I flinch hard when the door unlocks. My instinct is to charge the sliver of an opening, but I quell it when two people enter, the giant blond guard, Ivan, who threw me in here, and an old, balding man who seems to be in his seventies. The guard is carrying a large black bag and I freeze up. They’ll torture me! I don’t know why, but I’m sure they’ll make up a reason. The older man throws a quick glance at Ivan, then he walks up to me and crouches, grimacing as if he’s in pain. I try to shrink back into the wall, but I’m already there and there’s no going anywhere.
“Miss Becker?”
I lick my dry lips and try to wrap the towel tighter. “Yes?”
The man glances behind him and gestures for Ivan to come closer. My eyes dart between the two men, trying to predict what they’ll do.
“I’m Doctor Edwards. I’m here to see to your wounds.” His eyes fall on the cast and then he frowns. “And have that taken care of.”
I stare at him in disbelief as he opens the bag Ivan has put next to him. He digs around in it and then produces a bottle of what looks like water that he hands me. I reach for it and wince as pain stabs my chest.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I was told you needed to eat and drink. I don’t have food, but I brought water. I’m also going to give you something for the pain before I take care of your arm.”
I try to unscrew the lid with one hand with no success. The doctor takes over and then hands me the opened bottle. “Why? I thought… I got the impression… I didn’t think anyone would care how I feel.”
He twitches and glances at Ivan again, who stands like a statue, impassive, seemingly emotionless. The doctor then leans in and says in a low voice, “You’re merchandise. He doesn’t want his goods deformed. I don’t think he would approve of me giving you ketamine, but I can’t work if you’re in too much pain. How old is that fracture?” He throws Ivan a nervous look and my eyes dart to him too. Is he going to intervene? Ivan just gives a half-shrug and looks bored.
“Merchandise?” I whisper. “Is he going to sell me?”
“I’m sorry,” says the doctor as he pulls up liquid into a syringe, taps it and looks me over. “Present me your thigh, please.”
I shake as I pull up the towel. My heart fills with icy, clenching horror and I have a thousand questions.
“What—Ow!” The sharp needle pricks my skin and is pushed deep into the side of my thigh. I tense as he empties the syringe and then the room tilts and a warm feeling spreads through my body, relaxing me. “Whoa.”
“There might be unfortunate side effects,” he mumbles as he starts to cut up my cast. I can’t focus my gaze and the room spins sickeningly, so I close my eyes. I try to make my mouth cooperate. I want to ask. Merchandise? Fright nips at my heart but can’t seem to get a grip as my mind floats away.
“How old is your fracture?” he asks again.
“A week,” I mouth after fighting to find the words, then my mind finally flies free.
When I wake, I’m alone. I have a wool blanket instead of the wet towel. Next to me stands a plate with a sandwich, the bottle of water, and a cut apple that has begun to turn brown. My stomach growls at the sight. I wonder how long I’ve slept and then I jolt, looking around me, the bleakness of my situation hitting my heart like a freight train. My hand shakes as I reach for the water, gulping down half the bottle, then I devour the sandwich in three bites, groaning as it hits my stomach like a slab of concrete. I have no idea what time it is, or even day. I don’t know how many hours it’s been since I ate.
My cast is shiny and new, the arm hanging again in a sling around my neck. I have a fresh, white bandage around my chest, and when I touch my face I feel strips of tape covering the wound in my eyebrow.
He doesn’t want his merchandise deformed.
The sandwich threatens to make its way back up and I fight the nausea, trying to breathe through it. I need the calories or I won’t last long. Maybe I won’t last long anyway? I shudder and wrap the blanket tighter. There are no windows. The light is on, the one too-bright lamp in the middle of the ceiling. I squint against the fluorescent, slightly flickering light. In the absolute silence I can just about make out the low humming noise it makes.
Luciano
I have had Matteo dig a little deeper into Chloe’s background and when he calls me back, I fucking drop my jaw. That doesn’t happen often.
