Chapter 6
My breaths blow out in a rush while I’m running like crazy, looking over my shoulder as they chase me.
Faster. Go faster.
They’re coming closer.
“Better think of something quick,” Stan mocks as I round the corner, running up the metal steps of the warehouse, not sure where I’m going since I’ve never been up here before. I enter a pitch-black area, their footsteps not far behind.
“How are you ever going to be tough when you’re so scared?” the other man taunts. I have no idea what his name is. I’ve never met him before.
They want me to fight them both, as if I could. I’m short, small, and they’re huge. They say I have to be tough if I want to work for them, but I don’t want to work for anyone.
These last two years have been nothing but hell. I’m still in that shithole basement with no way out, because no one will help me.
They take me here every day, teaching me to fight. To shoot. To kill. I hate it all.
When they bring me back to the basement, all I do is silently cry, missing my family, the way things were, like my brothers picking on me for getting in their way. I miss that. I miss them. All of them.
I blink away the tears, knowing I’ll never see them again. If in two years they haven’t found me, it probably means they don’t want to.
Aida’s the only good person in my life. She’s pretty and nice. We talk all the time. I love her more than anything.
Their hard footsteps crash up the stairs as I gasp, my panting loud.
Crap! Stop thinking about her before they kill you.
I widen my eyes, looking this way and that, but there’s darkness everywhere. I run anyway. I can’t wait around for them to catch me. I turn a corner and—
“Boo!” Stan jumps out, a flashlight under his chin, a frightening smile on his face. “Lookie who I got, Drew.” He grabs my hoodie, yanking me back down the stairs, my feet practically tripping over each other while I try to keep up.
“Oh, it’s our little friend.” Drew pouts and his black mustache does too. He’s scarier than Stan. “We missed you. Gotta say, you’re some runner though. Now, we’re gonna see how well you punch.”
I shake my head as Stan throws me to the cold floor. “I don’t want to fight.”
“Too fucking bad.” Stan kicks my back.
“Ow! Stop!” I cover my face with my palms.
“Owww! Stooop!” Drew mocks in a baby voice. “I’m a wittle pussy.”
Stan kicks my back again, harder, right before Drew lifts me up, balling my hoodie in his fist. “Punch me! Show me what you got.”
“No!”
“You have one more chance to do it before I hit you.”
With my rough inhales, I form a fist at my side.
“Don’t want to disappoint Agnelo, do you? If Daddy isn’t happy, his princess is in lots of trouble.” Stan chuckles.
At the mention of Aida, my fist lands without a thought right into Drew’s cheek.
“Fuck!” He grits his teeth, and when he punches my chin, I crouch on the floor as he lets me fall onto it.
If protecting Aida wasn’t the only thing I cared about, I would’ve killed them all by now, or at least tried to. But over the years, Agnelo has threatened to hurt her if I don’t do what they want. So I have to. It’s the only way to protect her.
“Stupid kid has a good right hook.” Drew massages his cheek. “He’s got potential,” he tells Stan as though I’m not there.
“Agnelo wants you to start today.”
“And I will, right after I give him a good ass beating.”
Once his foot connects with my stomach, I don’t remember much after that.
AIDA - AGE 10
I pick up my books after completing another reading lesson with Ms. Greco, needing to take them to my room before Dad gets home. Just as I’m about to climb the stairs, the front door opens and in comes Stan, a man who’s been in the house a few times, carrying—
“Oh my God!” The books drop with a bang as I run. “What did you do to Matteo?” I shout as he brings him toward the basement.
“My goodness,” Ms. Greco whispers in a trembling way. “Is he still alive?”
“He’s fine.” Stan rolls his eyes. “Drew got a little too happy with his fists. Kid’s gotta toughen up.”
“You assholes beat him up?” I grit as we reach the basement. I’m boiling with fury tangled with rage.
“You better watch your tone with me,” he snaps. “Don’t want your daddy finding out what a little bitch you are.”
“Don’t speak to her that way!” Ms. Greco opens the door, while he brings Matteo down.
“I’ll speak to her however I want.” His tone’s ice cold as he throws Matteo onto the mattress, getting in her face. “What are you gonna do about it? Spread your legs?” He snickers.
I wander my gaze from him to her, and she’s glaring just as hard at him.
“Yeah,” he says on a laugh. “That’s what I thought.” He turns, locking Matteo up, the chain clinking as he takes out the key, then roughly brushes past her, going up the stairs.
“Are you okay?” I ask her once the door closes.
“Yeah.” She forces a smile, but in her eyes, there are tears. “His poor face.” She clears her throat, her attention on Matteo. “His cheeks are so raw. I have to clean him up.”
When I finally look at Matteo… “Oh God.” My chin quivers. “Do you think he’ll be okay?”
“We’re going to do everything we can to make sure he is.” She tucks me to her side with a squeeze. “Now, run upstairs and get me two towels from the closet and a big bowl from the kitchen with some lukewarm water in it.”
“Yeah, I’m on it.” I nod, then I’m gone in a flash.
Together, we cleaned the cuts on his face. He finally woke up about an hour after we finished. He knew where he was and who we were, which was a good thing according to Ms. Greco. He even drank water but refused to eat anything.
I wouldn’t be hungry either if someone just beat me up. If I could, I would hurt those men just as badly as they hurt him. How could they do that? What’s wrong with these people? It’s like my dad made them all crazy. Like him.
In the past two years, Matteo and I have gotten very close.
We’re literally inseparable, and it’s not because he has nowhere else to go.
We laugh. We read books to each other. We dream about the world outside of ours, wondering what it feels like to be in it, to be one of those people, the lucky ones.
I’d do anything for him, and I know he’d do anything for me.
I lie beside him, refusing to leave him alone, in case he needs something. We hold hands as we face one another, one of his eyes swollen almost shut.
“I’m so sorry, Matteo.” Tears bathe my lower lashes. When he doesn’t say anything, I continue, “If I knew how to get you out of here, you know I would. I’m sorry my dad and my uncles are doing this to you.” I lower my head, too ashamed to face him.
“It’s not your fault,” he finally whispers, squeezing my hand once. “None of it has ever been your fault.”
“They’re my family.” I snivel with a gasping breath.
“But you’re not them. You’re you, and you’ve always been a good friend.”
But I’m not, I want to argue. I haven’t called the police for starters. Not that I could. We have no phones in the house, and Ms. Greco is too afraid of Dad to ever do it herself. What if calling the cops causes more awful things to happen to him? To Ms. Greco? I don’t know what to do.
He inhales slowly. “Could you stay a little longer?” He closes his eyes. “It’ll help me sleep.”
“Anything you need.”
I glide my hand up and down his arm, the way Ms. Greco does when I have a rough time going to bed. When his chest falls peacefully with his breathing, I stare at him one last time before I shut my eyes, and hope the nightmares stay far away—from the both of us.