Chapter 22
Chloe
Send me away?
I stand naked right inside the locked door, still damp, little drops from my hair spattering on the floor. My heart slams a dizzying staccato in my chest, and an ache spreads that has nothing to do with the assault. I want his warm skin on me again, the safety in his arms. For a few moments I felt secure in a way I can’t recall ever feeling before in my life, not since I was a little girl anyway, no matter how absurd it is.
Shivers wrack my body, and my mind balances on a knife’s edge between crumbling into a weeping, screaming mess, or pulling myself together. One second I think I can actually choose, and then it’s too late. A single tear slips from my eye and it opens the gates to the dam. I stagger to the huge bed and curl up under the comforter, wrapping it tightly around me and scream into a pillow only pausing to gasp for air.
Initially, the house is loud. Men’s voices. Slamming of doors. Faint sounds of cars. Then it quiets down, and as my stomach begins to churn with hunger, I have soaked both sides of two pillows with my tears. Every time I think I’m about to collect myself, my cruel brain flashes images before me of flesh shot to pieces, drenching me in blood, of memories from when the door was slammed open and the three fucking Russians entered the bedroom. I was reading. I was just reading a book. I had a few moments of peace and quiet, and they ripped me apart when they threw themselves over me like ravaging hyenas, screaming, hooting, tearing the clothes off my body.
I anticipated rape and death. It’s what they told me in their broken English. No one would save me. Everyone was dead and I was next. I couldn’t fathom that the most powerful man in the world was dead. That my beast was dead.
And then he wasn’t.
A part of me wants to think that I’ve never felt such hate before, but it isn’t true. I’ve hated with every fiber of my being. It’s as if hate has a chamber of its own in my heart. The person, whoever they were, who murdered my parents. The man who recruited my baby brothers to hide away guns and drugs, then lured them onto a path of violence and crime. The old man I trusted but who never lived up to his promises and I don’t think he ever meant to. Christian. Christian Russo who hurt my friend, who broke her bright soul, who beat me so badly that I thought I was going to die.
And then Luciano Salvatore.
I have hated Salvatore more than I thought possible. His brutal touch is burnt into my soul. His beatings, his assaults.
But when I thought he was dead I didn’t rejoice, instead my heart broke.
And then he wasn’t.
He’s no knight in shining armor. He’s the dragon in its den. He’s the terror that lurks in the dark. But he saved me. He cradled me to his chest, broken, bloodied Chloe, holding me tight.
Speaking of Salvatore. Where is he? I have nothing to tell me the time, but the hunger has finally driven me out of my wallowing and back on my feet. There’s a large adjacent bathroom in here as well and I take another shower. I don’t think I can ever feel clean again. I wish someone would just hug me. I need therapy. I need someone to care about me. I cry again, my face turned up in the stream. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Body and hair. Four times, trying to rid myself of the near-physical memory of their grabby hands, the cock down my throat, I still wish I could scrub myself hard enough to bleed. There are bruises in the shapes of fingers on my breasts and my arms. My upper lip is swollen and has a laceration that I keep prodding with my tongue. I’m sore, but it’s still nothing compared to what could have happened. I’m so fucking thankful I wasn’t raped in its fullest sense.
Thankful to him for coming for me.
I rummage around his drawers and closet and pull on briefs, a pair of black jeans, socks, a wife beater, a T-shirt, and a dark gray shirt. The jeans fall to my feet if I don’t hold them up, but a belt does the trick and I have to fold up the hem so as not to stumble on them. I look like a clown, but at least I’m finally warm and I smell good. I smell of him.
It’s been dark outside for a long while when I finally hear steps in the hallway and a key rattle in the lock. The door swings open. My heart thrashes in fear, in hope, in longing for another human being. Salvatore stands in the doorway and makes no move to enter the room. His gaze travels along my body, making me extremely self-conscious about wearing his clothes.
“How’s Ivan?” I ask as I wrap my arms around my chest, hugging myself.
He pushes a hand through his hair and sighs. “Hanging on by a thread.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“How are you?”
