Chapter 4 Kayla
Kayla
I study my reflection in the dirty bathroom mirror of Midnights. My cheeks are flushed, lips swollen from biting them, and my eyes look different somehow—wider, brighter. My body still hums with aftershocks of what just happened in that private room.
An orgasm. That's what the man—Mr. Torrino—called it.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to cool the heat that hasn't fully subsided. My thighs still feel shaky, like I've run a mile.
I've never felt anything like it before. That rush of pleasure so intense it was almost painful. The way my body seemed to know what to do even though my mind had no clue. The way I'd ground myself against him, chasing something I didn't understand until it crashed over me in waves.
And he just... let me. Didn't try to touch me. Didn't demand anything in return. Just talked me through it with that deep voice that made my insides melt.
He was so nice.
It must have been an act, because men aren't really nice. That's one of the first lessons Jason taught me after Mom died. The lesson usually came with his fists or his belt.
"Men only want one thing," Jason would say after catching me looking too long at a boy at school. "And once they get it, they're done with you. You'll be trash. Used goods.”
The bruises from those lessons have long faded, but the fear remains, burrowed deep under my skin. Jason's methods were cruel, but maybe he was trying to protect me in his own twisted way. The world is full of men who see girls like me as disposable—men like Alonso and the rest of the cartel.
Yet for thirty minutes tonight, I felt…good.
The door bangs open and Scarlett strolls in, her crimson lips curved in a knowing smirk.
"Well, well." She leans against the bathroom counter. "Somebody made quite the impression on Mr. Torrino. Alonso says he paid thirty-five grand for your wiggling amateur ass."
I stare at the sink, refusing to meet her eyes.
"Don't get cocky," Scarlett taps a long nail against the counter. “Soon you'll be gone, and he'll move on to the next shiny toy."
My head snaps up. "What do you mean, gone?"
Her smile widens. “The auction’s coming up. You and the other merchandise will be sold to the highest bidder. "
The room tilts and spins around me. I grip the edge of the sink to stay upright.
Scarlett pushes off the counter and heads out the door. I'm alone again with my reflection, which now looks pale and terrified.
I know what the auction means. Carmel, one of the girls I live with, explained it once, "They sell them the virgins to the highest bidder. Rich men who want something nobody else has touched."
The memory makes me gag. I barely make it to the toilet before I'm retching, emptying my stomach of the single protein bar I'd managed to eat today.
When I finish, I wipe my mouth with trembling hands. There's no way out of this. No escape. The doors at our apartment always have someone watching. My ID is locked away, my phone confiscated.
Even if I could run, where would I go? I have no money. No family. No friends—Jason made sure of that.
An hour later, I'm escorted to the apartment by one of Alonso's goons. It's a prison disguised as housing—a tiny one-bedroom I share with three other girls who are rarely there at the same time because of our staggered shifts.
The man shoves me toward the building entrance. "Be ready at seven tomorrow evening. Don't make us come looking for you."
Inside, the apartment is mercifully empty. The other girls are still at the club or wherever else the cartel sends them. I peel off the hated uniform and pull on an oversized t-shirt—one of the few items I managed to grab from my old place.
I curl up on the thin mattress that serves as my bed in the corner of the living room. Through the window beside me, I can see a slice of night sky and a peppering of stars.
As a kid, I believed in wishing on stars. Mom and I would sit on our tiny balcony and make wishes together.
"What did you wish for, Mommy?" I'd ask.
"That you'll have a better life than mine," she'd always say, kissing the top of my head.
She died before I turned fourteen—cancer that moved too fast for treatment we couldn't afford anyway.
Then it was just Jason and me. Sometimes he was okay—making me dinner, helping with homework.
But more often he was angry, controlling, violent.
I never understood why he hated me so much until I overheard him on the phone once.
“Stuck with my bastard half-sister after my mom died, what a fucking joke. "
So much for Mom's wish for my better life.
I stare at that solitary star and make a wish anyway. Not for rescue—I'm not that naive. Just for strength to survive whatever comes next.
I close my eyes, too exhausted for tears, and think of Mr. Torrino and his dark eyes that seemed to see through me, that voice calling me doll and good girl.
Gah! I pull the pillow over my head. I should absolutely not fantasize about him. He’s probably done exactly the same thing to every girl at the club. He’ll move on to Cinnamon or Destiny next time.
Fury
I watch from the shadows as they escort her to a four-story walkup apartment building—a run-down piece of shit.
The cartel thug gives her a shove toward the door, says something I can't hear, then returns to the waiting black sedan. Instead of leaving, the car simply parks across the street. Two men sitting inside, watching the building.
Fucking prison guards.
I circle the block, mentally mapping the building's layout, figuring out which apartment is hers. It's not difficult—third floor, northeast corner. The only unit with a light that flickers on fifteen seconds after she enters the building.
I watch for another twenty minutes from my vantage point in the alley. Through the sheer curtains, I catch glimpses of her moving around. She changes clothes. Sits on something low—a mattress maybe.