“Hey Uncle Luci,” he says. “Seems this little kitten’s got a really fascinating background. She’s the oldest of four siblings. Her two younger brothers are doing time. One for armed robbery, the other for identity fraud. That first guy is a fucking safecracker. Classic. There’s a sister too, the youngest of them all, but I haven’t been able to find out more about her. I’ll get to that. Dad was a dentist, Mom stayed at home. Their parents got murdered in a robbery and their cute little suburban, middle class life ended. They lived with an aunt and it all went south it seems. Car thefts, pickpocketing, drugs, assault, breaking and entering. All this at a very tender age.”
“Chloe?”
“Turns out your Chloe isn’t Chloe at all. She was called Christine. She never finished college. Her sister went missing, no one knows if there was foul play, her brothers finally got properly booked, and your girl assumed a new identity, forged everything, moved across the country—”
“Where is she from?”
“Atlanta, Georgia.”
“She doesn’t have an accent. Nothing.”
“Maybe she’s good at faking it?”
“I’ll fucking show her not to fake shit with me,” I growl.
Matteo is quiet.
“Find out everything about her brothers. Where they sit, how much time they’re doing, how much they have left, if we know anyone inside, and if we don’t, put someone there. Focus on that.”
“Will do. I’m not even gonna ask.”
“No, you’re not.”
I’m suddenly a lot more intrigued. What the fuck? I thought she was some meek city girl, a socially awkward, albeit pretty, accountant, and it turns out she’s a fucking criminal? Suddenly I have so much new material I can use against her. My head spins as I turn my steps toward my private wing and my cock stirs at the thought.
My heart pounds a little harder as I enter her cell. It’s a bit chilly, but it could be a lot more uncomfortable. We had the walls, floor and ceiling padded until I didn’t have to hear the screams from below when I tried to sleep. I smirk when I push open the door and look at the naked woman huddled in the corner, staring at me in delicious fear.
“Chloe, Chloe, Chloe,” I say. “You’ve been a naughty girl. Or should I say Christine?”
Chloe
I don’t know how long I sit in absolute solitude. I almost wish for company, even from the nightmare of a man who has imprisoned me. Still, when there’s a rattle from the outside, and the door swings open, a whimper escapes me and renewed fear courses through my chest.
Salvatore closes the door behind him. Our eyes meet, his are cold and calculating, and I can’t look away. A smirk spreads across his face. This can’t possibly be good.
“Chloe, Chloe, Chloe. You’ve been a naughty girl. Or should I say Christine?”
I flinch. He knows I forged a new identity. Oh no. Fuck.
“Does it matter at this point?” My voice is tainted with bitterness. Everything I fled from, every bad decision I made, the new life I built. All for nothing.
“It matters a lot. I believe it matters to your brothers, doesn’t it? Hmm? How much time do they have left inside? Are they safe where they sit?”
I stare at him in horror. “No—Please! Please don’t hurt them!” I have no difficulty recognizing a threat when I hear it.
“Are you going to be a good girl?”
“What do you mean?” I whisper, shrinking back.
“I don’t have much use for you in your current state, but you will heal.”
My heart thuds hard. “What do you want?”
He snickers. “I want
your complete submission, your complete obedience. You will stay here, and you’ll be my personal toy for as long as I find you useful.”
My eyes widen. “What? No!”
“Do you love your brothers?”
I snap my mouth shut. I don’t know what to tell him. Of course I love my stupid, wayward, reckless baby brothers, even though the choices they made, that we all made, landed them in the penal system. I will always live with the guilt that I got away.
“Yes,” I mouth and look down at my lap, my chest clenching. I jerk hard when he walks up to me and grabs my hair.
“Suck my cock.”
I gasp and look up at him. “No, please.”
“Chloe, you’re fucking useless after my nephew’s treatment, but you can open your fucking mouth. Suck my cock, or I’ll have someone rip Charlie a new one.”
“You—you can’t do that!”
