Chapter 1 #4
When the syndicate came calling, they didn’t want him dead—at least, not yet. They wanted leverage.
And so he offered her—his daughter. Anna—as collateral.
By the time her mother realized what had happened, she tried to save Anna—but it was too late.
Ana had told me this part with her face turned away, fingers clawing at dirt.
That was how Ana came to inhabit this life—this prison—in the most brutal, inhumane Albanian cell, a fate born entirely from the reckless choices of her parents.
Anna had poured everything she had left into our secret tunnel of escape—hope, rage, love, guilt—scraping at the earth with bleeding fingers, urging us on when despair pressed heavy against our chests.
She was the one who whispered, We will make it, when the dirt threatened to collapse, who counted inches like prayers.
She believed freedom was possible because the alternative was unbearable.
And now... she would not be here to witness it.
“You will be my wife,” the brother declared.
The word wife sounded obscene on his tongue.
His free hand slid down Ana’s body with ownership, fingers biting into flesh.
She flinched despite herself, a broken sound escaping before she could swallow it.
My vision tunneled.
He pulled his hand away slowly, studying the red staining his fingers with detached curiosity.
Then he laughed—low, guttural, pleased.
“I will enjoy this one,” he said to his brother in thick, deliberate English.
The younger brother studied Ana like an object with potential flaws. “How sure are you?” he asked coolly. “Test it.”
The elder laughed again, deeper, richer. “You are right.”
His gaze returned to Ana, voice dropping into something intimate and lethal. “I should know what I am buying.”
Ana’s knees trembled, just barely.
Her chin lifted in reflexive defiance, but her eyes betrayed her—wide, glassy, pleading without words.
“Bend over,” he ordered.
The command cracked through the yard like a whip.
I felt Bianca’s hand tighten against mine, nails biting skin.
Around us, the others stood frozen, terror rooted deep.
We all knew the rules here. Defiance didn’t bring mercy. It brought examples. It brought nights that never ended.
Ana’s tears finally fell, silent and unstoppable, carving paths down her cheeks.
She looked at me then—not asking for rescue. Asking for forgiveness. As if she were already gone.
Something inside me broke.
I couldn’t watch this. Couldn’t stand here and let her become another ghost we whispered about at night.
So I coughed.
Not weakly. Not accidentally.
I hacked, loud and ugly, bending forward as if my lungs were tearing themselves apart. The sound echoed, wrong and disruptive, slicing through the tension.
Every head turned.
The brothers’ eyes landed on me.
“This bitch is too fat,” the younger brother said flatly, disgust curling his lip. “Why is she even here?”
The words hit—but they didn’t land the way he expected.
I had gained weight here. Starvation did that—twisting the body into betrayal, slowing it, softening it where it shouldn’t.
Beans and stale bread twice a day, just enough to keep us alive, just enough to steal sharpness and strength.
My body bore the evidence of survival, not indulgence.
But none of that mattered.
What mattered was Ana’s breathing slowing. The brother’s hand easing from her.
The younger one scanned us again, eyes calculating, already bored. Then he pointed.
“I’ll take this one.”
Bianca.
Her breath hitched sharply beside me..
Slim. Graceful. The kind of beauty that had once belonged in candlelit ballrooms and glossy society pages, not dirt yards surrounded by wire and stone.
She had been Ricci Ferrari’s bride—draped in silk and diamonds one night, stolen the next. Taken straight from her wedding bed before the sheets had even cooled.
Passed from one set of hands to another like currency, like spoils, until she ended up here.
The scars on her thighs told the truth her mouth never did.
Pale, uneven lines—some old, some newer—mapping a history of things she no longer reacted to. Bianca had learned the art of leaving her body behind, eyes empty, spirit folded somewhere far away while men took what they wanted.
But beneath that numbness lived steel.
She had fought harder than anyone for our escape.
She remembered measurements. Counted guard rotations. Held the others together when hope thinned to a thread. When hands shook too badly to dig, Bianca dug for them. When someone sobbed into the dirt, she whispered, Just a little longer.
No.
Not her.
Not after everything she’d already survived.
I coughed again—louder this time, rougher, forcing it from deep in my chest. It scraped my throat raw, tasted like blood and dust, but I didn’t stop. If I could pull their attention for even a second—
The elder brother turned on me with sudden violence.
His hand cracked across my face.
The sound echoed sharp and final. Pain exploded along my cheekbone, white and blinding.
My head snapped sideways, vision swimming, the world tilting on its axis. I tasted copper.
