I lay on my back gasping, staring at the beige walls, peeling and stained yellow with years of nicotine. A window is covered with dirty and torn curtains, letting in a depressing, muted light. The entire place smells of body odor, cigarette smoke, urine, and now vomit.
I ran from one master only to gain another. But now, I’m literally chained to a bed, and I feel like I’m dying. Really though, it’s all the same. Men fucking me. Why does it matter which men they are? And honestly, I don’t mind being fucked. It doesn’t hurt me. It’s just an act. It’s all the other things that I know will break me if I have to endure them again.
The door opens, and I wince against the bright light that pours inside for a moment before it closes again. A skinny man covered in tattoos grins at me, and I sigh, fixing my gaze on the stained ceiling.
“Eh, a little gringo bitch.” He sniffs as he walks over to me, already stripping out of his shirt. He grabs my breast and squeezes roughly. I barely feel it. Simply remaining conscious is an effort right now. Pawing at my thighs, he wrenches me down the bed so hard that the chain snaps tight, threatening to rip my arm from its socket. With a sigh, I close my eyes. My mind drifts to the same place it always does; nowhere. Utter absence of thought or feeling.
I hear the clink of his belt buckle, the rustle of fabric, and then the door opens again…
Bang!
My eyes flash open, and my heart leaps into my throat, ears ringing. Something wet covers my chest and stomach, and when I look down, I have to fight blind panic. Blood. I’m covered in blood. A man in the doorway stares at me, a gun in his hand as his enormous frame almost blocks out the light from outside. He approaches me, and I watch him through slurred senses. Closing my eyes, I wait for the shot to come. I know how this works. No witnesses, and really, no one will think twice about shooting a whore, especially not a gang member. A smile touches my lips at the thought that this might end here and now. I wonder what it will be like. Will it be as peaceful as I’ve often thought it might be? Will there be something beyond this, or simply nothing?
Fingers brush my arm, and I flinch. The man yanks at the cuff on my arm, and I hear the click of metal against metal before it falls away. Tentatively, I glance up at him, my heart beating in a ragged rhythm as I take in thick biceps covered in tattoos, his vest, and his jeans. He picks up the dead guy’s shirt, tossing it at me with a grunt and a jerk of his chin. With trembling hands, I pull the shirt over my head, the scent of body odor and marijuana clinging to the fabric. Then I’m dragged from the bed and out of the door without a word. The bright sunlight physically hurts my eyes, sending blinding pain ripping through my skull. My legs threaten to give out, and the world tilts and spins on its axis. I stagger, and his fingers grip my arm tighter, but it’s too late. I blink once and time seems to slow for a moment before everything goes black.
4
Rafael
There’s a knock on my office door, and I huff out a breath, sitting back in my chair. “Yeah?”
Carlos walks inside; his hoody pulled up over a ball cap. “We’ve found her. One of my contacts just dug her out of a back street brothel.”
Finally. Two days of Nero crawling up my ass. Not to mention shit from Dominges, her former owner. It should not have taken this long to find a slave with no money, no friends and no passport. Of course, her being captured was always more likely than an actual escape.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing away the headache that’s brewing. “Whose brothel?”
“Espanoza’s.”
“Well, make sure Dominges knows that Espanoza found one of his escaped slaves and failed to turn her in.”
It’s not my domain, and I can’t be seen to be getting involved with shit that doesn’t concern me. It’s not supposed to concern me, but I’m pissed because this fucker has caused me no end of hassle. All slaves have a cartel tattoo on them. Only someone with a death wish would steal one of Dominges’ girls.
“On it, boss. She’s at Diablo’s.”
I push to my feet. “Let’s go and see what all the fuss is about then.”
Carlos guides the car through the busy streets. It’s a Friday night, and every street corner is bustling with dealers and whores alike. Run-down buildings pass by thew window in a blur. The steady pop, pop, of gunfire echoes in the distance like fireworks. This is my city. She’s a rose, her thorns coated in the blood of her victims, her petals war-torn and damaged—yet she will always be beautiful.