12. Bindi
TWELVE
BINDI
The first few years after I had left home weren’t just hell.
They were hollow.
I only had the little amount of money Cass shoved into my bag and the clothes on my body.
I slept in gas station stalls with my feet braced against the door so no one would find me.
Older men always tried to “help,” and when I finally grew tired of pretending I was waiting on some boyfriend to pick me up, I would let them, following them back home pretending I was older, sweeter, and probably dumber than I was.
It was the easiest thing I could do to survive through the night.
Even if it meant I had to use my body as a means of currency.
I only ever allowed blowjobs or tit fucks.
I would never let a man have sex with me.
Still, they’d take me home, or to a friend’s house.
Sometimes at parties I would find girls curled up like cats on mattresses, glass pipes still hot in their hands, smelling of piss and dried up cum.
Girls that could have very well been me had I allowed the men to get me hooked.
Drugs aren’t for me, though. I knew that getting high meant I would slow down, and slowing down meant that someone could catch me. And with how discreetly I could lift a wallet off an asshole, I needed to be quick.
Eventually, between hitchhiking, pick-pocketing, and working under the table as a server, I made it to Miami with fifty bucks. I had no idea what the hell I was doing here, but I needed cash. So, after sneaking my way into Santoro’s one night, I ran into Anthony Santoro.
He was charming and seemingly sober when I met him. He asked me on a real date, and I accepted. He took me to dinners and shopping and I felt like a princess. But if I wanted to stay in Miami, I needed money myself.
As a nineteen-year-old virgin, I knew what the easiest way to make rent would be. Anthony suggested it, and I let him buy the first time I bled.
It paid six months of rent.
The only problem was that after that moment, he felt like he had some sort of hold on me.
When I’d finally had enough of his controlling behavior, I tried to leave.
But the bastard dragged me back into his hellscape, forcing his cousin, Dimitri, to give me a job so Anthony could keep a better eye on me.
One night, I stole money from the register and tried to pack my shit and leave. Anthony found me and took me to Dimitri like I was some prize—exposed me not only as a thief, but as a slut. Offered to allow Dimitri to rape me for my crime of simply trying to get away from him.
But Dimitri didn’t even bother. And who I thought was a cruel man turned out to be my saving grace when he said, “Let her work it off,” rather than taking Anthony up on his offer.
I think that’s when I realized, Dimitri saw the obsession—the leash Anthony tried to keep around my throat. And while he didn’t care about me , not really, he didn’t like Anthony’s mess bleeding into his business.
So he leashed him back. Telling him that had no right to try and pawn me off on others for sexual favors.
And that’s why I stayed.
Dimitri Santoro is Miami royalty. Born in Colombia to a family that perfected the art of cocaine—the purest, most expensive powder the world has ever snorted. His family moved here when he was just a child and when his father passed away a few years ago, he took over the family business.
Yes, that means my boss is a cartel drug lord. And he’s not super subtle about it either, but he pays me well and protects me.
So, I repay him for being good at what I do. I look good in a dress, I move drinks fast, and I keep my mouth shut. I’ve picked up a little Spanish over the years—enough to flirt, enough to listen, enough to translate threats no one thinks I understand.
Dimitri calls me la gatita.
The little cat.
Anthony just calls me his —even though he’s never had a claim.
Once I enter the VIP room where I’m working tonight, I set the tray of bottles down onto the low table—three Patron silvers, some mixers, and a large velvet pouch.
Inside? A few grams of blow—gift-wrapped in dime bags, I can only assume. Dimitri always adds a little party favor when his favorite clients come in.
The room’s empty for now, just the low hum of music leaking through the walls, the soft crackle of a security camera that moves periodically—though I’m 90 percent sure it isn’t recording.
I set out the bottles, limes, and napkins before rimming salt in a glass dish. I line up the baggies of coke neatly along the tray like they’re mints on a pillow.
“Didn’t peg you for a party, girl,” a voice says behind me.
Anthony.
Of course.
He closes the door behind him, but I don’t turn around.
“Not partying, working. Dimitri texted me to have the room ready for the Rivera’s,” I mutter, busying myself trying to fix the drinks so they look just right.
“They’re not due for another hour.”
“Then maybe you can use that time to jerk off somewhere else.”
He laughs. “Come on, Bindi. Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?” I glance back over my shoulder. “Like a woman who doesn’t wanna be cornered in a room with a man she regrets fucking?”
His smile tightens, just a flicker, but it’s enough.
“You’re cute when you’re mad.”
“You’re pathetic when you’re breathing.”
I turn back to the tray, stacking napkins, pretending my hands aren’t shaking.
He steps closer—I feel it before I hear him. The air shifts, replaced by the heat of him at my back. Then his hands creep up my thighs and land on my hips.
I turn quickly, seeing red. “Don’t touch me,” I snap, my palm cracking across his face, causing him to jerk back. And for one breathless second, I think it may be the end of it and he will scurry away like a sad puppy.
But when he looks back at me—blood trickling from a split just under his cheekbone—he’s smiling.
Smiling.
“Feisty tonight,” he says, licking the blood off his lip.
I try to move past him, stepping wide to avoid contact, but his hand shoots out, grabbing both my arms and slamming me backwards.
My spine hits the edge of the table with a crack before I tumble off balance and land on the floor.
Coke baggies skitter across the floor, some busting open and spilling.
Fuck.
“I liked you better when you were fucking useful ,” he growls, stepping over me.
“Get the fuck off me!” I cry, trying to scramble to my feet, but it’s no use. He closes the space, pressing in close, his knee wedging between mine. One hand clamps around my wrists as the other one slides up my thigh.
“You’re not the sweet girl I remember,” he hisses, breath hot and sour against my jaw. “You used to beg for it. Now look at you . . . acting like you’re better than me. Like you didn’t choke on this dick in the VIP bathroom again and again like a good little slut.”
I spit in his face. He flinches. Then— CRACK. His backhand catches the side of my face. I see white and copper floods my mouth.
“You bitch,” he snarls.
My legs kick up, catching empty air. My heels scramble for traction on the linoleum, slipping against the mess of plastic bags and powder underfoot.
“You think Dimitri’s gonna care if I fuck you right here on his table?” he asks, breath ragged. “Think he hasn’t done worse in this very room?”
I thrash, scream, claw at his face. My nails rake over his skin and he hisses, digging his thigh between mine, shoving them apart with brute force. “Stop, Anthony! Stop!”
“You don’t want this?” He chuckles. “Then why are you wet, huh? I can feel it through your fucking panties.”
“ Fuck you! ” I scream, every nerve in my body on fire, but the weight of him keeps me pinned.
The door to the VIP room slams open. Both of us are stunned, looking to see who’s in the doorway.
Eyes like my favorite storm, and a voice that sounds like home.
“Let. Her. Go.”