Page 52 of A New Days Don

“I’m fine. Let’s go.” She pulls herself from me, walking deeper into the tunnel. I don’t let her get far, keeping myself directly behind her. Whoever this red-haired woman is, I don’t trust her.

The moment we reach the end of the sewer and where the tunnel begins, my whole body feels electric with the awareness of the danger we are walking into. The tunnel opens up into the wide underground system, and the city's powered industrial lights still flicker every fifteen feet, shedding light on the various beds made of cloth and worn pillows. Despite the tunnel being filled with them, only a few people loiter. They all acknowledge the redhead with a nod, but shoot both Mila and I a glare, clearly displeased with newcomers wandering in their space.

“I didn’t realize all this was down here,” Mila whispers quietly enough so only I can hear.

“It has been down here for over a century. Before it was home to these people, it was the way the cartel would traffic women and children.” I murmur, only biting my tongue when I realize how much I let slip. Mila doesn’t seem to take note of how much I know. She is more preoccupied with everything around her, as if she is categorizing and committing it all to memory.

“What is this place?” Mila trots up to our guide.

“The tunnels. I discovered them about eight years ago, but only started bringing people down here to use as their own haven after I found you.” My body bristles at what the redhead is suggesting. She found her. Whether that was before, during, or after the rape, this woman is connected in some way to what happened to Mila. Why else would Mila stiffen at the suggestion, or would a young Mila have met up with a prostitute?

“What’s your name?” Mila asks softly, her eyes brimming with wariness. I shift toward her as a reminder that she isn’t alone down here.

“You can call me Jazzy. I don’ remember my legal name, but that’s what everyone on the streets has called me for the last decade and a half, maybe even longer.” Jazzy shrugs.

“I never…” Mila peers over at me through her thick lashes before turning her attention to Jazzy, “Thank you… For watching out for me… For caring enough to bring me to safety.”

Mila cringes a little, her shoulders pinching with tension. She knows she gave away too much. I may already have a good idea of what happened, but this is my way in to push and prod her to tell me everything, but not here. Not right now.

Silence settles between us as we continue the walk down the tunnel, sinking deeper into the depraved energy that crawls along my tattooed skin. Memories of what I saw at fourteen when Dante and I followed my father’s men here flood my vision. It’s all I can see as I look at the claw marks on the walls and various words and confessions etched into stone.

I tear my eyes away, keeping them focused on Mila. She is my only concern now. I couldn’t help those women and kids who all looked to our men like they were going to destroy them even further, but I can ensure Mila doesn’t get sucked into the darkness that still lingers.

“Are you okay?” Mila whispers. It’s only then that I realize my breathing had changed and somehow, despite keeping the rest of me neutral, she still picked up on it.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I mutter, and she nods with something akin to understanding. The softness brushes against my tense jaw and soothes the ache of those old wounds in a way nothing has ever felt before. It takes everything in me to keep myself steady on my feet, to keep myself from pulling her to me and kissing the fuck out of her.

I don’t deserve a woman like Mila, but I sure as fuck plan to keep her.

“Why did you bring us down here, Jazzy?” Mila’s voice wavers as we enter a dark cavern. Jazzy’s torch is the only thing lighting our way. The room is bare, nothing on the walls, nothing on the floor. Just an open space.

“This is my space. Nobody comes in here. They understand these were my tunnels long before they showed up. This room is where I got sober. It’s where I hid until I could trust myself to leave and not consume. Right there where you stand is where I laid and contemplated suicide.” Jazzy points a bony finger to a patch of stone with claw marks everywhere. Hers.

“I can’t tell you anything about your rapist.” Mila hisses, stiffening beside me. She tries to shift away, pink crawling up her neck and cheeks, but I don’t let her. I pull her into me. Holding her body against my chest as she avoids my gaze.

“But what I can tell you is shortly after I sobered up, maybe a year, I stopped working so hard as a prostitute and began taking women in. Most of them now bring me whatever I need to be content while I keep an eye on them on the streets so I don’t have to sell my body anymore—not that many men want an old body like mine, but I could probably get fifty bucks here or there if I wanted.” Jazzy chuckles as if that were funny, but neither Mila nor I make a peep.

“The year I started taking in strays, I made sure anyone in these tunnels never brought drugs or alcohol in here. As long as they live here, they must be straight laced or trying to sober up. For the most part, they listen, but some are not as ready as others.” Jazzy shoves her ragged hair out of the way, “The more I brought in, the more stories I would hear about a man who gets a little too aggressive with the girls. Slowly, my girls started disappearing. Abby, Heather, Linda, Penny…”

Jazzy continues, listing off the names of every girl who has disappeared. The list goes on and on and on, far longer than the records the police had. From what I saw, there were seventeen cases, all from the last four months. She lists at least a hundred names, and those are the women she knew.

Mila sways in my grip, and I tighten my hold on her. I don’t know how Jazzy recalls them all, but then again, if she is here taking in strays, as she calls them, she probably cares about each and every one of them.

“This has been going on for far longer than the five years I’ve been taking care of these girls. I remember hearing whispers on the streets about a man who was far too rough with the girls, but I was always too high to care or too low from the drop to have the energy for it.” Jazzy continues, “I think you were one of his victims. Found ya behind that dumpster–”

My whole body goes rigid, and red seeps into my vision at the image of Mila bleeding and alone, tossed like trash, but I hold the anger back so I can hear everything. She will never be alone again.

“He’d really bashed that pretty head of yours in. I didn’t think you were alive but figured it worth a shot t’ drop you off at the hospital.” Jazzy shrugs.

Mila is a whole lot stronger than I am as she stands with her back straight, vision hyper-focused on Jazzy, “Do you know any information on the man? Has any of the girls mentioned anything?”

Our red-haired companion shakes her head, “Not that I’m aware of. I don’t think many who see him, live. Except fer you. Do ya not remember?”

This time, Mila shakes her head, her ponytail swishing behind her.

“Damn.”

“Is there anything else? Anything we should know?” Mila prods further.