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So when he saw Angelo's name pop up, he figured there was just some issue with a driver of one of the trucks or faulty cameras. Something small.

Not that they had the next container of women. A day earlier than they were supposed to.

"Do you think whoever is running things is just trying to get it through without you and the cops realizing it?" I asked, heart up in my throat as we drove back down the shore. No hand holding or kisses at red lights this time, everything was business.

"Probably."

"Is Angelo calling the cops?"

"Not yet," he told me, voice a little curt, and it only took me a moment to remember that we didn't do a lot of talking about specific things like this in closed-in places. Apartments or cars.

So I sat there in silence, working through it all in my head instead.,

They weren't calling the cops.

Because they wanted a couple of minutes to investigate things first. Once the police and feds showed up, it would be chaos. And they wouldn't be allowed to go anywhere near all the girls.

And they needed to ask questions.

"Are you dropping me off?"

"No. We need you to translate. Lucky can say a couple phrases, but we don't have time for him to fumble around to get it right. If you don't mind," he added, looking over at me.

"I don't mind. I'll be happy to help." And possibly get a chance to see my sister before the police carted her away for questioning and medical evaluations. "But you're going to need to tell me what to ask."

"I'll be right there with you. But we need to know what the people looked like who snatched them off the streets. And who put them in the containers. If they were different people. And also any snippets of conversation that they may have picked up on."

"Okay. I got it," I agreed, taking a steadying breath as we pulled into the pier parking lot, everything still bustling, and I found mys

elf surprised they hadn't halted business yet.

"We don't want any flags going up," Luca said as we climbed out, reading my mind. "If business was already at a dead stop, the police would know we hadn't called them when we first found the container. Better to be scrambling to shut everything down as they all show up."

"Makes sense," I agreed, taking his hand when he offered it, scrambling to keep up with his long-legged, break-neck pace, weaving through the lines of containers, ending up in the second-to-last row.

Angelo, Dario, and Michael were standing there. And I felt shitty for being relieved that Matteo and Lucky weren't around just yet, but there wasn't much time to harp on those feelings as Angelo pulled out a pair of lock cutters, snapping off the lock, then pulling the container open with a sharp, metallic clang.

The smell of unwashed bodies hit my face first. Sweat and then the slightest of waste smells. Not as strong as one might expect, but Luca had told me there was some sort of composting situation going on.

Immediately, there were shrieks and cries from those inside, making my stomach twist as I called out to them, told them they were safe, we were there to save them.

"We need more light," I told Luca, only able to see the first few faces.

I thought I had been prepared for it.

After all, I had spent countless hours worrying about my sister in one of those things, stuck with a bunch of other women and girls, scared out of her mind, living in horrific conditions. And then Luca had detailed it to me out on the porch one evening about what the last container had been like.

But there was really no preparing myself for such an ugly reality. Where women were corralled into a container like chattel, where their lives that had held so much promise were bartered away.

The air was thick with heat and terror, rife with uncertainty and distrust. I was choking on it, and I hadn't even experienced any of what those women had been through.

Angelo brought in some lights as I told the women where they were, what had happened, that we were going to get them back home, but that we needed to ask them a few questions first.

One of the oldest of the women toward the front—someone maybe in her mid-twenties with short, dark brown hair and a pixie-face—stood up, eager to help, to get things moving, so that she could get home to her four-month-old son.

"What is she saying?" Luca asked, sounding lost.

"She just told me where she's from. And what she remembered of the men who had put her on the ship. I'll remember," I assured him. "I can write it all down later. I will remember."

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