Chapter 1
Chapter
One
Luna, seventeen-years old
“Where the fuck have you been?” My old man slurs from his arm chair, a half empty bottle of vodka on the coffee table in front of him.
“School, and then I was playing chess at the community center.” Both of which are my refuge from this hellhole.
“You win anything?”
“I don’t play for money,” I remind him. Not yet, but one day. My mentor at the community center thinks I’m good enough to go pro. And maybe one day even become a Grandmaster. With a few junior tournament wins under my belt, I’m starting to believe maybe it could be possible. Traveling the world doing what I love, away from my old man’s fists? A girl can dream.
He sneers. “I thought you were supposed to be this big-shot prodigy.”
I ignore his taunting as I start to my room .
“Stop,” he barks. “We’re going to the social club.” He staggers over to me.
“I’m not going, but have fun.” One addiction wasn’t enough for my old man; he had to add gambling to the mix.
To be a drunkard, he moves surprisingly fast, punching me in the stomach. I double over, groaning. He curls his lips, his eyes having that vacant, soulless look I know all too well. “Want to change your answer, prodigy?”
“Okay, let’s go.” I grit, clutching my stomach.
“How much money you got?” he demands.
I reach in my backpack, pulling out a five-dollar bill and some change; my lunch money for the entire month. Handing it to him, he looks at it in disbelief before flinging it at me. A quarter bounces off my cheek as he rages, “You’re useless; just like that slut of a mother of yours!” I flinch, expecting another blow, but his mercurial mood shifts. Now, his eyes are lighting up like a Christmas tree; not that we’ve ever had a Christmas tree. “Go make yourself less ugly.” He eyes my oversized hoodie with disgust. “Change into a dress and put some lipstick on.”
Wanting to get away from him in case his mood returns to violent, I hurry out of the room. “Dear God, please let him pass out,” I quietly beg a deity that’s never given a single fuck about me. Opening my closet, I grab my only dress and change into it.
I don’t have any lipstick; it’s not like I have bundles of cash laying around considering my old man rarely works. Improvising, I apply some lip balm and pinch my cheeks to make them rosy. My angular face—made more so by my perpetual state of hunger—looks back at me in the mirror as I take my strawberry blonde hair out of its ponytail and give it a quick brush. I’m the spitting image of my “slut” of a mother; maybe that’s why he hates me so much.
I flip off the light and tiptoe out of my room. Please let him be passed out .
Rounding the corner, I nearly run into my old man. He looks me over, sneering. “Not much of an improvement, but let’s go.” Grabbing me by the arm, he drags me out the door.
I take the keys from him, getting behind the wheel of his clunker of a car. I don’t have a driver’s license, but try telling him that.
Dad barks at me to go faster, but I ignore him. Juvie’s the only other worse possible scenario than the one I currently live, and not wanting to wind up there, I obey the speed limit.
We reach the social club, and I pull into a parking space. “Come on,” my dad says.
My eyes wide, I stammer, “But I’m not allowed in there.”
He exits the car, marching around and opening my door, jerking me out. “Be glad there are cameras in this parking lot; otherwise, I’d beat the shit out of you for the backtalk,” he threatens. “I said come on.” He releases his grip, and I trail along behind him.
We reach the entrance to the social club and stop at the front desk. My dad flashes his membership card to the attendant, and we continue past a large room of old folks playing bingo. We continue down a hallway, coming to a stop at a door guarded by a muscled-up man. “The girl can’t come back here.”
As I tried to tell him.
“She’s a gift for Vincenzo,” my old man says, and my eyes go wide in panic. Please, God, don’t tell me he means what I think he means.
The man says something in Italian in his headset before opening the door for us. I plead with my eyes for mercy, but the bouncer ignores me as he continues speaking on his headset.
We enter a large, smoke-filled gambling hall, with questionable-looking men playing poker at multiple tables; a much different picture than the innocent bingo game happening up front .
