Chapter 4
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Julia
The fear of not knowing where I am fades beneath the crushing reality that my parents were in that house, in that house that went up in flames in front of my eyes, and I know they couldn't have escaped.
I need to get to the girls.
"Good, you're finally coming around," a female voice says as hands prop me into a sitting position.
The room spins, and as my vision clears, the woman before me comes into focus. She’s around thirty, with black hair with reddish streaks pulled into a bun and way too much makeup for her face. The red lipstick on her lips is slightly cracked as she speaks.
"Can you hear me, muchachita?" Her fingers dig into my cheeks.
I nod slightly, and she releases her grip. I can feel where her nails left marks, but I'm too dazed and weak to react.
"Lucky for you she's pretty," I hear her sigh.
I turn my head to take in my surroundings. A desk in one corner, a small boxy TV on the wall, some cheap artwork, and in the middle of the room stands a man. When my eyes find his face, his grin flashes that gold tooth, sending shivers through my body.
"I'd say she's worth more than what that son of a bitch owed us," he tells the woman while staring directly into my eyes.
I want to scream. I want to make him scream. I want to claw his eyes out with my bare hands, but I doubt I could even stand on my own. My legs feel numb and shaky beneath me, and my head still throbs from the blow it took.
Paciencia, Julia!
"Senor Rogelio will be here soon enough, and we'll see. Until then, get her some water and go clean up the mess you left behind," she commands with that tone that sounds more like "you're dismissed."
He rolls his eyes and heads toward a door leading to a bathroom. I hear water running, and seconds later a cup appears on the table in front of me.
"Don't get used to these niceties, munequita." Being called "little doll" makes my skin crawl like a thousand insects climbing over me, but I manage to suppress a shiver.
When he leaves the room, I take two sips, hoping they'll help my mouth feel less like I've swallowed sand.
After the cool water slides down my throat, I look up at the woman, who is now sitting at the desk, focused on some papers.
She's wearing a tight, strapless brown dress that stops at her knees. She doesn’t seem evil, but the thought of what they might want to do with me sends tremors through my chest.
I need to get out of here.
I scan the room but see no exit besides the main door, and I'm certain she won't let me leave.
Maybe I can appeal to her compassion?
"Por favor, I need you to let me go," I say, and though I want my voice to sound confident, the tremor at the end gives me away.
Her eyes lift, completely unimpressed.
"Look, sweetie, the best thing that can happen to you is if senor Rogelio takes an interest and keeps you. If he leaves you here, trust me, you'll wish you were in that house when it went up in flames," she says with such calm detachment that I have to swallow repeatedly to keep from vomiting.
I don't know who this Rogelio is, but I can guess what will happen when he gets his hands on me, and a panic attack starts to press on my chest.
How the hell do I escape?
Minutes later, I hear a male voice as the door opens. A man around sixty enters, sporting a short beard and the beginning of baldness. His stance reeks of arrogance, his suit so poorly tailored that the jacket hangs too large, while his shirt strains against his protruding belly.
"Don Rogelio, I'm so glad you made it," the woman says, her tone suddenly overeager.
Who the hell would be happy to see this greasy man?
"Carmela, carino."
He moves toward her, grabs her ass, and kisses her. I turn away as his tongue practically assaults this woman, my stomach churning even more violently.
Eventually, the wet sounds of their kiss stop, and I know he's looking at me. I don't dare raise my eyes, but Carmela's words echo in my head. Would it really be better if this man takes me rather than leaving me here?
"Well, well. What do we have here?" Within seconds, his shoes appear in front of me.
I look up just as Carmela explains how I was taken as payment for my father's debt. Don Rogelio's expression remains neutral, and I wonder what's going through his mind.
"I thought you might want her for yourself," Carmela concludes, sending ice through my veins.
The thought of being touched by this man is enough to make me wish for unconsciousness again.
"How old is she?" he finally asks.