I can’t help that my chin trembles as if I’m a child. “I need someone to hold me,” I whisper.
He’s silent at first and the moment stretches. “Yeah, that’s not gonna be me. You hate me, remember?”
My heart sinks. Right now, I don’t. I want his arms around me so much that my skin aches with emptiness. “I—”
“I’ve arranged for a plane. You’ll be transported to a private airfield and removed from the city.”
“I—What?”
“It’s not safe for you here.”
Hysterical laughter bubbles up in my throat. “Safe? Listen to yourself!”
“These are my final words on the matter. I’d have recommended you bring something along for the flight, but you don’t want to set your foot in the other bedroom, and you’re already dressed. Someone will pick you up. Goodbye, Chloe.” He takes a step back, his eyes look dead, his face shut off, then he closes and locks the door again.
I dart up off the bed and slam my fists on the door. “Hey! Don’t leave me! What do you mean sending me away? Where?” There’s no reaction from the other side, and still I feel his presence, as if he lingers, but it’s probably only my imagination.
My insides crawl with anxiety by the time the door is unlocked the next time. I rush toward it and stop flat when it swings open. Rose, pale, her blonde hair in a ponytail, no makeup, jeans, boots, and a red leather jacket. Her face is serious and there’s nothing reminding me of the girl I first met, the seductive prostitute.
“I heard,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
I scoff. “Sorry is the only thing everyone around here ever is.”
She raises a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Are you ready to go?”
I throw up my hands. “Go where?”
“Doesn’t anyone tell you anything, girl?” She glances into the hallway and then reaches for me. “We really need to move. Please.”
I look around me. It’s instinct. In any kind of normal life, I’d grab keys, phone, purse. It strikes me hard when I realize I have absolutely nothing. Not even the clothes on my body, down to the last thread, are my own. It’s as if I don’t exist. When I leave this room, this house, nothing remains of Chloe. My eyes dart to Rose’s. Leave. I get to leave. I can get the fuck out of here and make a run for it. With a thudding heart, I take Rose’s hand and step out into the hallway. My gaze darts inadvertently toward the other bedroom, the slaughterhouse, but the door is closed and there’s no sign of the horrors that took place in there a mere few hours ago. When I turn toward the exit, my stomach plummets. There stands a guard. Tall and dark, clad in black cargo pants and looking like he’s going into war with the guns, the radio equipment, and the security vest. Okay. Not running.
Rose entwines her fingers with mine and pulls me toward the man. “We gotta go, Chloe.”
As the three of us move through the house, I listen to faraway voices, trying to discern Salvatore’s, but I can’t, and Rose keeps pulling, urging me to go faster.
I’m pushed into the back of a car, Rose jumps in next to me and slams the door shut, buckling us up. The guard hops in behind the wheel and we’re moving in the next instant. It’s dark outside. I crane my neck to look at the digital clock on the panel. It’s 6:14 a.m. I don’t know when I ate last and I feel faint. Breakfast yesterday, I think. We move fast on winding roads, through the suburbs, toward industrial areas. Rose holds both my hands, her thumb stroking back and forth. My stomach churns at how serious she loo
ks. The sky is getting brighter. An orange hue tints the horizon as we pass guarded gates and come to a stop on an airfield outside a small plane. Our driver hops out and pulls the passenger door open, cocking his head impatiently.
Rose unbuckles me. “Go, go, go.”
I put a leg out, then I spin around. “Are you coming with?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t. Matron needs me.”
“Who?”
A fleeting sadness sweeps across her face, then she waves her hand impatiently. “Never mind. He said he’d call you. You need to—”
“Miss Becker,” barks the guard, his voice a deep baritone. “You have one second, or I’ll carry you onboard.”
He reaches for me. I slap away his hand and give Rose one last pleading look, but she averts her gaze.
“Okay, okay, fuck. Fine, I’m coming!”
He grabs my elbow and pulls me with him along the tarmac to the descended stairs that lead up to the plane. It’s windy. The air is easy to breathe, crisp. A smell of exhaust, of oil and wet concrete lingers. The guard follows me all the way up to the plane entrance, his huge body behind me preventing my desperate wish to make a run for it. I’d be down and bundled up in a second, and I bet my flight to wherever I’m going would be a lot less comfortable.
