Chapter 3
Ayla
I shove my hands into the front pockets of the robe Pirro allowed me to wear.
The women they’ve brought in aren’t exactly calm, but they’d be less calm if they saw a line of women standing there naked.
There’s a good chance they’ve already been hurt, have already had to survive untold horrors before getting to this point in their journey, but women that are a hundred percent combative are extremely hard to handle.
The men are well aware that they’re out numbered five to one, but they also know we’d never conspire to overthrow them.
We have too much to lose, too many others to worry about than just ourselves.
If it were only about us, those of us standing to the side as they urge the crying women to form a straight line, we’d be in shallow graves out back like many of the ones that had nothing to lose.
I try not to make eye contact with any of them. The men may see it as a way to communicate with them, to assure them they’ll be okay. I don’t look at them because I know how it will be. I’d never offer hope when there was none to be found.
The best I can do is show these women that being calm allows me to stand here unharmed.
They have no way of knowing just how bruised my back is.
They can’t see the damage one of the customers caused days ago with a whip.
They’ll learn soon enough that there’s no lack of depravity in a place like this, but complying also comes with certain privileges.
Complying has earned me my own room, despite the fact that it doesn’t have a door.
It means I’m no longer forced to my knees in a filthy cage in the basement.
Doing the things asked of me keeps my sister safe, despite knowing she’s growing increasingly annoyed with my absence.
One of the guys grabs the breast of the only woman not sobbing and begging to be released.
She glares at him, as if she’d claw his skin from his bones if her hands weren’t tied behind her back.
When she tries to jerk away, he only grips her tighter.
She’s a fast learner, gritting her teeth and standing still until the man releases her.
I’m not foolish enough to think she’s broken.
If anything, she’ll wait until she thinks she can win before fighting back with everything she has.
That will be the day she dies. It may be out of anger, one of the men going too far because his pride won’t let him stop until she’s dead.
It may be at the hands of one of the customers who has always dreamed of raping and then killing someone.
But the end for her will be the same, unless they find something to blackmail her with, and even then, the stronger women refuse to comply.
I drop my eyes, knowing it isn’t fair to think that way.
Every one of these women has their own stories, their own reasons for reacting the way they do.
Some of them will fight until the death because they can’t help themselves.
It’s no more my place to judge them for how they handle this unimaginable situation, any more than it is for them to judge me.
Sobs aren’t uncommon around here. Sometimes we cry because we can’t help it. Sometimes we cry because it’s asked of us. Sometimes we cry because we’d rather be anywhere but here, including one of the shallow graves out back.
Two men hold one of the women as Pirro approaches her, and my hands sweat in my robe pockets.
My first instinct is to jump on his back and claw at him until he’s a bloody mess.
I swallow down a scream when he punches her in the gut after she spits in his face.
Guilt swims inside of me when he touches her and I stand there and do nothing.
We don’t talk to each other. There’s not much I know about the women standing on either side of me, but we all have our reasons for not helping the woman Pirro is hurting.
It isn’t about bravery. I know it’s Alani keeping me from helping this woman.
Maybe I should feel ashamed that I’m putting my sister before any other person here.
The threat on her means they could pull a knife and give me an ultimatum, watch this one die or protect my sister, and I’d choose Alani every single time.
I’m the only person she has left, and I’d let the world burn down around me before I’d pick differently.
“Please stop,” one of the new women begs as Pirro pulls his fist back once again, his intention to hit her in the face this time evident.
The man may seem like he acts without reason, but his eyes dart in her direction.
It will probably be the last time the woman tries to stand up for someone else.
They’ll get compliance any way they can, and she’ll be no different.
By the time I see her again, she’ll be standing there just as silently as we are on this side of the room.
Pirro leans in close to her, forcing her to take a step back until she’s pressed against the wall.
I can’t hear what he says as he lowers his mouth to her ear, but it’s enough to make any courage she’s been capable of mustering seep from her.
Her face turns ashen, her bottom lip trembling with fear.
He has no shortage of threats, and the scary thing about Pirro when his boss isn’t around is that he’s more than capable and incredibly willing to follow through with each and every one of them.
Raul Cortez is different. The man is completely capable of every evil thing Pirro does, but he’s less likely to act out of anger, and even less inclined to hurt someone just for the hell of it.
We’re a commodity for Cortez, just something to be bought and sold, something to be traded on occasion.
He’s never intentionally cruel despite the nature of his business.
It also means he’s just as quick, if not quicker, to dispose of someone he considers not worth the effort.
I’m on my best behavior when called up by Raul, but it’s times like now when the boss is away that Pirro, his second-in-command, thrives on hurting people.
Cold chills race down my skin when Pirro turns from the woman to face me. I hate the look in his eyes. It could mean any number of things.
I keep my eyes on him as he approaches, the other men shuffling the women along to be processed. I know what happens next, and it also makes me lift my hand to the back of my neck. The number tattooed there seems to itch, despite having been healed for a long time now.
