by Ella Miles
Mason is a good man; I should have dated him before. He would have made a good boyfriend. Maybe if we were together when I was taken he would have tried harder to find me?
Now, I’ll never know.
Now, we can never be.
Time passes, and our routine stays the same.
I sleep.
I eat.
He asks questions and pushes.
I don’t know how much time passes, except eventually I don’t feel like sleeping so much. My bruises and pains are still there, and I haven’t gained much if any weight, so I doubt much time has passed. But some did.
Enzo.
His name floats back into my head again.
Why?
That becomes my new focus. Not on avoiding Mason, but on thinking about Enzo.
Not the good. Not the adrenaline at stealing Enzo’s watch when we first met.
Not when he took me on my first yacht ride, the last one I will ever enjoy.
Not when we played our two lies and one truth game, and I won.
Not when he gave me my first kiss.
The only thing I think about when it comes to Enzo is why?
Why me?
Why didn’t he kill me, when he was ordered to?
Why did he have me kidnapped and sold, instead?
Why did Jarod let me go when I was his favorite plaything?
I need answers, to so many questions.
But it is all really one question. Why?
I don’t know how to find Enzo. I don’t even know his last name or if he still lives in Miami. I don’t know if he’s even alive anymore. He worked in a ruthless business. He could be dead.
No.
I feel it.
He’s alive.
He’s why I’m still alive.
He’s why I’m here.
I need answers.
Not necessarily revenge, although I’ll take that too.
I can’t think past what I’ll do when I figure out my answers.
I listen carefully and hear Mason sleeping in the other room. The faint sound of the old television blares and skips. I’m surprised the television still works.
I need to get out of here to get my answers.
But where?
First clothes, then where.
I go to the rod in the corner of the room that holds my old clothes. I stare at them. I don’t want to put them on, but I need to if I don’t want to get arrested or sent to a psych ward.
And I need them to cover my body. My scars and bruises need to be covered.
I pull on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved sweater. It’s summer, but it’s the only thing that will hide my body.
I run a brush through my midnight black hair and leave it down, even though it descends far down my back almost to my butt. It needs to be cut; the ends are uneven and frayed. It would look better up, but I need my hair down to cover my neck and cheeks. Now people will only notice the bruises on my face if I look up.
I take a step, and the jeans fall off my hips.
Shit.
I rummage through my drawers until I find a belt.
The clothes itch and burn against my skin, but I don’t take them off.
Shoes.
I need shoes.
I try on tennis shoes, closed-toe shoes, flip-flops, even heels; but I can’t. It’s too much for my feet. They all feel like a vice grip.
People go barefoot in Miami all the time; this is a beach town after all. Hopefully, no one will notice my feet.
I open my door and listen carefully. Mason is still asleep.
I tiptoe through the small trailer, ensuring my feet don’t make a sound.
I should feel bad for leaving Mason without talking and without a note. A reasonable person would, but I don’t have feelings anymore. Those were taken.
I get to the door, knowing this is the most dangerous part. I could wake him up, and then how would I leave without him following?
I touch the handle and pry it open inch by inch.
The creak softens, and I stare intently at Mason. He’s out. Exhausted from trying to take care of me and break through my walls—walls no one will ever knock down.
When I’m outside, I breathe again.
I’m free, at least of Mason.
Now, where?
I rack my brain, thinking hard for the first time in forever. My mind is foggy, and it hurts to use, but the thought finally comes to me. Where the most dangerous people in town go…
Surrender.
The name of the darkest underground club in town floats in my hazy brain.
It’s for the wealthy, the secretive, the criminals.
It’s shady, but it’s where all the elites and those that cater to them go.
My clothes won’t get me into the club. Even if I were dressed up, I wouldn’t get in. It’s invitation only.
But somehow, I know that’s where Enzo is. If he’s there, he’ll let me in. And if he’s not, then I’ll find a way in. I’ll find someone who knows him.
Because Enzo is the only way I’ll get my answers. The club is where all the darkest creatures that crawl the earth lurk. If Enzo is still alive, he’ll be there.
I shouldn’t go. I should stay far away from the man who sold me, but I can’t. I need answers more than I need to live. I’ll be breaking our deal by coming back to Miami, by not staying away, but Enzo broke our deal first when he had me taken.
13
Kai
The door to Surrender looms across the street from where I stand. I can’t make my legs move toward the door, but I can’t walk away either.
There is no sign above the frame—no advertisement as to what sins men partake in behind the door.
There is nothing to indicate that anything happens here or that this is even a club.
It’s simply an unmarked door. I shouldn’t know it exists, but when I was fifteen, I was desperate for money. To eat. To survive. And to pay off my father’s debts. Debts he accrued when my mother fought a long battle against cancer.