Feeling eyes on me, I wrap my arms around myself as I keep up with my dad. We reach a stairway with another large Italian man intercepting us. “Wait here,” he orders, and I shift uncomfortably.
It feels like a lifetime before another man appears, causing all the little hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. His lips are turned up in a pleasant smile, but his hazel eyes are cold as ice. Not the vacant drunk look my father gets every night; this look might be more dangerous. Definitely more cunning.
He eyes me before politely addressing my father. “Mr. Barone, you and your guest follow me.” I suck at guessing people’s ages, but if I had to, I’d say this man is in his thirties. He’s handsome, I’ll admit, in a designer suit I bet cost more than six months’ rent for our apartment. I decide then and there I hate him.
We follow the man down the hallway to a locked door. Like some sort of magician, he places his hand to the sensor, and the door opens. I follow them inside an office, and the man motions for us to take a seat on a small couch. I sit next to my father, hugging my arms around myself even tighter as the man takes a seat behind his desk.
“Vincenzo, this is about that little chunk of change I owe?—”
Vincenzo holds up his hand, silencing my dad. He reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a handwritten ledger. “Let’s see, Mr. Barone. That ‘little chunk of change,’ with 7 points compounded weekly, has you owing the family $197,294.23,” he announces, and I let out a little strangled sound.
“And I have a solution,” my father says eagerly. “You can have my daughter, and we’ll call it even.”
“Will we, now?” The man says in an amused tone.
“We won’t!” I pipe up .
“Girl, shut your fucking mouth,” my old man hisses under his vodka-perfumed breath.
“Give me a moment alone with your daughter to see if I’m interested,” Vincenzo says.
I grab my father’s hand in panic. “Please, no!”
He jerks out of my hold and stands, leaving without so much as a backward glance.
“What’s your name?” Vincenzo levels those cold eyes at me, and I notice his left eye is off somehow; like it’s not focused on me, even though he’s looking right at me. “I asked you a question.”
“Luna.” My voice comes out small.
“How old are you?”
“Thirteen,” I blurt out, hoping that will somehow help my situation.
“Liar.” He clicks his tongue, standing and walking over to where I’m seated. Holding out his large hand, I look at it for a moment before hesitantly taking it. He pulls me to stand. “Take off your dress. Let me get a good look at you.”
“Please, no, Mr. Vincenzo.” I whimper, tears streaming down my cheeks.
“Call me Vince.” He touches my cheek, and I recoil. “Take it off, or I’ll rip it off you,” he says softly.
“There’s got to be another way,” I plead.
He tsks . “Sins of the father. Sadly, you’re learning that lesson the hard way. Take it off. Last chance before I rip the dress from your body.”
My hands shaking, I pull the dress over my head and clutch the flimsy material over my chest, trying to hide.
He grabs my wrists and jerks my arms down to where I’m exposed, but his eyes don’t take in the ratty bra covering my breasts, but my black and blue stomach. “He do this to you?” Vince asks so quietly I’m not sure if I heard him right.
I nod anyway. My dad only hits me in places he thinks no one else will see .
Before I can jerk my arm free, Vince discovers my secret—row after row of old scars, and a few fresh cut marks on the inside of my wrist. “He do this too?”
I don’t answer, and he squeezes my wrist tighter. “Stop!” I cry.
“I asked you a question, piccola . He give you these, or did you do it yourself?”
“I did it myself,” I answer honestly for some reason.
He squeezes harder.
“Oww!”
“Cut yourself again, and I’ll teach you what real pain feels like,” he threatens, squeezing my wrist so hard I’m afraid he’s going to snap bone. “Understand me?’
“Yes.” I whimper.
“Get dressed.” He releases his hold, and I fumble to pull my dress over my head. He makes a call on his cellphone in Italian before his eyes land back on me. “Let’s go.”
“Please,” I beg, tears stinging my eyes.