Violent Beginnings (The Moretti Crime Family 2)

Kindred spirits by our captor’s makings, knowing we share one and the same fate.

“Put this on,” one of the men growls and hands us each a scrap of clothing. Mine is a white lace fabric with gold trim.

I look at the dress in my hand, if you can even call it that. It’s barely enough to cover my privates. It looks like the kind of lingerie a woman would wear under a wedding dress. I almost laugh at the thought.

Objecting isn’t an option, so I do as instructed. Pulling it over my body, I hope to feel a little more human, but I don’t. If anything, I feel even more like a cheap hooker than I did before.

Goosebumps pebble my flesh, blanketing me. I feel bare—exposed, and I hate it.

The girl beside me lets out a ragged sob, and I turn just enough to look at her. Her hair is black, sleek, and straight. I don’t gawk at her or look at her body, but I can tell she is on the slimmer side and young. Most likely barely of age.

Tears stream down her cheeks, and she is shaking so badly her entire body is vibrating.

“Stop crying, whore!” one of the men orders. “If you think it’s bad now, wait until after the auction. I’d love to hear your cries then.”

His voice makes me shiver and leaves me feeling sick to my stomach. Suddenly, I’m grateful that I didn’t eat anything. Even though I was hungry earlier, I couldn’t bring myself to take a single bite from the stale sandwich they brought me.

The guy suddenly looks past me and nods. “Finally. I thought we were gonna have to send them out without a shot.”

Shot? What are they talking about now? Just as I ask that question in my mind, a woman appears at the side of me. A woman in scrubs with a hospital ID card clipped to her hip.

I look up and meet her gaze, expecting to see fear, compassion, or shock, but I find none of those in the depth of her green eyes.

Only indifference. Like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

“What are you doing?” I ask when she stops right in front of me.

“Don’t talk, please,” she answers in a flat voice.

She keeps her eyes down like she doesn’t want to look into my face while she pulls out a small box from her oversized purse. Flipping the case open, I count five syringes inside.

“Hold her arm,” she orders one of the men.

A moment later, my arm is being grabbed and held still so the woman can clean a spot with an alcohol wipe before injecting me with whatever is inside the syringe. Funny, she cleans my arm, worried I might get an infection but fails to care what is happening to all of us.

“What was that?” I ask, hoping she’ll at least give me the courtesy of telling me.

“Birth control,” is all she says before moving on down the line of girls.

“Men buy you for fucking, not breeding.” The guy who was holding my arm chuckles and releases me with a shove.

He walks away, moving onto the next girl, and a spot in my chest starts to ache for the girl beside me. I don’t know her story, how she came to be here, if it was of her own choice or someone else’s. I don’t know the circumstances that gave her this fate, but I want to help her.

“Hey…” I call out. “It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.” I try to reassure her.

She looks over at me, and I notice then that her eyes are green and framed by thick lashes that are soaked. The skin around her eyes is swollen from the constant crying.

“I… I want to go home.” Her bottom lip trembles as she speaks, and her chest rises and falls so dramatically I know she is close to having an anxiety attack.

“My name’s Fallon,” I tell her, attempting to distract her. “What’s yours?”

The girl looks away for a second before looking back. “Julie,” she replies after a moment. I’m not sure how to comfort her because while I’m not showing it, I’m scared out of my mind on the inside. I have no idea what will happen to me after tonight.

Where will I go? Fear of the unknown is the only thing I have.

“It’s okay to be scared, Julie. Everything is going to be okay,” I assure her, even though we both know it’s a lie. But what else am I going to tell her? What can I do to ease her mind, even if it’s just a little?

Shaking her head, she sends pieces of dark hair across her face. “It’s not going to be okay,” her voice cracks with raw pain, “aren’t you scared? Afraid of what will happen to you tonight?” Her questions make it hard for me to swallow.