I was so wrong. I’d never be free. Not fully.
“Everything okay?” Carmine sounded almost concerned, like he actually gave a crap.
But I couldn’t let myself be fooled. Carmine didn’t care about me. He wanted my body—that was obvious. But anything beyond sex? He was a mafioso. I couldn’t expect more from a man like him.
“I’m fine.” I pushed open the door. I wanted to run away. I wanted to stay in the car. Anything but face Oscar.
“Like I said, I’ll be back later.” Carmine watched me carefully. Studying, analyzing.
He had no clue what he’d done.
I got out and hefted my backpack. I considered running, but that wouldn’t help. I looked across the parking lot and spotted Oscar standing next to the elevator. He wore black jeans and a black jacket, with the tell-tale bulge of a gun at his side. His dark eyes grinned death at me and his nasty, pig-like face pulled into a smile.
I walked toward him like I was heading to my own execution.
“Hello, Julieta,” he said, grinning huge.
“Oscar.” I looked away. “I hoped Papa would send someone else.”
“Ah, but your father knows you and I have such a close bond, don’t we?”
“Please don’t.”
“Why the sad face, little Julieta? I’ve known you since you were a little girl no taller than my chest. Do you remember those days?”
I remembered them clearly. Every night I woke in a cold sweat, remembering.
I pushed the elevator call button. He grinned at me, watching like a snake. He shifted closer as Carmine pulled out and drove off.
“The American shit has no idea, does he?”
“No idea about what?”
“He doesn’t know that I fucking own you.”
The elevator doors dinged and slid open. An older couple stepped out. The woman smiled and said hello. Oscar gave her a very polite nod before leading me inside. He pushed the button for Carmine’s penthouse, and the doors slid shut. We began the climb up.
I leaned back against the elevator wall and Oscar stood close.
He was in his forties. Dark hair cut short. Scar on his cheek from a knife fight. He was one of my father’s favorite soldiers, and he’d been working in the main Suarez compound for many years. I knew his brother, once upon a time. We’d been close. But those days were long, long gone.
Oscar moved fast. I gasped as his left hand gripped my throat and he slammed my head back. I saw stars in my vision and groaned, and his right hand jammed its fingers into my thigh.
I gasped as a wave of pain threatened to make me throw up. It was so intense I nearly collapsed, but he held me up by the neck, his big palm gripping me tight and keeping me steady, his other hand pushing in the exact spot to cause the most amount of pain.
I hated him. I hated him so much. I whimpered and tears slid down my cheeks. He grinned.
“You thought you got away, little Julieta, but I’m back. And now you’re mine again. Do you understand?”
“Please, Oscar. It’s enough. It has to be enough. We’re in America now. You can’t—”
A dagger-sharp pain filled me as he jammed his fingers harder. I gasped and groaned.
“You don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.” He released my leg and I moaned with relief, but the pain still throbbed, horrible and bone-deep. His left hand remained around my throat as he took a phone from his pocket. He raised it up and tapped the play button on an audio file.
My voice drifted from the speaker.
My voice, but not my voice. It couldn’t be my voice. I didn’t remember saying those things— those horrible things— I sounded like a little girl— ten years old and sobbing—
“I killed him, I’m so sorry. He told me to, he, he, he told me to, he begged me to do it, I’m so sorry. Please, please, please don’t tell Papa. He’ll kill me and beat me so badly. I didn’t mean to hurt Vidal. I loved him and he loved me but please, please, don’t tell Papa. I didn’t mean to kill him! He begged me to do it!”
Oscar stopped the recording. His grip on my throat tightened as my head spun. I was dizzy and nauseous, adrift in an ocean of pain and memories. It was like what happened was a dream, but a dream from someone else. The accident, the blood, the bullets, the screaming, the broken glass—
“Now you remember,” he whispered, his fetid breath blowing against my nose. “I own you, little Julieta. You will do what I ask or I will play this recording for your father. I will play it for him and for all of his captains. Do you know what will happen next?”
“Yes,” I croaked. Papa would beat me. He’d hurt me so bad I’d wish I was dead. When he was done, the rest of his people would abuse me, break me, hit me, and make me pay for my crime. Oscar had told me, over and over. He made sure I understood.