by Sansa Rayne
“Sorry,” I say to them. To Sam, I add, “It’s complicated.”
“We get that you didn’t choose to be here,” says Madeleine. “And we know who you were before.”
“Thanks.”
When she speaks, she sounds like a chipmunk. Her cherubic face, blonde hair and full chest belong to a star cheerleader. She’s hard to forget, and I do remember the way she practically tackled Ingram to the ground last week, the first time he picked me up from the harem.
For some reason, thinking of that now makes my heart pump. It’s nonsensical, but I have to force myself not to snap at her. She means well, I guess.
“Can I ask why you would be jealous? It’s not like I chose this.”
“Because he treats us better than the other men,” says Sam. She spears a tomato with her plastic fork. They’re all eating salads, as it turns out. I’m the only one here with something good to eat. Have they gotten sick of having rich delicacies, or are they watching their weight? Perhaps it’s both.
“He used to, anyway,” Madeleine sighs. “Not in a long time.”
“He was our favorite when we came over,” adds Paulina.
“Came over? You were taken?”
“No, they weren’t,” says Sam.
“What? How?”
Courtney and Paulina take their salads and leave.
“They’re sensitive about it,” says Madeleine. “Because they were whores.”
“They were prostitutes,” Sam clarifies. “They were offered a much better life here, so they came.”
Holy fuck.
“But now they can’t leave,” I say, trying not to sound appalled.
“You mean they can’t leave this Caribbean paradise and return to their slums?”
Sam has a point. Considering the jumble of Eastern European, Central American and Southeast Asian accents I’ve heard, it wouldn’t surprise me if many of them came from some kind of troubled life.
“And we’re not all ex-prostitutes,” Sam adds, pointing to a small circular scar on her shoulder. “I was married to Franco Silvestri. When Enzo DiGuiseppe-”
“Oh my god! You’re Samara Silvestri!”
I can’t help blurting it out — now I recognize her. Five years ago she supposedly died when the rival DiGuiseppe family went to war with the Silvestris. Samara got caught in the crossfire and was reportedly killed, leading to a series of bombings in retaliation that killed Enzo and most of his family. Men, women… children too.
“Dr. Samara Silvestri, yes. But now it’s just Sam. I’m safe here, but…”
But she’s clearly not practicing medicine anymore.
“And you know Victor’s girl Bethany?” says Madeleine.
“We haven’t met,” I say, shaking my head.
“They’re married. She had a choice: get divorced and lose everything because of the prenup, or come live here on the island,” Madeleine explains.
“She made a huge mistake,” adds Sam. She returns to her salad, tossing the vegetables in their dressing.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see. She’s a shell of who she once was. If Victor cared about her at all he’d put her out of her misery.”
“Hey!” Madeleine cries. “She doesn’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do,” Sam says. She leans in and whispers, “Victor deserves to suffer for what he’s done to her — for what he does to all of us.”
I push my plate aside, no longer hungry. The world was a much nicer place when Victor Sovereign was presumed dead.
“All of you?” I say, my voice spare and grim.
Madeleine nods.
“Not Colette. She’s Mr. Hardt’s,” notes Sam. “Then there’s you. A few others have protection. Most don’t — especially the true courtesans.”
“True courtesans? What does that mean?”
“The sex slaves,” says Madeleine. “The ones who were abducted and brought here to serve.”
“The ones who had no say in the matter,” Sam finishes. “Some of them were drug addicts no one would miss. Some made the news for weeks when they disappeared. It doesn’t matter, no one will ever find them here.”
If they were in the news, there’s a good chance I’d recognize their names. If I could get word to the authorities… Just add it to the list of crimes in need of reporting if I ever get out of here.
“I’d like to meet them,” I say. “Find out who’s who.”
Sam finishes her salad and tosses her plastic fork all the way across the room, right into the trash bin — as if she’s done it hundreds of times.
