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As soon as I realize who he is, I’m stunned with both fear and adoration. This man is the leader of one of the most ruthless mafia organizations in the nation, and I’m about to face him head-on. Will he kill me? Why wouldn’t he?
I have no time to respond before he reaches his free hand up to me, pointing his weapon at the floor. “Come down from there. It’s okay. You’re okay now.”
To contrast his imposing, powerful appearance, his voice is smooth and tempered, like he’s trying to keep me calm. He’s speaking to me like I’m a puppy caught in a drainpipe, and somehow, it’s the most reassuring thing I could possibly be hearing in the situation I’m in.
I reach my hand out, shaking violently before I feel my own weight leaning into him. He takes me into his arm as if I weigh nothing, realizing that I’m likely too stunned to have the necessary motor function to escape on my own.
Some of the blood from the traffickers smears my jacket, and I want to scream, but my mind has turned the atmosphere into an eerily dreamlike place. Perhaps I’m not really here.
I can smell the blood on his jacket as it mingles with his cologne. It’s an expensive scent, that much I can remember from my time working in a luxury makeup store downtown. I’m tempted to bury my face in his shoulder, but I can’t place why. Do I just need to feel held? Am I reverting to the mind of a child in a burning house as they’re rescued by a firefighter? Do I just think he smells nice?
No matter my reasoning, I need to find the space in my head to understand that I’m not out of the woods here. I’ve been rescued, sure, but into what world?
4
Matteo
The girl slept for at least three hours after I saved her from the warehouse auction. There were so many girls that had been herded into a back room, ready to be distributed to their new masters once the auction had been completed. We rescued at least twenty, and only a handful of them spoke English. Most of them were from Russia, Bulgaria, Thailand, or Laos.
This one, however, is American, which is something that she shares with none of the other girls. It’s more difficult to traffic adults in the United States due to the fact that most families in this area are well-off. The men who kidnap these women do it as an enticement to them by acting as lovers or boyfriends until the women are in far too deep to be set free.
This girl is different. Her clothes are nice, professional even, and she’s wearing sensible jewelry and modest makeup. She doesn’t present herself as the type of girl who would be vying for the attention of any man in particular. So, how did she end up here?
I offer her some coffee as she’s coming out of her deep sleep. It’s nearly five in the morning, and the men at the warehouse must have drugged her heavily. None of the other girls were drugged, at least not with any downers. This woman has a story to tell, and I need to know what it is.
“Here, I put some milk and sugar in it. Sorry if you’re a coffee elitist,” I say, handing her a mug with a mocha flavored K-cup in it. “My father would beat me to death if he knew I was offering a woman coffee from a machine.”
She narrows her eyes a bit as she reaches for the cup, then smiles as the warmth makes contact with her skin. “Why would he do that?”
“He was a traditional Italian man. Very traditional. He was the kind of man who would only buy espresso from a coffee shop if their single shots tasted the way they did back home,” I reply. “He was a real asshole about it. I hope you like this, though.”
She laughs a little, then grabs her head with her free hand. “Damn, they must have given me something really strong when they put me out. I feel like I drank sixteen beers last night.”
“They probably roofied you. Feeling hungover is a pretty common side-effect, and guys like that never have a shortage of GHB,” I reply.
As she tastes the coffee, her face relaxes, and she closes her eyes to enjoy every bit of the bold flavor. The way her eyes close reminds me of how my ex’s used to look right before she orgasmed, and the intrusive thought muscles its way to the forefront of my mind until it’s all I can think about. Her eyelashes are long and dark like hers too, and before I can stop myself, I’m studying the folds of her clothes over her body to find the shape underneath.
She’s quiet for a moment, still gathering herself as the tides of nausea ebb and flow through her. “This is fine for me, thank you.”
The way she’s positioned in a nest of blankets on my floor feels like an invitation. One leg is straight while the other is bent, and I can see where her panty line starts through the fabric of her pants. It’s impossible not to stare, and my attention to her body feels inappropriate given the situation she so narrowly escaped the night before. Still, she’s beautiful, and I can’t help but think of all the ways I’d please her if she were-
“So, why did you save me?”
The silence in the room is deafening as her question reverberates in my head.
WhydidI save her?
I could have put her into the same quarters that I’ve placed the other girls in. I chose to carry her through the warehouse and into my own personal vehicle, which I’m certain she remembers, despite the terror and confusion in her eyes. I can’t count on shock to have erased every memory from the night, and the longer I keep her here, the more likely it is that I’ll have to answer for my actions.
“You were the last one on the platform. I needed to get you down before you accidentally got shot,” I reply, uncertain whether my answer will be sufficient for her curiosity.
She glances at me questioningly, unconvinced, and maybe a little insulted that I would feed her a lie like that. But I have to stick to my answer or else she might not trust me.
“Okay, well... are you a part of the trafficking ring?” she asks with wide, cautious eyes. “I bet you were just trying to keep me for yourself.”
I’m shocked at the accusation, but I have to reel myself in and understand her position. “No, absolutely the fuck not. I’d never take part in any shit like that. It’s subhuman behavior.”
She appears satisfied withthisanswer, so I can rest assured that she doesn’t see me in a predatory light. Not overtly, at least. She still might have seen the way I was looking at her, and I can’t take it back now.