I found a boy at school who sold drugs and offered to help him to make some quick cash. So I sold weed; I couldn’t bring myself to sell anything harder. But this is where he wanted to meet me, outside this club. This is where most of his clients were, and that’s how I knew this place existed.
It’s exclusive and private.
No one knows about the club or gets in without an invite.
There is no way I’ll get in.
But I have to get in.
I try not to seem too interested as I stare at the door. I’m sure a hundred security cameras are looking at me right now, cameras that extend well beyond the door of the club. A place like this needs to know who is approaching. They need to know if the person is dangerous or one of their members before they even decide if they are letting them in or not.
I scan the top of the brick building but don’t see any cameras. No guard stands outside the door, but I have no doubt there is one inside. I may make it through the door, but that may be as far as they will let me go. They could kill me for just knowing about the club when I shouldn’t. And even if I make it to Enzo, even if I get my answers, he will kill me.
This is a suicide mission.
But at least I’ll have my answers.
I stop stalling, and I walk slowly toward the door, like Enzo might jump out and aim a gun at me at any moment.
Nothing happens.
I hesitate at the door. I have to be the old Kai. The one who could walk and talk her way into anything. I didn’t have curves, or a body men would die for, but I knew how to exude strength and confidence.
I close my eyes. I am her.
I open my eyes as I open the door and push myself inside the den of the most evil men in the world—men who kill, torture, and sell women.
I expect arms to grip me. A man to tackle me. Some movement to try to throw me out. So when I feel nothing but the warm air of the club against my cold skin, I exhale sharply. I’m emitting steam and ice in a
place built of fire.
I force myself to keep my head high and meet the customers’ eyes as I walk into the large room holding men seated at tables with drinks and half-naked women dancing around them.
I don’t belong here, but maybe they will think I’m one of the dancers who hasn’t changed into her stripping attire yet.
If they looked at me at all, they would know that isn’t the truth. They would realize I’m just a broken bag of bones and flesh.
Surrender is precisely what anyone would expect a club to look like. You would never know these men are more dangerous than the average. Other than the furniture being more luxurious and talent of the dancers being better than most, I’ve stepped into numerous clubs like this along the Miami coastline.
This isn’t where I’ll find Enzo. This isn’t the deepest, darkest place of the club. This is for appearances, so if anyone like me stumbles inside, they won’t realize what they found.
I don’t think Enzo is these men’s leader, but even if he were, he’s proud enough not to bother mingling with the men at the bottom. At least he was three years ago.
The covered clothes I’m wearing feels like a mistake. The sweater and jeans are suffocating me and make it impossible to pretend to be a dancer or a waiter, which are the only role a woman has in a club like this.
But I keep walking, and no one stops me. No one asks me a question. No one even raises an eyebrow.
It’s eerie how the men continue on. I feel like a ghost. Maybe I am? Maybe I did die at sea, and I’ve come back to haunt Enzo’s ass?
I make it out of the main room and find myself in a hidden hallway darker than the main rooms. The blackness should scare me; the amount of light here only makes the wickedness harsher. It does nothing to brighten my way.
But I prefer the dark, the night. The black trapped me for years, but it taught me how to see even without the moonlight.
I walk easily, somehow feeling more at ease as I walk down hallway after hallway.
I should be stopped. I know I’m on camera, but no one stops me.
It’s like Enzo wants me to find him.
I see more light pour through at the end of a hallway, and I hear music again for the first time since I left the main room at the entrance.
This, this is where I’ll get my answers.
I stand in the shadow of the door, wishing I could see what is going on in the room without being seen myself.
I wish I could steal my answers from Enzo as easily as I stole his watch the first time I met him.
Instead of recoiling, I step forward out of the shadows and into the doorway.
Enzo.
He’s seated in a large, red chair at one corner of the room. It looks like it was made for royalty, not his traitorous ass.
His eyes meet mine the instant my body appears in the doorway, as if he knew I was walking down the hallway toward him. No one else notices me. Just him.
Rage, like I’ve never felt before, explodes like shockwaves through my body. This is the man responsible for my years of torment, pain, and suffering. This man chose to sell me to Jarod and his men. This man ensured I hated the sea forever. This man took my life and twisted it into something I’ll never be able to claim as my own. He took my freedom and exchanged it for retching pain.
This man.
This fucking gorgeous, evil man.
Last time I saw Enzo, he was a boy. Tall, his muscles strong, but young. He looked older than his age of seventeen, but now he’s all man. He’s grown into bulk muscle, hardened into a monster of beautiful veins and cords twisting through his body. A shadow of his dark hair covers his rigid chin, sharp lines form his cheeks, and slits for eyes that resemble a snake. His hair is a little longer than before, twisting into black threads weaving his victims under his spell, making it appear he’s innocent when he’s the epitome of evil.