“Oh yes, I can.” He unbuckles his belt with his free hand, unzips and pulls out his cock, stroking it. I clench my teeth, my instinct to resist almost impossible to overcome. Salvatore brushes his thickening cock over my closed lips, the head silky, a drop of salty wetness slick against my skin. “How’s it gonna be? Give head, which I’m sure you’ve done plenty before, or know you had Charlie ass raped until he wept like a little baby?”
A sob escapes me and then I open my mouth to the monster. With a groan he thrusts his cock deep into my throat, and lodges it there. I gag and tears well up in my eyes as I push at his thigh with my free hand, increasingly desperate for air, my chest hitching. Finally he pulls back, and I get to inhale one deep breath, before he pushes back inside, this time thrusting.
“Suck me,” he growls. “Like you fucking mean it.”
He smells fresh, as if he’s just showered. There’s nothing revolting about his flesh. What disgusts me is the man himself. I close my eyes as I obey, hoping to get him off so he’ll leave me alone again, trying to imagine it’s someone else, anyone else.
His breathing gets heavier, and his breaths, and the slight squelching noises from my mouth are all that is heard in the room. There’s something disturbingly tantalizing about those throaty groans of pleasure he emits. Images of when he deep throated that girl in the office flicker through my mind, and the memory of how hot it made me makes me tingle.
“Touch yourself,” he breathes. “Push your fingers into your cunt.”
I don’t want to. My God, I don’t want to, but his hold on me, his threat to my brother – I can’t not obey. My hand shakes violently as I put it between my legs, repulsed to feel that I’m wet and swollen. His grip in my hair tightens and his thrusting gets ruthless, his breathing even heavier.
“You feel so fucking good. You’re so fucking beaten, broken, helpless. You’re mine to fuck, to hurt. You’re still fighting the thought, but the time will come when you’ll know with your whole being that it’s true. The time will come when you give up all hope of life. I’ll relish each step of the way.”
He pushes deep, stays. Fear rips through my chest again at not getting air.
“Fingers in your cunt. Thrust! Or I’ll do it, and you won’t like that one fucking bit.”
I jerk and immediately push inside my slick pussy, horrified that it tingles and burns, that I react to this. I’m not turned on, I’m sickened and disgusted, but my body apparently hasn’t gotten the memo.
Salvatore grabs around my head and shoves all the way inside again. Hot spurts of come hit the back of my throat and he roars out his release. Then he suddenly pushes me away, making me fall on my butt, my fingers remaining a moment longer before I pull them out. He puts his cock back in his pants, zips up and crouches before me, leaning his forearms on his powerful thighs. His eyes scorch me as they travel down my body.
“Show me your cunt, Christine.”
It’s Chloe, I want to scream. Christine is dead!
I scream when he grabs around my wrist with his large hand and pulls me to him. “Spread your legs and show me your fucking cunt.”
My lower lip trembles as I put my hand between my legs and spread myself open, showing him my humiliation. At first he doesn’t let go of my gaze, his black eyes unreadable, then he lowers his gaze and it’s an almost physical sensation as it falls on my pussy. He smirks and stands.
“I knew it. You can’t come. If you touch yourself, I’ll tie you up and spank you, broken bones or not.”
My eyes dart around the room. How would they know? Not that I planned to but… He turns his head and looks toward the far right corner. I follow his gaze, and sure enough, something glints where the wall meets the ceiling. A surveillance camera. Of course.
“Say hello.”
“Fuck you,” I whisper.
“Oh, I will. When you come begging.”
“That will never happen!”
I think he’ll rage at my attempts at resisting him, but he shocks me by laughing. “You’re fucking drenched after I threatened you and used you like you’re nothing but a blow-up doll. You’ll cry for my cock to impale you within a week.”
“Never!”
“Do you want a shirt?”
“Fuc—What?”
“Give us a show tonight. In front the camera. But you can’t come. If I’m happy with your performance, I’ll get you a shirt.”