“Fatty,” he snarled, leaning in close enough that I smelled tobacco and something rotten beneath it. “Do you want to infect us all with your sickness?”
I staggered but didn’t fall.
Through the haze, I saw them—my sisters in hell.
Ana shaking so badly she could barely stay upright. Bianca pale, lips parted in silent terror.
Sofia frozen, eyes huge and dark. Christina and Simona with tears sliding down their faces, unashamed, unstoppable. Corina staring straight ahead, jaw locked, already retreating inward.
None of us deserved this.
Something burned up through my chest, fierce and reckless and unstoppable.
I screamed.
“RUN!”
The word tore out of me, ripping my throat raw. I didn’t wait to see if they understood.
I ran.
Bare feet slammed into packed dirt, pain lancing up my legs as I sprinted toward the far corner of the yard. Toward the shed. Toward the only hope we had left. Behind me, chaos erupted—shouts in Albanian, boots pounding, curses splitting the air.
Then footsteps—lighter, frantic.
They were following me.
The master roared in fury, his voice carrying across the compound like thunder.
The brothers barked orders, sharp and fast. Guards joined the chase, weapons clattering as they ran.
I reached the shed just as my lungs began to burn.
My hands fumbled beneath the loose floorboard we’d disguised with straw and dirt. My fingers closed around the hammer—cold, familiar, sacred. Our salvation.
I swung.
The impact jarred my arms to the bone. Stone cracked but held. I swung again. And again. I didn’t care about noise anymore. Silence was useless now.
Shouts grew closer.
Too close.
I hammered with everything I had left—rage, terror, love, despair. The wall finally gave way, chunks of stone collapsing outward in a cloud of dust.
Cool air rushed in, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. Freedom smelled like forest.
A jagged opening yawned before us.
My hands split open, skin tearing, blood slicking the handle. Sweat soaked my thin shift, clinging to my body as my chest heaved.
My legs shook, but I didn’t stop.
Behind me, the others reached the shed, eyes wide, faces streaked with dirt and tears.
Freedom was right there.
So were the hunters.
Ana didn’t wait for permission.
She scrambled through the opening first, naked skin scraping against stone, dust clinging to her like a second skin. She landed hard on the other side, stumbling but upright.
“Go!” I screamed, my voice breaking apart.
She hesitated—just a heartbeat. Turned back to me, eyes shining with something close to disbelief. Gratitude. Grief.
“Thank you, Penelope,” she whispered.
Then she disappeared into the darkness beyond the wall.
I made myself a vow then, quiet but unbreakable.
I wouldn’t leave until every last one of them was out.
If the hunters caught me, so be it. If my body paid the price, so be it. At least six women would breathe free air tonight—six women ripped from a hell no map on earth acknowledged, no government admitted existed.
That had to count for something.
Sofia came next.
She moved faster than I expected, bare feet slapping stone and dirt, her breath sharp and uneven.
The milky scar clouding her left eye caught the light as she reached the opening and stopped short, staring at it as if it might vanish if she blinked.
That eye had been taken from her years ago—punishment from a man who’d decided blinding her would make her more obedient. More grateful. Less defiant.
“It’s open,” she whispered, disbelief cracking her voice. “It’s really open.”
“Yes,” I said fiercely, grabbing her arm. “It’s real. Go. Now.”
Her hesitation lasted only a second. Then survival kicked in. She nodded once—hard, decisive—and pushed herself through the jagged gap without another word. No thanks. No backward glance. Just determination and the desperate will to live.
She was gone.
Christina and Simona appeared almost together, stumbling into the shed like ghosts chased by hell itself.
Their eyes were wild, hair matted with sweat and dirt, ribs showing beneath their skin. They didn’t pause. Didn’t look at me crouched by the wall, hammer still clutched in my ruined hands like a relic.
They didn’t need instructions.
They dove through the opening, scraping skin, gasping as they disappeared into the night. One after the other. Gone.
My heart hammered so violently I thought it might tear free of my chest.
Then Carina appeared.
She staggered in, nearly tripping over the threshold, breath tearing out of her in ragged, painful gulps.
Sweat plastered her dark hair to her forehead, soaking the thin fabric clinging to her body. She was heavier than me—softer, fuller—her body punished more harshly by hunger and exhaustion. I was honestly stunned she’d outrun Bianca to reach the shed.
“I’m... tired,” she wheezed, bending forward, hands braced on her knees. Each breath sounded like it cost her something vital.
Fear spiked sharp and cold in my gut.