Chapter Nine
Bianca
I slap the side of my car, heave a sigh, and wish I had my keys with me. The drive from Tank’s place back to civilization feels surreal, like I’m stepping from one world into another, and what I want to do more than anything right now is sit down in my car, enjoy a moment of silence, and then turn on the radio and listen to something — anything — that might make me feel like my life is normal right now, and not like I’ve just experienced a kidnapping, committed arson, and nearly killed a strangely attractive, and infuriating, giant of a baker with a flare gun.
Vanessa is waiting outside her place, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, her face still puffy from crying. She looks small, like she’s trying to fold in on herself. Like she already thinks she’s lost. It’s a look I’ve seen too many times before, on too many women, and on someone like her, it’s dead wrong, too. If only she knew that this isn’t the end, this is the start of something that could take her higher than she ever imagined.
I wave to her. “What, you gonna stand there and look tragic, or are you coming with me?”
Her lip trembles, but she manages a weak smile. She takes out my car keys, tosses them to me, and I open up the car. She then climbs in, setting her bag on the floor.
As I pull away, I keep my tone light. “You know I’ve helped plenty of people get out of worse situations than this, right?”
“Worse than this? Than all that?”
I nod without hesitation. The mess my brother has left in his wake as he fought his way to the top of the underworld was, and is, something that makes my stomach turn every time I think about it. My grip on the steering wheel tightens until the fake leather squeaks in my hands. “Yes. Way worse.”
She scoffs. “Yeah? How many of them actually made it?”
I glance at her. “More than you think.” Silence stretches between us before I add, “And I’ll tell you something else — you’re stronger than most of them. And you’re smart, too. Reaching out for help now, before things get any worse, that’s smart, and that takes bravery.”
“Oh, I’m smart, huh?” Vanessa lets out a hollow laugh, staring out the window. “Smart enough to get in bed with a guy who got violent over nothing?”
I don’t sugarcoat it. “Smart enough to get out.”
She presses her lips together, nodding once.
I exhale. I have to believe that’s enough.
We drive in silence for a few minutes, the road stretching out ahead of us like a promise. It's better this way, I figure. Let her process. Let her breathe. The first hour after you leave is always the worst—when doubt creeps in, when the fear that you've made a terrible mistake threatens to drag you back into the familiar hell you just escaped.
I catch her wiping away a tear with the back of her hand, trying to be subtle about it.
"You know," I say finally, keeping my eyes fixed on the road, "the first night is always rough. But the second night? That's when you start to feel it."
"Feel what?" Her voice is small, guarded.
"The relief." I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. "It hits you all at once, usually when you're doing something totally mundane. Brushing your teeth, maybe, or making coffee. You realize you can actually breathe without having to be afraid and that first breath is some of the sweetest air that you’ll ever take in.”
Vanessa stares at me for a long moment, her dark eyes searching my face. "You sound like you know from experience."
I keep my eyes on the road. "Maybe I do."
When we pull up to Safe House, Alex DeGroot is already waiting outside. She looks… bad. Stressed, exhausted, shoulders tight with tension. The moment I step out, she marches toward me, her expression grim.
“We have a problem,” she says.
I already know what’s coming before she even says it. I’ve known Alex long enough to see how she handles herself in stress — in dealing with relapses, with women wanting to march headlong back into bad decisions, with violent exes fighting to reclaim what they think is theirs — and know there’s only one thing that can make her look this worried.
“One of the grants?” I say. “Which one?”
She nods, rubbing her temples. “Cut to almost nothing. The Tilden Women’s Initiative — apparently, they’re facing a donor shortfall and a budget crisis of their own.”
My stomach lurches. That grant was supposed to keep the shelter running for at least six months.
I force a steady breath. “Do we have enough to cover next month?”
Alex hesitates. “I… don’t know.”
Her voice wavers, and I see the worry in her eyes. Not for herself, but for every woman in this shelter.
I nod, my voice firm even though my insides are unraveling. “I’ll figure something out.”
Alex searches my face, then sighs and nods. “I hope so.”
I don’t let myself react. Instead, I force a look of confidence on my face and turn to Vanessa, placing a hand on her arm. “Alex is going to get you settled. She’ll make sure you have everything you need.”
Vanessa looks at me like she doesn’t believe it.