I step inside and turn to take one last glance at the vast outside world, the dark gray hills in the distance, the rising sun. My eyes meet the guard’s. He doesn’t look hostile, just wary. I look down on a white envelope that he holds up between us.
“From the boss,” he mutters. “Be safe.” He smacks his large palm against the steel wall next to my head. “You’re good to go,” he shouts toward the cockpit before he turns and walks down the stairs. As soon as his feet leave the stairwell it begins to ascend and I back up so as not to get hit.
“Miss,” shouts a man’s voice from the front of the plane. “You need to buckle up. You can move around when we’re in the air, but not during take-off.”
I walk up to the cockpit and take in the backs of two men, clad in dark blue suits, wearing caps, looking very much like pilots.
“Where are we going?”
They turn and give me a once over. “Sicily, ma’am. Buckle up now, or you’ll bounce all over the cabin in a few. It gets bumpy for a while when we cross the hills.”
“Sicily?”
A terse sigh from the co-pilot jerks me into action. “Okay, fine!” I turn and take in the passenger compartment. It’s small, but luxurious with plush, beige leather seats with lots of butt and leg space. In the back there’s a lounge area with a bar and couches along each wall. I sink into the nearest seat and strap in.
As we move, I realize I’m clutching something in my hand and remember the envelope. My hands shake as I pull it open. Inside is a letter with a few short words.
You are going to my relatives in Sicily. They know nothing about my business. Treat them with respect.
S.
I trace the letters with the tip of my finger as the plane moves faster and faster, the acceleration feeling as if it sucks the stomach out of my body. We bounce once, then we fly. The buildings beneath us turn into little pieces of neatly organized Legos while my mind spins with the sudden turn of events.
Sicily?
Chapter 23
Chloe
When the seatbelt sign is turned off, I head for the cockpit again. “How long before we’re there?”
The co-pilot half-turns in his seat. He’s a clean-shaven man with a sharp chin and kind, brown eyes. “Fifteen hours. We’ll make a brief stop and refuel in Paris. But we just got word that we might need to land in Jacksonville too before we leave the States. We don’t know for how long.”
“Fifteen!” I groan. “Is there any food around?”
“Sure. There are prepared meals in the back, in the fridge.”
“Oh, thank God!” My stomach growls loudly at his words and I spin around and make my way to the lounge area, raiding the fridge, finding it stocked with meals in plastic packages, both breakfast food and main meals. There are bottles of juice, sparkling water, red and white wine, beer, and tiny booze bottles. My hands shake as I rip open a breakfast package and stuff my face. I put vodka in a glass of orange juice and gulp it down. Who’s gonna care? I can get shit-faced. No one’s here to tell me what I can and can’t do.
A part of me is excited, the tiny part that doesn’t feel imprisoned, violated, and completely at the mercy of a ruthless, uncaring man. Sicily! Europe! Fucking hell! I’ve never been out of the States.
I sleep, but twitch awake over and over from quickly escaping nightmares of hands that grab me hard, threats of rape, of death. In some of the dreams it’s Salvatore who hurts me. In some of the dreams he holds me and makes me feel safe. I haven’t looked at the bruises again, but I sense them all too well. We end up spending the day in a hangar outside Jacksonville and I’m bored out of my mind. I down more wine and, after some fiddling, kick life into an entertainment system and watch two movies back to back. I become best friends with one of the couches, a throw blanket, and a couple of pillows, my mind a little too fuzzy to focus.
I’m glued to the window as we pass over the coastline to France, little villages, vast fields. It’s gray and winter, sadly not a lot of snow, though. We went skiing a few times when I was a kid. I miss the snow. I should have moved north and not to fucking San Francisco. I squeal when we pass over Paris and I take in the wide river running like a serpentine through its city center, and the actual Eiffel tower!
