Eleven years ago, almost to the day, my father sold me to the Albanians because he'd amassed a debt worthy of a person, they told me.
I remember that day better than I remember my first kiss. Better than the first time I saw blood or bone or brains spilled on concrete. Because it was the moment everything changed and I stopped being someone with a future and became mafia inventory.
On a brighter note, if there is one, it's also been exactly one year since I bought myself back.
They told me it wasn't possible. That once the Albanians owned you, they never let go. But they did. Because I saved money, I kept my head down, and I did everything they asked.
I bought my freedom. Got a shitty apartment and a cupcake in return.
Outside, sirens wail. Hey, at least my night's going better than someone else's.
I take a deep breath, leaning forward to blow out the candle. The flame illuminates something on my wrist, a smear of dried blood.
Not mine. His.
Declan fucking Killaney.
I scrape at it with my thumbnail, revealing the small scalpel tattoo underneath. The mark of ownership the Albanians put on me to identify my skills to their network. I see it now as a permanent reminder that I once belonged to someone else.
When I get enough money, I'm lasering this fucking thing off, I think to myself, looking at it in disgust.
I run my finger over the frosting and taste it. Mmm, artificial vanilla and regret. I may be adding the last one.
I toss the cupcake in the trash and head for the shower.
The hot water barely trickles out, and the pressure is so weak it takes twice as long to wash my hair. I scrub myself hard, like I can remove the memories.
I close my eyes, but all I see is Declan's face, the fury in those green eyes when he recognized me. Him looking at me. Judging me. Blaming me for something I never had the power to change.
All this time and he still looked at me like he wanted to tear my throat out.
That night rushes back.
I was working in the Albanian clinic in Dorchester. A concrete room in the basement of a building compound that smelled like bleach and desperation. I'd just finished setting a broken hand—one of the enforcers had gotten careless during a collection—and was cleaning up when the door crashed open.
He was already shouting.
A tall man stumbled in, supporting someone else. Both covered in blood. So much blood it looked black under the fluorescent lights.
"Help him," the man demanded, laying the other one on my table. "He's been stabbed."
I didn't move. I'd never seen this man before. He wasn't Albanian, nor was I told he was coming.
"Did you hear me?" the man shouted. "He's dying!"
The man on my table was pale, barely conscious, with blood bubbling from a wound in his chest. He was gasping for air. I could tell he had a collapsed lung. If I didn't help him soon, he would die.
"Fucking do something!" The man grabbed my arm, fingers digging into my bicep. "You're the Ghost Angel, right?"
Fuck I hated that name.
I looked down at his hand, then back at his face. "I can't," I say, tearing my arm away.
"What do you mean you can't?"
"I mean I'm not allowed."
His eyes widened in disbelief, then narrowed with murderous intent. "You fucking?—"