I want to scream at him that this is inhumane, this is unfair, he has no right, but I clench my teeth, glaring daggers at his back as he disappears out of the room. Grabbing the blanket, I curl up in the far corner, as far away from the camera as I can, compulsively throwing dirty glances at it. Shirt. Yes, I want a shirt. I look at the plate with the crumbs, greedily pinching them between my thumb and forefinger, pushing them one by one into my mouth. A shirt, and food, and coffee, and my own apartment, and a new life. Again.
Fucking again!
“It’s Chloe,” I scream. “At least give me that!” My voice breaks on the last word. Then I cry. Again. How can there be so many tears?
Chapter 11
Chloe
The thought of getting a shirt makes me weep with want. How did he already reduce me to someone who is so desperate for even the most primal needs that I consider doing what he tells me? Eat, drink, cover up my naked body? I stare at the camera over and over, pondering the option to masturbate in front of it. I clench up at the thought. How many will be watching? Will it be recorded? It will for sure, then used against me at some point. No, I refuse.
Hours pass. I sleep a little. I’m thirsty and my head pounds. I realize I’ll need to pee soon. I glance at the camera again, then at the drain in the middle of the room. I can probably cover up with the blanket. This is all so fucked.
The silence is suffocating, the padded room swallowing every sound, my whimpers when I cry, the rustle when I move, my breathing. It’s all eerily muffled, like it’s being eaten the moment I make the sound. I have bursts of panic, feeling as if the walls close in on me, but no one comes to my rescue, no one comforts me and I have to take care of myself, as always.
I don’t know how much time has passed when I decide it’s enough. My bladder feels as if it’s gonna burst and my stomach cramps. I’m lightheaded from hunger when I get up and then squat over the drain, making sure the blanket covers me up properly.
When I stand, I spin around and glare at the camera. “Fuck you! I’m hungry! Let me out of here, you dick!”
I’ve dozed off again and almost fly through the roof when a disembodied voice suddenly is heard. It’s him.
“You know what you need to do.”
“For a shirt?” I spit.
“For a shirt, you give me a show. For food, you’ll beg me to suck my cock.”
“Never!”
“Okay.”
Silence.
My stomach twists my insides. The word food renewed the pain from being denied for so long.
Silence.
“Salvatore!”
Silence.
“Hello! Anyone there?” I scream.
“Yes?”
&n
bsp; “Can I…” Repulsion almost makes me retch. “Can I please suck—” I swallow, “your cock.” I can’t resist the new tears that fall and a hoarse whimper escapes my throat. I’ve never hated anyone more in my life before. Not even the men who dragged my brothers into a life of crime.
“Please what?”
“Sir!”
Silence.
“Hello!”
No answer. I jerk hard when the door suddenly opens and he stands there in all his deceptively beautiful glory. So fucking handsome, and such a ruthless psychopath. Maybe I should just provoke him until he kills me? But I know I can’t. I’m too afraid. I really don’t want to die.
He grins. “You wanted something? Tell me what again.”
The corners of my mouth must be pulled to my knees as I answer him, my voice shaky. “Can I please suck your cock, sir?”
“Crawl to me.”
I look at my cast and then up at him. He shrugs. “Do your best.”
On knees and one hand I shuffle across the floor until I’m right before him, sitting back on my heels.
“Take out my cock. Make me hard.”
My hand shakes violently as I obey.
“You know,” he says, as I take him in my mouth, “I’ll have the doctor whipped for giving you that drug.”
I flinch, but keep swirling my tongue around his cock, trying to take him deeper, my hand around the base, squeezing, moving along his length. He got significantly harder when he said he’d punish the doctor. I’ve never met such a cruel and twisted man in my life.
“Every person who shows you even the slightest kindness will be punished, and it will be on you. Don’t ever beg someone to help you. Don’t plead to the fucking camera. There’s no use.” He grabs my head and thrusts harder, deeper. “You’ll only make it worse for yourself. This is your life. Get used to it. One day you’ll be my obedient pet, conditioned to do everything I tell you without moaning about it.”
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