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I wanted to cry when I saw the rescued women for the first time. Their thin bodies barely filled up the clothes the guys had given them, and purple and yellowish bruises marred their cheeks and arms. I don’t even want to know the horrors they’ve been through these past couple of weeks, months—however long it’s been since they’ve known freedom.
I’ve spent a lot of time at the safehouse since the women’s arrival. Hale had a doctor come and examine them, and although they’re all beat up and malnourished, they should be okay eventually. Physically, anyway. Mentally? Emotionally?
Jesus, I have no idea.
I can’t even imagine what they’ve all been through. I think the only one of us who can is Ciro, and although he doesn’t talk about it, I see how his eyes go hard and his jaw tightens sometimes when he looks at the girls. I know he sees himself in their shell-shocked pain.
I hate that so much evil can exist in the world.
Sometimes it feels hypocritical to think that when I’m falling deeper and deeper into the criminal underworld. When I’m falling in love with four men who belong to a mafia syndicate, one of whom leads it.
But the men who’ve earned my love and respect have honor. They might run on the wrong side of the law, but they protect women and children—not just their own, but all women and children. That’s why even though Leland was a traitor, his family is still safe and alive.
It makes me feel better to think that these women are at least in a place where they can begin to recover. Begin to heal. I bring them food, both the healthy stuff and the comforting junk food that always cheers me up when I’m feeling shitty. Sometimes we’ll watch a movie or something, although I’m not sure they really care what’s on the screen. Sometimes we just sit. Sometimes I talk to them, but they don’t usually talk back.
It’s a tricky fucking balance. They might know things about the Rooks that could help us in our war against my mother, but I’m afraid if I push too hard, they’ll shut down entirely. We can’t exactly interrogate them like Ciro did with Leland. This requires a gentler touch.
And patience.
Something I’m unfortunately on short supply of these days. Between my mother and the FBI, there are too many threats from too many different sides, and I keep looking desperately for a way out of this mess.
But approaching them with panic and tension won’t help these girls trust us, so I try to leave all of that behind every time I come to the safe house.
Today, a girl named Lucy and I are in the kitchen. I showed her how to make cake in a mug a little while ago, and she actually smiled as I pulled it out of the microwave—the first genuine smile I’ve seen on her face since I met her.
“So, what do you think?” I ask as she takes the last bite of her little cake and then sets down her spoon. Her eyes still have a sort of hollow look to them, but she doesn’t look quite as gaunt as she did when they first arrived.
“It’s good.” She tilts her mug a little as if making sure she really got every bit, then glances up at me. “Neat trick.”
“Yeah. Well, I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth, so I learned to do this when I wanted a late-night snack but didn’t want to take too long to make it.”
She nods absently, still staring into her mug. This is how a lot of our conversations go. They move in fits and starts as she seems to sink back into her thoughts and memories for a while before coming back out of it.
“One of them…” She looks up at me and cocks her head, her eyes narrowing a little. “One of the men said you guys aren’t the police. The one with the tattoos. So who are you?”
“Oh. Um…”
I chew on my lower lip. This is the first time she’s asked me a direct question. Usually I’m the one prodding her gently to talk, and the fact that she’s initiating conversation seems like a good sign. I don’t want to shut her down, but I’m not quite sure how to answer. I don’t want to lie to her, but it’s probably better if she knows as little about us as possible.
“Don’t worry about who we are,” I say, trying to keep my tone reassuring. “We want to help you, that’s the main thing. You’re safe here, and you’ll be able to get back on your feet soon.”
I glance at her surreptitiously again as I gather our mugs and take them to the sink, turning on the tap to fill them with warm water. Her face is impassive. Almost… bitter? For a second, I think maybe I said the wrong thing and mentally cringe.
“Sometimes,” she says, her voice small. “Sometimes I think I don’t want to be back on my feet.”
I shut off the water, plunging the kitchen into complete silence. I don’t ask her to explain herself. If she wants to talk, she’ll talk. I’m not going to push her.
“All of this is so nice,” she says, gesturing around the kitchen. “So much nicer than anything I had before all of this happened. And sometimes I wish that no matter how many shitty and fucked up things had to happen to get me here, I wish I could stay here where it all feels so far away.”
The words seem to pour out of her. That’s more than I’ve heard her speak in one go by a long shot, and I hold still, staying totally quiet—the same way I might if a wild deer approached me. I don’t want to startle her, or just like the deer, she might bolt.
She leans up against the counter, letting out a breath. She traces a line on the countertop with one finger, looking at that rather than me.
“Before they took me…” Her voice dies out for a second, then she clears her throat and s
tarts again. Her voice grows stronger as she continues. “Before they took me, I was already living on the streets. I became a stripper to pay the bills, to at least have somewhere warm to be during the night. At least in the morning, when the sun was shining, I felt safer. Stronger. I felt like I could fall asleep without being raped or kidnapped or robbed.”
I clench my jaw to keep from making a noise. I want to scream in anger at a world that let her down so badly, that allowed her to slip through the cracks until Camilla and her crew thought they could steal her away and no one would even notice. No one would search for her or miss her or report her kidnapping to the police.
