Wait for Me in the Alley

"Save your energy. Ain't nobody coming for you."

The man speaking had a cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes raked over me once, then he tilted his head toward the guy beside him. "Decent enough. Send her to the estate. Couple days' training, then she works."

"What estate? What work?" I clutched the strap of my backpack and took a step back.

"Quit playing dumb." He let out a scoff. "What do you think they do with girls like you?"

My blood went cold.

No wonder Nora had insisted on dragging me to Chicago. No wonder her boyfriend had been "conveniently" free to pick us up and drop us off the entire time. She'd sold me. For twenty thousand dollars.

"I'm not going to any estate. Let me go. I'll pay you—double—"

"Once you're through that door, you don't get to negotiate." He stubbed his cigarette out against the wall. "Either you behave and go work, or you take a beating first and then go work. Your pick."

I backed up two steps until my spine hit the cold metal bed frame.

"Neither."

The man held my gaze for a second, then jerked his chin.

The two guys behind him moved.

Fists and boots landed on my ribs, my stomach, my sides. I curled into a ball, arms over my head, muffled grunts forcing their way out of my throat. When the beating stopped, I was face-down on the floor, blood dripping from my mouth, every organ inside me churning.

The man crouched down, grabbed my hair, and yanked my face up.

"Your choice now. Going or not?"

I didn't answer. Just stared at him.

He let go, straightened up, and nudged my shoulder with the toe of his shoe. "Stubborn, huh. Lock her up. Couple days without food and she'll soften."

They dragged me up and threw me into a windowless closet. The iron door slammed behind me. The lock clicked.

Then—commotion from outside. Footsteps running down the corridor. A voice, low and urgent: "The Don's here! Clean everything up. Hide the new merchandise first."

Someone outside answered. Footsteps scattered.

I closed my eyes, the back of my head pressed against the cold wall, a dull ache spreading through my chest.

The Don.

Caleb Richardson.

He was here.

I'd spent three years changing my name, running from New York to Italy, convinced I'd never cross paths with him again.

And now I'd been sold—right back onto his turf.