“You still think you’ll escape,” she says. “That’s normal. It’ll change. There’s no getting off this island. It’s too far to swim, and even if you manage to steal a boat, they patrol the coast at all hours. Infrared drones watch the shore for intruders or escape attempts. It’s impossible. Every one of us who’s tried has failed and suffered the consequences.”
“The lucky ones get beaten,” Madeleine says.
“It depends how far they get,” Sam continues. “And who catches them. Trust us, you don’t want that.”
Maybe, but I’m not ready to give up hope so quickly.
“Do they ever let anyone go?” I ask.
Sam snorts.
“And risk having their secrets get out? No. If they decide you’re not worth keeping around, you’re dead. If you want to stay alive, you’re either going to work or fuck. Do yourself a favor and don’t even ask.”
Oh, when I get out of here I don’t think I’ll be asking. If Ingram or Colette won’t smuggle me off the island, I’ll find another way. Sadly, these women probably won’t be of much help.
“Once you accept life here, it’s not so bad,” says Madeleine.
“Not for all of us,” I say, turning to the cafeteria entrance. A thin, pale woman lurches in, unsteady on her feet. Dark bruises cover her skin; gray bags hang below her eyes. Most striking, however, are the dark bruises around the base of her neck. I’ve seen enough autopsy photos to recognize them as ligature marks — unquestionably made by hands.
“Who is that?”
Sam gulps.
“Bethany. Victor’s wife.”
Damn him. That fucking piece of shit.
Several women get up and rush over, helping Bethany to a couch. Someone brings a cup of water. She takes it, but her hand shakes. Every movement makes her wince. She wears a sleeveless, white slip, covering most of her body; if the bruising on her arms is consistent throughout…
“I swear I’m going to kill that motherfucker,” I mutter.
“Shut up!” Madeleine snaps, her voice a whisper. “If they hear you, they’ll punish you. I could earn a nice reward for ratting you out. Most of us would.”
Of course. Despite the amenities, this is still a prison.
Someone offers Bethany a plate of apple slices, but she pushes it away. I catch sight of rashes circling her wrists; perhaps made by restraints?
“Sam!” someone shouts. “Come here!”
“The doctor is in,” Sam sighs, getting up.
I follow her over and watch as she checks Bethany’s vitals. Sam doesn’t have a stethoscope or anything, but feels Bethany’s forehead for fever and holds Bethany’s wrist to take her pulse. Bethany cringes but lets Sam work.
“I think you’ll be okay,” Sam says. “Visit the infirmary if you feel nauseated or dizzy.”
“Thanks,” Bethany mumbles.
Sam starts to leave, waiting for me to join her, but I wave her off.
“Hi Bethany, I’m Kate,” I say. “I’m new here and-”
“I know who you are,” she replies.
“Oh. Right.”
“Go away. I don’t want to talk to you.”
I’ve heard that more than a few times in my career — though it’s usually a politician trying to slip into an elevator before I can get him on camera.
“I understand if you’re upset right now,” I say. “But I want you to know I’d like to help. Whatever I can do-�
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“You want to help me? Fucking kill yourself.”
Bethany’s body spasms and tears stream down her cheeks, but she stares me down.
“Victor did this to me because of you!” she growls. “He wants to hurt you, but I’ll do. Maybe when you’re dead he’ll be happy and leave me alone.”
Fuck. I should have known. Guilt and rage swell in my chest. I know the blame for this falls on Victor and no one else, but I can’t help feeling responsible.
“I’m so sorry, Bethany. He’s a monster. He deserves to fucking die. I would kill him if I had the chance. Maybe together we could make him pay.”
Her eyes go dead; the slight pink hue in her face drains away.
“Are you trying to get me in trouble? You can’t say that, you stupid bitch! Fuck off!”
All conversation and eating stops. Everyone watches, leaving the room silent except for me and Bethany. The last thing I need right now is a ton of attention.
“I’m sorry, I-”
“Get out of my face you fucking cunt!” she screams. From Victor’s lips to hers, I would guess.