I don't like what I'm seeing. These aren't standard precautions for a simple employee. This is how you guard valuable merchandise.
Something's very wrong with this picture. I need answers.
I floor the Maserati to the King’s clubhouse. I take the back entrance to my room, managing to avoid any distractions from the brothers along the way, just as I planned.
I exchange the suit for something more practical—black tactical pants, black long-sleeved shirt, boots, and grab a simple B&E kit. A small bag with lock picks, tactical gloves, and a balaclava.
Two hours later, when the streets are quieter and the night deeper, I return. The car with the guards is still there. The lights in her apartment are out now.
I move silently as a shadow, using the fire escape on the building's blind side. I shimmy along a ledge until I reach her apartment. The window is small but large enough for someone my size to squeeze through with minimal effort. The lock is child's play.
Inside, I ease through the darkened apartment, noting the sparse furnishings, the multiple mattresses on the floor. While she clearly shares this shitbox with others, she’s currently the only one home.
I find her asleep in the living room, curled up on a thin mattress beneath the window. She looks even younger in sleep, her face soft. Pink-tipped hair splayed across the pillow. She looks small and fucking vulnerable. She’s got some sass in her, though. I saw a glimpse of it tonight.
I crouch beside her. I know this will scare her, but it’s necessary.
Her eyes fly open the moment I touch her shoulder. Before she can scream, my hand clamps gently but firmly over her mouth. She thrashes, panic in her eyes, until I pull up my balaclava with my free hand, revealing my face.
"Shh," I whisper. "It's me. I'm not going to hurt you."
Recognition flashes in those blue eyes, followed immediately by confusion. I slowly remove my hand from her mouth.
"What are you doing here?" She whispers, scrambling to sit up, pulling her oversized t-shirt down over her thighs. "How did you find me? How did you get in?"
"I followed you home," I admit. "And I came in through the bathroom window."
"But why?" Her voice trembles. "What do you want from me?"
"Answers," I say simply. "The cartel has you locked up like Fort Knox. You're obviously valuable to them, and I want to know why."
She wraps her arms around her knees, making herself smaller. "Why do you care?"
Good question. One I'm not ready to answer fully.
"Let's just say I've got a personal interest in Los Cuervos." I can tell she’s going to need more before she trusts me enough to give me the answers I want. I shouldn’t— I know I shouldn’t, but I do it anyway.
I give her the truth.
"My stepsister, Adriana—she's in a coma because of their drug, Raven. Doctors don't know if she'll ever wake up. And if she does, they're not sure what kind of brain function she'll have."
Her face softens with genuine sympathy. "I'm sorry."
"They're monsters," I say, the edge in my voice unmistakable. "And you're trapped in their web. I want to know how and why."
She hesitates, chewing her bottom lip. "My brother," she finally says. "Jason. He owed them money. A lot of money. He was...addicted. To Raven. He died of an overdose a week ago.”
There it is. The missing puzzle piece.
“How old are you?” I ask gently.
“I just turned nineteen.”
"And now they're making you pay Jason’s debt by working at the club." It's not a question, but she nods anyway.
"How long before the debt's cleared?" I press, already suspecting the answer.
She looks confused. "The debt isn't cleared by me working there."
"Then what's the point?”
"To keep me where they can watch over me." Her voice drops to a whisper. "Until they can sell me."
"Sell you." My muscles tense, my fists clench so tight my knuckles crack. "What exactly does that mean?"
Her eyes drop to her lap. "I'm a virgin," she says so quietly I almost don't hear it. "Alonso says that makes me valuable. Soon there will be an auction. Men will bid on me. Whoever pays the most... gets me."
White-hot rage floods my system, a fury so intense I have to physically restrain myself from putting my fist through the nearest wall. These motherfucking monsters are auctioning off a nineteen-year-old girl like she's livestock.
A single tear slides down her cheek.
I stand abruptly, mind racing through possibilities. There's no way in hell I'm letting her be sold. No way I’ll even let her return to the club another night.
"Pack your things," I order. "We're leaving. Now."
Her eyes widen. "What? I can't leave! They'll find me. They'll kill me. They'll—"
"They'll have to get through me first." I pull out my phone. "And believe me, sweetheart, that's not as easy as it sounds."
She stares at me like I'm insane. "You don't understand. They're everywhere. You can't fight the cartel."
A bitter laugh escapes me as I text Chaos a brief update and our location. "Actually, fighting cartels is exactly what I do."
"But why would you risk yourself for me? You don't even know me."
The question stops me short. She’s right. I barely know this girl. She's a complication my undercover gig doesn't need. My mission was intelligence-gathering, not rescue operations.
Yet from the moment I first saw her, something in me was drawn to her in a way I’ve never felt before.
"Let's just say I'm not the kind of man who can walk away from a woman about to be trafficked,” I finally answer. "Now pack your shit. Backup's coming, and we're getting you out of here."