"From what I understand, eighteen," Carmela answers.
I watch him weighing the options in that thick skull of his before he exhales sharply.
"Too green for my taste."
The breath I'd been holding escapes, momentary relief flooding through me.
"Ivan will like her. He prefers them younger, but I think he'll make do with this one."
My eyes widen because I don't know who this Ivan is, but dread crawls up my spine like spiders.
"You'll make a perfect gift for him," he says, something glinting behind his eyes.
"Carmela, make the necessary arrangements to get her to the Russian," he commands before turning and leaving the room.
Something like pity flashes across Carmela's face before she masks it quickly.
I want my home. I want to hear Dad complaining about the car breaking down again. I want to hear the twins arguing over cartoons.
Time blurs until the gold-toothed man enters and heads straight for me, ignoring Carmela completely.
"I hear you're going on a trip, munequita," he says, something in the way he says "trip" setting off every alarm in my body. How do I get out of here? I can't leave the country.
Before I can speak, he grabs my arm and pulls me up. My knees nearly give out, but his grip somehow keeps me pressed against him, forcing me to stay upright.
"Come on, we have a long road ahead."
Before I can register his words, I feel the prick of a needle at the base of my neck.
"Martin, you know you're not allowed to play with the toys before they arrive, right?" Carmela says, and something changes in the posture of the man apparently named Martin.
He doesn't answer, just drags me outside where the sun is already setting. We're near water—I can hear waves and take several deep breaths. Somehow I know it's the last time I'll smell this salt-heavy air that means home, and this knowledge breaks my heart.
My head is spinning and I force myself to calm down. Whatever was in that needle was meant to make me dizzy and disoriented. Nausea rises in my throat, and the ground tilts dangerously as waves of sickness wash over me. I have to steady myself before I lose control completely.
I'm thrown into a van, and we drive for what feels like half an hour. When he opens the door and pulls me out, I register that we're beside a small house, likely outside the city but still near the port, as I can hear boats.
"What are we doing here?" I ask, hating the tremor in my voice.
He doesn't answer, dragging me toward the house. When we enter, the smell of tobacco hits me. Various ashtrays with carelessly abandoned cigarettes make my stomach turn. I haven't eaten, but the van ride and now this smell make me turn and involuntarily empty my stomach onto his carpet.
"Son of a—" I hear him snarl as his hand tangles in my hair. "You'll clean it up later, don't worry," he says, shoving me into what appears to be a bedroom.
NO. NO. NO.
"Please, I can get money," I beg, hating myself for the tears I know are in my eyes.
I can see what he wants in his gaze, and it isn't money. As he unbuckles his belt, my mind screams RUN .
I try to slip past him, but he blocks the doorway with his massive frame, easily twice my size. There’s nowhere to run.
“You really don’t get where this is going, do you?” he sneers, voice thick with contempt. “I’m doing you a favor, muneca. Ivan will break you a hundred times over before he ever gets bored.”
He unfastens his belt, and his pants hit the floor with a dull thud. My stomach lurches. In one swift motion, his boxers follow, and cold terror rips through me. Tears spill down my cheeks, hot and silent.
He’s going to rape me.
The thought crashes through my mind, thundering over everything else. Panic gives way to something raw, primal, that I’d rather die than let him touch me.
He lunges, his weight crushing me against the wall. I drive my knee up hard, slamming it into his groin. He howls in pain, but his fist snaps across my cheek, sending stars exploding behind my eyes.
For a split second, I almost hope he’ll just keep hitting me. Bruises will heal. A fist can’t kill me. I claw at his face with every ounce of strength I have left, my nails raking deep. Blood beads up in the scratches, and his scream tears through the room.
“Can’t wait to see Ivan rip those claws right off you,” he spits, and his fist slams into my face again, harder this time.
Everything blurs. My mind drifts, slipping away as darkness closes in. My last conscious thought is that at least I won’t feel it. At least I won’t remember. But my body will.