“Please, I didn’t mean to-”
“GO AWAY!”
She pulls her legs up to her chest and wraps her arms around them. Hiding her face behind her knees, she cries into her slip.
I step back. This isn’t going to work.
“What the fuck is going on?”
Bethany gasps, shaking her head. Whipping around, I see Victor charging through the cafeteria.
“I didn’t do anything!” she howls. “Please! I told her to leave me alone, I swear! She wouldn’t listen! I didn’t do anything!”
What the fuck has he done to her? She’s beyond traumatized. How long has he been abusing her, tormenting her — destroying her? How could he be so sadistic?
Victor crouches down in front of Bethany, brushing back her hair and wrapping an arm around her shoulder.
“Kate, what the fuck is she talking about?” he asks me, flashing his malicious grin.
“Go fuck yourself,” I say, spitting in his face.
Bethany screams, scrambling to her feet to run, but Victor grabs her wrist and throws her to the ground.
“Did I say you could go?” he snarls, wiping his cheek. He reaches for her neck, his expression murderous.
Before he can touch her again, I shove him as hard as I can. He’s a foot taller than me and has at least a hundred fifty pounds on me, so the best I can do is keep him from grabbing Bethany; he doesn’t lose his balance. He turns to face me, which is fine. Better me than her. I don’t care what he does next, he’s not going to hurt anyone while I’m standing right here.
Courtesans gather around, and Colette fights her way through the crowd.
“Victor, you can’t be in here,” she says. “Leave at once or-”
Before she can finish, Victor swings his hand, his palm flat. It catches me square on the cheek, knocking me to the floor. I stop most of my fall with my hands; my knees hit the carpet, hard enough to ache.
“Attacking a Master is a serious offense,” he says. “It carries very strict repercussions.”
“Victor!” Colette shouts. “That’s enough! You know the rules! What you do with Bethany is your business, but Kate’s not yours to discipline. If you have a problem with her, take it up with Mr. Dent.”
I stare down Victor, waiting for him to throw a punch. I want to taunt him, to emasculate him, but my body quakes in fear. He could murder me with one hard blow, and there’d be no way to stop him.
“Fine,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender. “But this isn’t over. I hope your little stand was worth it, bitch. You broke the rules and you’re going to pay the price.”
Bursting into the harem like a hurricane wind, I rush straight to Kate. She sits by herself in the cafeteria. Little cliques buzz about, glancing at her occasionally. They quiet down when they see me.
“You got here quickly,” Kate says as I reach her.
“Colette called Jamison, and he told me,” I explain, whispering into her ear. “Are you okay?”
She works her jaw and rubs her cheek.
“I’m fine.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
The less we say here, where we can be overheard, the better. She doesn’t argue, nor does she complain when I leash her collar or cuff her hands. For now it’s just for show: she stays close to me and matches my quick pace all the way back to my residence.
“I’m going to rip his fucking head off,” I say, releasing her cuffs. Inspecting her face under a light reveals no bruises — maybe a slightly deeper shade of pink on one side than the other, but that could be my imagination. “I’m going to kick his fucking teeth in and make him swallow every last one of them. You have my fucking word, Kate. He’s going to pay.”
“Good,” she says, a dark smile curling her lips. “He needs to fucking die, Ingram. Are you aware of what he’s doing to Bethany?”
“Yes. I’ve heard.”
I look away, unable to maintain her gaze.
Because I’m a piece of shit.
Victor Sovereign is a fucking monster, and he doesn’t care who knows it. But what the fuck is my excuse?
I am fully aware of what he’s done to Bethany and countless others over the years. Not once have I stopped him. It’s not supposed to be my business. If it doesn’t affect the Masters, we’re free to do what we want. That’s how our whole arrangement works. We collaborate, we plot, we conquer. We don’t interfere in each other’s affairs. Until recently, it’s worked just fine.
I don’t feel any guilt. Do you?
