“Stop,” he says softly.
I hiccup, sob, and burst into tears. He lifts me with a hiss of pain and sits me on his lap, and hugs me to his chest.
“I can’t do this. This is too much.” Flashes of memories—the smell, it takes me back to that awful night. Seeing his wounds only adds fuel to the painful recollection of what happened to my father—what could have happened to me all those years ago. I wrap my arms around his neck and sniffle into his neck.
“Don’t move,” Tony says gruffly. We both nod and stay locked together as he works on both Callan and Stalin. The apartment is quiet. The only sound is the odd involuntary hiccup from me.
“Are you wearing my jumper?” Callan finally breaks the silence. I twist, hiding my face further from all three sets of eyes.
“I don’t like being here alone,” I confess. Callan grins into my hair and nips me playfully, and sitting back, I blink at him. “What happened?” An uneasy tension fills the room, reminding me it’s none of my business and that I have absolutely no right to ask such things.
“Got shot.” Callan grins. Both Stalin and Tony laugh. Shaking my head, I move, checking to see if my stitches have held. I wiggle to get down.
“At least let me know if this is because of me?” I chance a guilty glance around the room.
“This is business. It has nothing to do with you,” Callan reassures me. I hum and hug my waist. I’m not sure I believe him. It’s too much of a coincidence.
Tony stands and throws a bloody rag onto the pile of bloody garments on the floor.“I’ll clean up. Zara, you probably need a sugary drink. You look pretty pale.” His comment is met by a flare of admiration from Callan.
I nod, still robotic and jittery. I never drink sugary drinks, but Callan does have honey here, so I make myself a green tea with lemon and honey.
“Does anyone else want a drink?” I ask quietly.
“Black coffee for me,” Tony says, pulling a bin bag from the cupboard and dumping the shirts and sodden bandages in.
“Water for me,” Callans says.
“I’ll have a vodka,” Stalin states. I look at Callan. Does he even have alcohol here?
“Bottom right cupboard,” he tells me. I make the drinks, conscious I’m still shaking, but as soon as I start sipping on my drink, I do feel calmer. We all move to sit on the sofas, Callan pulls me into his lap, and I finally relax. Tony eyes us curiously, but I try not to pay him any mind. Once my drink is finished, I cradle the warm cup in my hands and lean into Callan’s good shoulder. The combination of my tiredness from earlier and the shock and adrenaline has exhausted me. My eyes flutter, and I shake my head, trying to stay away, but Callan’s good hand begins massaging the back of my neck, and I’m drifting before I can protest that I’m fine.
I wake in the same position I pointlessly argued with Callan about last night when we finally moved to the bedroom. I was, and still am, concerned I will damage his stitches or hurt him. He is breathing shallowly, my leg draped over his and held in his grasp, my neck resting on his good arm. He is pale, and I gently press my hand to his forehead to check for a fever. He must have lost so much blood. He does seem a little clammy. When he carried me to bed last night, I had fought with sleeping in the spare room or on the sofa, but in true Callan style, he dragged me to him, demanded I stop being a brat and to go to sleep. Staring at him now, I experience a flare of worry. Under both eyes are dark circles, and his usual ceaseless energy is flunking. I ease free and chew my lip with fear when he doesn’t even flinch. I nip to the toilet in a hurry, then decide to go in search of Stalin.
I hear voices before I even make it to the main living area. Two voices. Tony and Stalin.
“Nial will have the Range back by noon. It was in a pretty bad state.”
“I pretty much sat in a puddle of blood on the way back,” Stalin complains.
“We need to double our manpower at the ports.” Tony’s voice raises, and Stalin shushes him.
“It’s done. Cal knew things were getting strained, but we never expected them to steal from us,” Stalin retorts.
“At least we procured the package. The blow was a diversion. They knew we were hitting Denver’s container. Someone must have told them,” Tony spits. “Some fucker is double-crossing us,” he snarls, and the sound of a bottle hitting the coffee table with force makes me jump.
The chair groans as someone moves. I press my body against the wall, breathing quietly, as I listen to their private conversation.
“I’m not sure. The men are loyal to Callan. We all owe him too much.” That’s Stalin again.
“Then what? This is about money. Why else jeopardise those poor fucking women? They are the worst I’ve ever seen. Two died.” Tempers flare, and I can feel the tension, even from here.
“We’ve been intercepting drops for how long? It’s the same with every trafficker: someone rises to the helm. and Callan cuts them a new one.” Stalin sounds tired. Trafficking. I cup my mouth and snap my eyes shut. They're involved in trafficking. All those women at Skyn with their soulless eyes and lack of morals—this is how Callan makes his money? My skin feels alive with sickness, as though a thousand disease-ridden bugs are festering all over me. I want to wash it off—wash him off. Rid myself of him. I drag in a deep lungful of air. I need to leave. I have to go. It all makes sense now: the lack of respect for women, the disdain and impatient attitude towards women. Was he going to sell me off? It makes me sick to my stomach. Stepping back quietly, I begin to head back to Callan’s room when I overhear Stalin adding, “Most will be relocated or reunited with their families within the next week. Saving them is worth the bullet holes.”
“Maybe longer. Some of them need medical attention,”Tony pipes up.
“It will be the same old story: some stay, some go. As long as they aren’t being drugged and used as a fucking sex toy, I don’t care. Callan doesn’t care. They’ve been saved from a life of misery; anything after that isn’t our business.” I sag, swallowing a whimper of relief, and my terrible mind tramples me with remorse. I can’t believe for a few minutes I believed such ill of these men. So they’re not procuring women—they are saving them.
“Any new intel from the members? I know Cravos visited Skyn last night.”