The pilots take turns taking a break while we refuel, but I’m not let out of the plane. Clearly, Salvatore reaches me even here. At least I get a whiff of French air when they open and close the door. And a heavy smell of fumes from the fuel.
We don’t make another stop. Flat fields. Snow covered mountains that feel so close that I think I can touch them. Ocean. Blue, glittering ocean.
We traveled into the night, smacked into the Earth shadow that came rushing toward us over the Atlantic, we met dawn in Paris and now the sun shines relentlessly from a near-cloudless sky. Pressure builds in my ears and the seatbelt sign is turned on again. I’ve been pleasantly buzzed the whole time, having had wine with my meals and drinks in between. Who knows what awaits me? I imagine a convent, or a dungeon, chains and shackles. How the hell can he imagine I won’t try to get away as soon as I have the chance?
One of the pilots comes up to me. “Time to buckle up, ma’am. We’re about to land.”
I glance out the window and see nothing but mountains. “Where?”
“It’s a small strip of a private airport.” He turns to leave, and I grab his arm.
“What’s going to happen to me?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Our job was to take you here. I expect someone will meet you. Put on your seatbelt now.”
I snap it in place across my hips but as soon as he’s back in the cockpit, I unbuckle and make a dash for the fridge, grabbing the last little bottle of Vodka. I need liquid courage if I’m gonna survive this.
The airfield is tiny, and I hold my breath as we land, clutching the armrests. I’m not generally afraid of flying, but damn, we stopped a few feet from where the tarmac ended. To the side stands a black car and a man, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, looking very casual apart from the gun on his hip. I look pleadingly at the co-pilot as the stairs descend. This isn’t normal, don’t leave me here! But I don’t speak. I’m trapped in the claws of their capo, and maybe they are too?
The heat slaps me in the face as if I walked into a wall and I gasp for air, sweat breaking out all over my body in my thick outfit. As I set foot on the uneven white concrete I realize I still don’t have shoes. I look at the barren mountains surrounding us, the rough dry grass, the barracks, and give up all resistance.
I’m not going anywhere.
“Hi,” I mutter to the man, who is admittedly quite hot. He’s tall and dark, sports a thick beard, his muscles bulge beneath his pristinely white T-shirt.
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sp; “Buongiorno, Signorina.” He holds open the backdoor for me. The motor is running and the air inside is blessedly cool.
“Oh, please tell me someone speaks English,” I groan.
The man hops in the front and turns halfway around, firing off a huge smile. “Si. I do. But where you’re going, I’m not sure many do.” His accent is heavy, but his English is good.
I shuffle forward, eager for any sliver of information. “Where am I going?”
“A little village in the mountains,” he tilts his head to the left and I look where he’s indicating, toward the winding, dusty gravel road, disappearing in the distance.
I catapult backward as we suddenly move. “Who lives there?”
He shrugs. “People.”
I fiddle with the belt, locking it in place. “Do they also work for Salvatore?” I have to shout to be heard over the engine. We’re rocking back and forth, dodging potholes and bumps. I have my heart in my throat the whole ride.
My driver shrugs again. “They’re just people, Signorina. Good people. You will see.”
‘Relatives in Sicily. Treat them with respect.’
His words make my throat clench. What if I don’t live up to his expectations? Who are these people? I see hardened, rough mafiosos before me, like in the movies, hats, a cigar in the corner of their mouths, machine guns. My mouth goes dry as we approach flat, beige stone buildings. This is it. A kid runs across the road and my driver honks his horn, making a sharp turn into a narrow alley that soon opens to a square. We come to a stop in front of a house looking much like the others. Every window has cascades of flowers in front of them. It looks peaceful, well cared for.
My driver honks repeatedly until a woman comes rushing out of the house. He hops out, greets her with cheek kisses and then opens my door.
“Signorina. This way.”
The old lady is completely dressed in black, has gray hair and leathery, weathered skin. She takes both my hands and shakes them as I step out of the car, again struck by the heat. She looks me over from top to toe, her gaze stopping at my sock-clad feet. She turns to the driver, gestures to me and to the sky as a string of words I don’t know pour over us. The driver shrugs, answers something.
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