Sweet Collateral

“I have no name,” I say, years of ‘training’ kicking in. You have no name. You are no one. He narrows his eyes at me before a small smile touches his lips. He says nothing, and his silence makes me uncomfortable because it’s so much more threatening than anything he might say.

“Your name is Anna Vasiliev.” I can’t remember the last time I heard my own name or even thought it. I find it strangely without meaning—just the name of a girl long gone.

“It was once.”

He grabs my chin and forces me to look right at him. His eyes are so dark, bottomless, and unreadable, yet flashing a warning as if he were pointing a gun in my face. Everything about him should evoke fear, I know this, and yet the emotion itself is absent, the same way it always is. “How do you know Nero Verdi?” he growls.

“I don’t know who that is.”

He searches my face before he frowns. “You don’t know.”

The way he looks at me- as if I’m offensive to him in some way, pisses me off, and a rare flash of anger spikes hard and fast through my bloodstream. I thought I was long past such emotions. “Should I?” I snap.

A small smile touches his lips. “Careful, avecita.” His thumb strokes over the side of my jaw.

I close my eyes, swallowing back the bitter anger. In a matter of seconds, I force all my emotions down into the dark place they usually live, shutting the door on them. There is no room for rage or bitterness here. Acceptance. I’m a whore. Nothing more.

When I open my eyes again, he’s staring right back at me. His brows pinch slightly as he searches my expression for…I don’t know. And I allow myself to just drift away from this place, this moment…from existence.

Eventually, the car pulls up to a solid metal gate, so tall that I can see nothing beyond it in the beam of the headlights. Armed men step aside, and the gates slowly glide open, revealing an enormous mansion beyond. The front of the house is illuminated by spotlights, reflecting off the bright white paint. The car stops right at the front door, and I’m dragged out.

Pillars sit either side of the overhanging porch and row after row of tall windows line the front of the house. The smell of night Jasmine wraps around me, and I take a deep breath. It’s been a long time since I smelt anything other than cheap cologne and desperation. Everything about this house screams money and power, and it makes me uneasy. A ten-foot-high fence surrounds the property for as far as I can see, which means even if I were brave enough to try and escape, I wouldn’t get far.

Rafael gets out of the car, and I follow, limping behind him. A middle-aged woman in a maid’s uniform throws open the door and greets him. The coldness in his features instantly dissipates as he kisses the older woman’s cheek before saying something quietly. They both turn and look at me, and I see the pity cross her features as she takes in my disheveled state. She approaches and takes my arm, pulling me towards the door. When I limp forward, she stops, glancing down at my leg. The next thing I know, I’m being picked up by a burly man. My entire body goes tense in his hold, and I have to swallow back the bile that rises in my throat when his hands touch my skin, even as innocently as they are. I’m too aware, too wired. It’s playing havoc with my ability to switch off from…this.

The man carries me into the house, and the maid is speaking to me, but I don’t listen. Despite my best efforts to stay calm, all I can hear is my pulse racing in my ears as anticipation crawls over my skin. We move up a grand staircase and along a hallway before she opens a set of double doors. Inside is a bedroom, and I’m dumped on the bed. The man turns and leaves without a word. It takes me a moment to notice my surroundings. Thick crème carpets and lavish furniture fill the room. Beneath me, the soft brush of satin sheets has me skating my fingers across the material. On the far side of the room are a set of open French doors. Warm night air blows through them, catching the long, gauze curtains. But now I am scared, because I’ve been in a house similar to this before; every bit as luxurious and seemingly nice. Whores aren’t kept in nice places,—they’re kept in brothels and dirty basements. This isn’t right.

The maid bustles away through a door, and I hear the sound of running water.

She comes back, stopping in front of me, a frown painted on her face. “My name is Maria.”