I squeeze her arm. “You’re safe now.”
For the first time since I picked her up, I see a flicker of hope in her eyes.
By the time I make it to my office, I feel like I’m carrying a hundred pounds of failure on my back. I drag myself inside, collapsing into the chair behind my desk, and drop my head into my hands. The fatigue of the last few years and the despair of this very day seem to press down on me, squeezing the confidence and resolve out of every pore. Everything—every shred of hope I’ve tried to build—is unraveling, and I can't seem to hold any of it together. I can’t lose Safe House. I can’t. It’s not just a building; it’s a fragile, precious lifeline. If it closes, where will they go? The women who walk in with nothing but the clothes on their backs, their skin marked with bruises and old scars? The ones who come here hiding from men who want to hurt them, who want to break them? The women I promised not to fail? I can almost see them, each face blurring into another, each story more haunting and desperate than the last.
I think of Vanessa. Of every woman like her. Every woman who should have something better, a chance at a future, and who just needs a little—or a lot—of help to realize it. The sense of futility digs in, like a knife twisting further with each thought. All of them slipping away, back into the hell they barely escaped. And I think of my brother.
Victor. He chews women up and spits them out, leaving nothing but used and hollow shells. He takes and takes, never caring about the wake of pain he leaves behind. If Safe House collapses, some of them—too many of them—will end up in his hands. I know his tactics all too well. His promises that turn into prison bars. His deceit that feels like home at first, but soon chokes the air out of your lungs. My fingers curl into fists, and feel it all like a gut punch, like something inside me tears open with the force of it all.
The first sob rips free before I can stop it. I press my fists against my eyes, shaking, trying to hold myself together through sheer will. But I can’t. I can’t. The weight, the fear, the guilt—it’s too much. Once the tears start, they don’t stop, and I am soon broken and heaving. I don’t know how long I cry. I just know that when the phone rings, I grab it without thinking, desperate for a distraction.
And then I hear the voice I never want to hear.
“Little sister,” my brother drawls, his voice oily and smug.
I go rigid, my breath catching in my throat.
I don’t speak.
“I hear you’ve got a little problem,” he continues. “Funding issues, huh? Money’s tight these days.”
I close my eyes, swallowing back the sickness curling in my gut. He knows. Of course, he knows.
“What do you want, Victor?” I manage, keeping my voice level.
“I’m just being a good big brother,” he says, mock-offended. “Checking in. And, you know… making an offer.” I grip the edge of my desk. “I know how much Safe House means to you. And I’d hate to see it… disappear. So here’s what I’m thinking — you let me help. A little cash infusion for a little… flexibility on your part.”
I want to vomit.
“What kind of flexibility?” I ask, even though I already know. This dance isn’t new, and it’s one that I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve danced before, when times were desperate, when my resolve was weak.
Victor chuckles, low and vile. “Oh, just helping me out with a little cleaning. And maybe helping me out with some of my property issues. You know how it gets from time to time. Sometimes you lose track of things, sometimes you need help moving things, and it helps to have some unconventional resources available to you.”
My blood runs ice cold. Property. He means the women. The strippers. The ones trying to escape him.
My throat tightens.
If I say yes, my problems disappear. Safe House gets its money, the women here stay safe—for now.
But I’d also be letting Victor’s disease spread deeper. I’d be giving him a foot in the door.
And if that happens, this place will rot from the inside out.
My skin crawls.
I take a breath. My voice is calm, but sharp as a blade when I answer.
“That’s a generous offer,” I say smoothly. Too smoothly. “But we’re doing fine, Victor.”
He lets out a low, amused hum. “Are you now?”
“Yes.” Silence stretches. I know he doesn’t believe me. But I don’t let him hear my fear. After a beat, I say, “I appreciate the concern. But we won’t be needing your help.”
"You will. You and I both know you won’t hold out on me much longer.”
“Watch me,” I say.
Then I hang up.
The second I put the phone down, I clamp my hand over my mouth and fight back the wave of nausea; I can still hear his voice in my head; still feel the slimy, insidious nature of his presence; still imagine each and every vile, vicious consequence that’ll come with taking his help.
I did the right thing. I know I did.
But it won’t be the last I hear from him.
And, unless things change soon, there’s only so much longer I can fend him off.