That’s what my would-be assassin asked, back in Manhattan, shortly before I cut his throat. His words return to me; not because I killed him, though. I deflected his question. I could have said no — I didn’t feel responsible for the innocent man killed by the bomb meant for me. I’m not the one who planted or detonated the explosive; I couldn’t have done anything to save him. It wasn’t my fault.
But Bethany… if I’d cared one iota before now, I could have helped — even if that meant giving her a quick and painless release from her suffering. Jamison would tell me she’s not my responsibility, but that wouldn’t make it right. There’s no way to deny it: I’m complicit in Victor’s actions. We all are.
Kate sits down on my couch and covers her face with her tethered hands. Her shoulders rise, and her palms muffle a wet sound.
She’s crying.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She takes a deep breath and holds it in, composing herself.
“I almost forgot what this place is,” she says. “I got so caught up in figuring out this scheme for the Masters, it almost made me feel normal. Like I was in some kind of tropical business think tank. It took a couple hours for it all to fall apart.”
Maybe I should have demanded to have her stay at the pavilion instead of returning to the harem. She would have found out about Bethany eventually, but at least she could have enjoyed her success a little longer.
“Sorry,” I say. “I know this is… difficult.”
She grunts a hollow, derisive laugh. I don’t blame her. Anything I could possibly say would sound comically inadequate. What can one say to excuse what’s happened to her?
No — not “what happened.”
What I did. To her.
What I did.
Words won’t fix this. So there’s nothing to say.
And even if there were, it’s not like I have much experience consoling people.
“Difficult? Fuck you, Ingram. It’s your fault I’m here.”
I shouldn’t respond. I should let her blow off steam. Better that she does it here with me. Except…
“I agreed to carry out your abduction, Kate, but if it had been someone else you’d be dead. The vote to eliminate you was unanimous. Perhaps if I didn’t think you could help me find out who’s trying to kill me, I wouldn’t have bothered saving you. Though I would have regretted that… if I’d known…”
> “Known what?” she seethes.
I shouldn’t say it. I shouldn’t even think it. Because if the Masters demand her execution…
But I can’t ignore it either.
Fuck.
“That I’d like you,” I admit.
A fraction of the fury swirling in her expression ebbs; she softens a little, but still exudes hatred.
“The vote was unanimous?” she says after a moment.
“It was. You were considered a serious danger to our organization. There was no disagreement. At the time, it was the right decision.”
“No, it wasn’t!” She shakes her head, incredulous. “Why the fuck do I keep forgetting you’re a goddamn psycho criminal?”
I’m tempted to smile and say it’s because I’m handsome — but that’s what a psycho would say, isn’t it?
“I wish you were all dead,” she says. “Every last one of you. You understand that what you do is wrong, don’t you? That you’re all a bunch of sociopaths? I don’t care if some of your girls are here willingly — this is still fucked up!”
I pick her up and drag her to her cage; she struggles against my hold, forcing me to nudge her legs a half foot at a time. When she bares her teeth as if she might bite, I pull her hair back and wrap a hand around her neck.
“You get that all out of your system, pet? Listen to me now. Maybe I’m not so proud of who I am, but that doesn’t matter. The Masters don’t tolerate being threatened. If you say that kind of shit out there, expect to suffer.”
Her breasts heave as she holds still. Sweat glistens on her forehead, and blood dyes her cheeks dark red. She shuts her eyes, mortified that this is turning her on. Her lip quivers like she’s desperate to speak, but can’t bear the idea.
Come on, Kate.
Say it.
You want to.
Go on.
“What are you going to do about it?” she asks, voice heavy.
I smack her ass through her dark leggings.
She yelps, squirming in my arms. I hold her fast, and pin her face down on the outside of her cage, forcing her arms out in front of her. While she struggles, I unlock one handcuff, slip it inside the cage’s bars and then re-seal it around her wrist, ensuring she can’t lift herself up or go very far.