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I haven’t spoken since the day he first raped me. That was sixteen years ago. It was my seventh birthday. He raped me every day after that, started selling me to his friends when I was twelve. They all beat me, used every hole I had, hoping I’d beg them to stop, or scream, make any noise. I didn’t.

Leaving the house was asking for a death wish. A new bruise came every time I tried. A new slur spewed in my face.

One day, he got sick of me trying to escape. So he chained me to my bed by my ankle. Loose enough to be moved around by his friends, tight enough to prevent me from slipping out of it. I tried for weeks to get it off, but I had nothing but my fingers to do anything.

I got food and a glass of water twice a day. Not nice food either, not even poor food. It was moldy bread with peas most of the time. He knows I hate peas.

He makes me piss in cans. Then he’ll come in and just dump them on the floor. The stench gets awful in the summer. It gets better in the winter, though.

Two days ago, everything changed. He came home angry, way more angry than normal. He started throwing shit around, glass broke everywhere, drinks spilled on the floor, and food was thrown at the walls. I heard his heavy footsteps coming towards my bedroom. Moving to the back of the bed, I expected him to force himself on me, but he didn’t. He slammed the door open, standing there, breathing quickly.

“I owe a huge debt thanks to that slut mother of yours. But I just figured out how to pay it back,” He growled low, his raspy voice making it so I could barely understand. Mom has nothing to do with your debt, you sick bastard. You’re the one that stole the drugs.

He stole drugs from Riot Petrov, his boss, six months ago. I watched him carry in duffle bags full of white bricks with brown tape covering them. By the way, he threw them on the ground and immediately cut open a brick, snorting the powder in it. I assumed they were drugs. We’re poor. I know he didn’t buy that much with his beer money. I knew they were stolen.

A snaky smirk slid on his face, fear crawled up my neck for what he meant. He turned on his heels, storming out only to return seconds later, a key in his hand. For the chain wrapped around my ankle. Fear slinked through me, it’s icy claws scraped against every bone, goosebumps rising on my skin. This can’t lead to anything good.

He grabbed my leg roughly, pulling me to the edge of the bed as he unlocked the chain that tied my ankle to the footboard. He let the chain and key fall to the ground before grasping my forearms hard and pulling me up.

“I’m getting rid of you. You are of no use to me anymore, slutty bitch,” he growled in my face, pulling me out the door behind him. He shoved me down to the living room floor. That was the first time I’ve been here in three years. The room hasn’t changed besides the beer bottles thrown across the floor and the trash piling up by the door.

My knees scraped against the crusty carpet, the burning almost instant as my joints were being used in ways they haven’t been in years. During the abuse, I was stone, not moving a muscle during each beating. I heard the crackling tone of his shitty android filling the stale air.

“Let me talk to Riot, it’s Harold,” he said into the phone, his voice wobbling with fear. I didn’t move from my crouched position on the floor, his presence looming behind me like Death. His voice cut through the air like a knife, “I have a proposition about paying off my debt to you,” so it wasn’t my mom’s fault. Bastard. “No sir, I’m not trying to fuck around. Okay..yes..okay..no, sir. Okay, see you soon.” He hung up the phone and threw it onto the couch.

Pain erupted in my back as I felt his boot connect with my spine. I fell into a heap of skin, bones, and the small amount of clothes I had on, onto the floor.

“Stay there, bitch,” he barked, and I didn’t move. Not one inch.

I listened to his boots retreat into the kitchen. The sound of him grabbing a beer. The sound of scraping powder on the counter. My heart stuttered at the sound of his beer cracking open.

He turned on his stereo, the bass reverberating throughout the thin walls, shaking them. The bass seeped into the floor, causing it to vibrate under me. I didn’t try to run. I knew that was certain death after the last time.

It felt like an eternity before I heard anything over the screaming music blaring from the kitchen. I faintly heard a car door outside, and then Dad’s music came to a halt, his heavy boots thumping out to the living room. I looked up at the door slightly, making sure not to move my head much. Dad reached me as soon as the door was kicked in, revealing him.

Six feet, God knows how tall, skin-tight shirt with a Kevlar vest covering his chest and stomach. Tattoos lick at every square inch of his arms, his hand covered in gloves with hints of more ink peaking out at the open tips of the gloves. He had black jeans on, black combat boots as well. A black mask covers the entirety of his face, neon green X’s in a stitched pattern over his eyes, and an equally disturbing stitched smile across the lower half of the mask. Holy fucking shit.

Nothing Holy about that statue of a man.

I can only assume the masked man is Riot Petrov. Leader of the Russian Mafia and what I assume to be every girl’s wet dream

Father used to work for him, being an arms man and protecting ports. He was a loyal employee until he stole a million dollars worth of coke. He was so high on coke all the time it made him believe he was almost indestructible. Now, it seems, Riot has come to collect his debt. Riot’s strong suit is mentally fucking with his victims, so he’s been looming over Father.

Father is petrified of Riot. Riot enjoys the mental torture he instills in his victims. He’s been over a few times, demanding Father’s payment. Every time, Father ties me up by all my limbs and covers my mouth with any tape he has, which is usually duct tape. He knows I won’t speak to him, but he wasn’t confident I wouldn’t scream for help when someone else showed up.

I don’t think Riot knew about me before this. I’ve never seen him, only heard him. His broad accent. The shivers that run down my body when I’d hear him through the thin walls will have me feeling cold in the middle of summer.

I stare at him for what feels like forever. “Riot, thank you for coming.” His attention snapped to my father, grunting at his statement. “Don’t waste my time.” His thick Russian accent, though imposing and downright terrifying, still cuts straight to my core as my body erupts in goosebumps.

“I hope this is enough, if it isn’t, I hope it could be enough for an extension to get the rest. My slutty daughter, Penelope Russo,” His raspy voice cut through the air like a knife, breaking on a few words.

No, this can not be happening.

*This book is an advance reader copy and is to not be distributed anywhere. [email protected]*

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Chapter Two