“I need your help in one of the other rooms,” Pirro says.
I nod, knowing not to argue with him. My help could be anything.
It could be with a client, or one of the new women.
It could be because he wants to watch me service one of the other guys or that he’s needing to be serviced himself.
I pray for anything but the latter because Pirro is a sadist through and through.
I hate having his attention, but I refuse to the let the guilt bubble up too much with thinking that he’ll be too busy with the new girls to bother with me.
I’ve learned not to act surprised when I step into a room, but there isn’t a corpse and blood to clean up this time.
A man stands in the middle of the room, his arms suspended over his head, held in place by chains.
He’s been stripped to the skin except for the blindfold over his eyes, his body showcasing Pirro’s handiwork.
Cuts ooze all over. His chest, thighs, and abdomen seep with blood, the redness around the wounds making it clear they’ve already begun to fester a little.
“I need you to keep him alive,” Pirro says. “Your shit is over there.”
My eyes follow the point of his fingers across the room to the familiar tackle box. It houses a crude first aid kit I’ve used many times since they researched me and discovered I worked as an ER nurse at one of the hospitals in Plano.
It’s not very often that Pirro even bothers to bring men back here.
The man in this room is only the second that I know of since I’ve been here.
The first man didn’t last a week. I watched three men kick him into one of the holes they dug that’s visible from my bedroom window.
I doubt this man will have a different fate, but it will not be because I didn’t offer him the best medical care I’m capable of providing with such limited supplies.
He wakes when I press the first piece of medicated gauze to his skin, the sting bringing him back from whatever reprieve his body was allowing that caused him to pass out.
He jerks against his restraints, and I take a step back, wishing he wasn’t blindfolded so he would understand I’m not one of the people who means him harm.
Unless it’s a command issued by Pirro. I want to tell him that I’m as much a captive as he is, but explanations aren’t allowed.
We’d both be punished if I attempted it.
“Let me clean your cuts,” I say instead, knowing it’s skating a fine line, but taking the risk anyway.
He doesn’t try to pull away when I approach him again, and I feel more than just his eyes on me.
I don’t have to turn around to know that Pirro has activated the video camera on the far side of the room.
They record and sell everything that happens around here.
I have no doubt part one of this man’s time here has already been uploaded to some scummy porn site and subscribers are itching for the next part.
Raul Cortez is a smart man, realizing that selling videos to thousands will bring much more money than allowing one client to witness whatever Pirro’s plans are for each of us.
The real money comes from the live feeds, and I have no doubt they plan to sell this man’s murder not only to the highest bidder of the person who wants to kill someone, but they’ll also make money by uploading the death online.
If it isn’t uploaded, it’s because they’re using the tape to blackmail whoever the murderer is.
I’ve heard the men whisper about the amounts people are willing to pay to do such depraved things. To be able to do it and not have it recorded comes at a high price. One too many people are willing to pay for the opportunity.
I can’t count how many times I’ve been threatened with a tape being sent to Alani or the police.
Even if I manage to escape and save my sister, my life would be ruined.
They have me on so many different tapes, doing so many illegal things.
I learned long before that they didn’t have to threaten me in the moment to get me to comply, so it’s not like there are voices in the background, telling me my sister will die if I argue.
I accepted that this will be what my life looks like until I’m no longer needed.
It makes me wonder if I didn’t have the medical skills that I possess, if they would’ve already killed me.
Some nights I let myself imagine that even when they no longer consider me helpful that they’ll let my sister live.
I pray she’s too much trouble to bother with once my time is done.
It’s the only thing keeping me going most days.
The man winces, his body jerking to the side in a way that tells me he just can’t help it when I press the gauze to his skin.
It takes me well over an hour to stitch closed his wounds, each second spent with me wondering just how much infection I’m closing inside.
I can tell he’s a fighter, that he’s trying to stay brave with the way he clenches his jaw each time my needle pierces his skin.
His bravery only means they’ll hurt him more before they kill him.
I want to tell him the quicker he gives into the pain, the faster it will all stop. The best he can hope for is death.
“Leave that one,” Pirro instructs when I reach for the shallow incision on the left side of his ribcage.
I move on, adding more antiseptic to a clean piece of gauze before pressing it to a spot on his back that looks similar to the way the area would look when skin has been excised for a graft. Sometimes Pirro likes to get creative when he hurts others.
“Leave that one alone, too,” the demon demands.
I pull my hands back, giving the man a final once-over. I step back when I find nothing else to treat.
“Clean his entire body,” Pirro says, kicking a bucket of soapy water. Water sloshes over the edge, making me realize just how cold it is when I step forward, the water that spilled chilling my bare feet.
“Nice and slow,” Pirro commands. “I want him to enjoy it.”
My throat threatens to seize as I reach into the bucket for the sponge. I know exactly what the man is asking, and I have a good idea of where this is going. It’s not going to be something either one of us enjoys.