Alexei Rogozin.
Charlotte swallowed a gasp, squeezing her eyes shut as a rush of hot, terrible memories assaulted her.
Where you off to, little girl?
Not so tough when Daddy’s not around, are ya?
Don’t struggle, D’Amico bitch…
She remembered it like a dream—hazy and nonsensical in parts, sharp and inescapable in others. It was her birthday, and her father had promised they’d spend the whole day together. But before they’d even ordered breakfast at their favorite diner, Uncle Rudy called. He’d forgotten it was her birthday—so sorry!—and had promised an important client on Long Island they’d make a special delivery.
There was no way around it, so Charley tagged along. When business was done, her dad said, they’d drive out to Montauk at the very tip of the island, comb the beach for sea glass, and eat their weight in saltwater taffy.
When they got to the drop-off point—a dingy, second-floor apartment above an abandoned pizza place—her dad and Rudy parked around back and ordered her to stay in the car while they made the delivery. A rusty metal staircase led up to the second floor, and she watched as they hauled a few nondescript boxes up top.
Ten minutes, they’d said. Fifteen max.
Twenty minutes passed. Half an hour. One hour, and suddenly, two men emerged from the back of the abandoned restaurant, heading right for the car. Charley sunk down into the seat, but it was no use.
They knew she was there.
They were looking for her.
What happened next is part of the haze, mixed up in her mind after years of reliving it in every nightmare, of scrubbing herself raw in the shower, of trying to outrun the ghosts that always seemed to track her down, no matter how much time passed.
But what she remembered clearly, even now, was the smell of garlic and sweat and cheap booze as the men climbed into the backseat and surrounded her, slamming the car doors behind them.
She remembered trying to reach for the door handle, desperate to escape.
Where you off to, little girl?
She remembered crying and begging as one man pinned her down on her back, the other shoving a hand up her shirt, squeezing her tiny breast.
Not so tough when Daddy’s not around, are ya?
She remembered screaming and kicking, remembered biting the meaty hand that clamped hard over her mouth.
She remembered the man yanking off her jean shorts, her underwear. When she wouldn’t stop kicking, he pulled out a knife.
Don’t struggle, D’Amico bitch. I will make you bleed in more ways than one…
Shedidstruggle, though. Knew if she didn’t, they’d kill her.
Or worse.
She kicked and fought and scratched and bit for all she was worth, landing a hard kick in the balls.
The man groaned and grabbed her thigh, then shoved the knife into her abdomen, the pain eating through her body like acid, like teeth, like claws.
Stars danced before her eyes, and she thought it was the end. Death was breathing on her neck, waiting to take her.
But seconds later, she felt the rush of air as the car doors flew open. She heard two pops, felt the warm spray of blood on her face. The bodies slumped on top of her, making her gag. Her father stood behind one of them, his face ashen, the gun trembling in his hand.
She’d never seen such fear in his eyes.
Such ice-cold rage.
Such shame.
