the dishes against the wall.
“No food for you,pedazodemierda!” he hisses, taking a step toward me. I cover my ears and tuck my knees up to my chest. This man is large enough to pick me up in one hand and toss me across the room, duplicating the tray’s fate. He grabs a handful of my hair and drags me, my knees bouncing along the floor like a rag doll. I barely register the pain—I am more aware that this six foot, three hundred seventy-five pound man is hovering over me, enraged. Why did I have to get smart? The only thing I have going for me is they haven’t killed me yet. Maybe I am being held for ransom. It’s no secret my father has a lot of money, and everyone knows his name—he is running for a second term as mayor of New York City.
I try to force myself up onto my hands, but his boot crushes on my back, forcing me down hard. My forehead smacks against the floor, and my ears ring. I let out a whimper as my eyes focus on something just out of reach. I hear the sound of him removing his belt, and my heart quickens. No, no, no! This can’t be happening. If I could just move a few feet to the right…I muster up all I have and launch myself forward along the floor.
“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is calm—oh, so calm. My fingers wrap around the broken piece of plate, and I tuck my hand under my chest to hide it. “Come.” He bends down, grabbing my feet and flipping me over, and drags me back toward the bed. I scream in protest. I kick and wiggle, but his grip is too tight. “Feisty little thing, aren’t ya?”
He leans over me, and I take my opportunity. I shoot upward, driving the sharp piece of glass into his neck. His eyes go wide with shock, and he falls to his side with a loud thud, cursing and digging at the object. I scramble to my feet and head for the open door.
I have no idea what direction to go, but I don’t care. For the first time in forever, I am free of that room. I move as fast as my feet can take me. I’m low on sugar and my head feels light, but I keep going—this is my chance. Physical activity has not been a part of my world for so long it is hard for my brain to wait while my legs try desperately to keep up.
The hallway is long with lots of doors, the wallpaper is ripped in places, and the lighting is low. It looks like an abandoned hotel, but where are the windows? I keep winding around corners, holding myself upright against the walls as my knees grow weak. I have no sense of direction; every hallway looks the same. I hear voices getting louder, and my heart is in my throat. I try pulling and pushing on the closest door handle, but it doesn’t budge. Stinging tears race down my cheeks. Panic is kicking in, and sobs overtake me. I fight them back, but I feel I’m letting myself down. I have a chance to escape, and I can’t even open a goddamned door! A heavy click followed by a humming noise makes me freeze. Then the lights flicker and go out.
I cover my mouth to stop the screams as my hands shake violently and my teeth chatter. I press my back against the door for support. A bright flicker off to the left draws my eye, but it quickly dies, replaced by a dull orange glow. Someone is standing about ten feet from me, smoking a fat cigar. I close my eyes and say a silent prayer. When I open them again, I’m met with a mean set of eyes inches from my face. I am unable to move. I know this man. I’ve seen him a few times before, and I think he runs this place. He puffs away, filling my nose with the nauseating scent of his Montecristo. I’d know that smell anywhere. My father often had parties, and they seemed to be the most popular cigar among his guests.
My knees weaken as he continues to stare silently at me. I hear his shoulder shift in his jacket as his hand comes up and grips my chin tightly. With casual ease, he flicks open and ignites his Zippo, holding it up to inspect the growing lump above my eye. The light goes out, and I feel his vise-like grip move to the back of my neck as he pushes me to move forward. He obviously knows the building well, since it is still pitch black and he directs me without hesitation. All I can hear is my hammering heartbeat and my short, ragged breaths.
Finally, we stop at a door, and he pushes it open and tosses me inside. I stumble forward and fall to my knees. Suddenly, the lights come on, and I come face to face with the fat man, whose neck is now wrapped in a white bandage. He holds his belt in his hand, snapping it for more effect. The last thing I remember is being pushed onto a couch and the first crack of the belt along my lower back. This kind of pain I’ll never forget; it is permanently embedded in my memory. Thankfully, I slip away into a blissful place, one I welcome with open arms.
I wake to blinding pain, the smallest movement causing me to sob, which in turn hurts even more. My brain is cloudy. I can barely form a thought; even breathing is tricky. It takes me a few moments to realize I am back in my prison lying facedown on the squeaky bed. I let go and allow the tears to flow. I need something to think about, something to focus on. I remember the first day I came here. Christ—it seems so long ago.
“Hello, my love,” I purr to my Keurig as I place my beloved mug, which reads “Don’t talk to me until this mug is empty,” underneath and push the button. My friend Lynn gets a kick out of the fact that I can’t function until I have at least one large cup of coffee in me. She bought this mug for my twenty-sixth birthday. It was tucked inside a basket she had done up along with an airline ticket to Fiji for the two of us to escape my crazy world. Man, what a trip that was. I hear my front door open.
“You’re in for it now, Savi!” Lynn shouts as she comes into my kitchen. She holds up a magazine, showing me the cover. As soon as I read the caption, I know I’m in deep shit.
“Oh, no!” I snatch it from her fingers.
“Oh, yes,” she sighs, passing by and opening a cabinet. “So, I take it he hasn’t called you yet?”
I shake my head as I study the picture in horror.Us Weeklyhas a picture of me at a bar last night, leaning over a table and showing off my behind. The caption reads “Mayor’s Daughter Reveals All.”
“I was reaching for my purse!” I shout. “It isn’t even my butt—this has been Photoshopped.”
“I know that, but will Daddy dearest believe you?” She sips her coffee, eyeing me with concern. “Maybe you should call him first. It might look better if you do.”