My air is gone as he stares at me. I’ve imagined this moment for years, replaying this moment in my head and all the ways it could play out. With me slapping him, yelling at him, giving him some of his own medicine when I tortured him. I imagined so many variations of what I would do when I first saw Enzo again.
I never expected to freeze like a pussy. I’m strong and fearless. There is nothing left to fear when everything has been taken from you. But standing in front of the man responsible for my breaking is too much for my brain to process.
Enzo stands, brushing off a well-manicured hand that was tracing over the lapel of his suit jacket. A suit that melds over his sculptured muscles like a second layer of skin. I thought he looked good in his clothes before, but now he radiates confidence as he moves like nothing and no one will stop him from getting what he wants.
My eyes widen, their attention drifting from Enzo to the women lounging and dancing around him. Five women, all in various states of dress. Skin tight clothing revealing their breasts and asses, to lingerie, to completely naked. Then I see the men. Two of them wear suits like Enzo’s although they don’t fit as well. And three wear jeans and hoodies. None of the men acknowledge the women, treating them like they are inanimate furniture and decorations instead of real people. It should disgust me, but these women are treated like queens compared to the women on the yacht I’ve spent too much of my life on.
Everyone’s focus is on Enzo as he stands, still gawking at me like he doesn’t believe I’m really here. I doubt he even recognizes me. It’s been years, and I was nothing to him but a paycheck he collected when I was sold to ensure I kept our deal and stayed away. He’s probably just amazed that one of his slaves made it through his security to his door without being thrown out.
Enzo walks toward me, and the room falls silent as their eyes shift to me. I should be terrified of being in a room full of so many predatory men. Men who probably knew about my fate or have helped Enzo do similar things to other women. I don’t feel anything about the other men, only Enzo.
“Out,” Enzo says without tearing his gaze from me. He’s not speaking to me though, he’s speaking to everyone else in the room. His throat growls as he says the word in his deep, authoritative voice. His voice was always strong and powerful. It sounds much the same as I remember, but somehow deeper than before.
The women scatter, but their eyes give me a curious glance before leaving. I watch them from the corner of my eye. They are all beautiful and unbroken, unscarred, untouched.
The men in the hoodies and T-shirts leave next through doors in the back of the room.
The two men in suits linger. One opens his mouth as if he wants to question Enzo’s authority, but he resists the urge. They leave slowly after the rest.
Enzo worked for one of the most powerful men in all of Miami, maybe the world—definitely one of the most dangerous. It seems in the time I’ve been gone, he’s gained more power in the organization. He told me once if he killed me, he’d be free.
He didn’t kill me. So I guess he never got free.
What did selling me get him? Power, women who dance for him, men who shoot without asking questions.
Now that we are alone, my heart speeds. The last time he touched me, he almost killed me with his bare hands on one of his yachts. Then he saved me from drowning when he threw us overboard. I’m not ready for him to touch me again.
But I can’t back up and show my fear.
I take a deep, painful breath as my ribs expand and the broken bones dig deeper inside. I push my chest out, standing as tall as I can in my loose jeans and pale colored sweater.
“You should have killed me,” I say, my first words in days.
Enzo stops a foot in front of me. He doesn’t react to my words, but his eyes read recognition. He knows exactly who I am. The girl he should have killed, turned woman. Because now that I survived, I will get my answers. And I will ensure his life is hell.
I don’t know why Jarod set me free. Maybe Enzo gave him instructions when he sold me to him that I could only go free if I was broken enough to never want to return to Miami. Jarod grew bored of me and
set me free, thinking I was broken. But I wasn’t. I’m not. That was his mistake.
“That can be arranged,” his voice is harsh.
I grit my teeth as my legs begin to tremble beneath me. I don’t even have the strength to keep standing. Why would I think showing up here and demanding answers was a good idea? He’ll sell me again or dispose of me with a click of a gun. I’m nothing to him.
No, I’m something. He was supposed to kill me, not sell me. Whether he thought selling me was a better fate than death I have no idea.
And I’ll ensure he kills me before another man touches me. I’m not afraid of death. And I’m not afraid of Enzo.
“Then what are you waiting for—kill me,” I say. He won’t. I can see he has as many questions behind his eyes as I do. He wants to know what happened to me. How I escaped my master? Why I’m here?
He tilts his chin as if that will give him a better angle to view my thin-as-a-toothpick body. That’s all he can see though: how skinny I am. The broken bones, the bruises, and the scars are mostly hidden. Unless he examines my toes or fingers, he won’t see any broken bones. My nose has been shattered several times, but my left eye has a deep bruise that would be impossible to hide even from makeup.
“I could kill you,” he nods as if considering it. “Or we could play a game.”
My heart stills. I know exactly what game he is talking about—truth or lies. The same game I taught him last time. The game I won. Winning the game didn’t matter though. I ended up an empty shell of the woman I once was.
“I think I’d rather be dead.”
His eyes narrow and his jaw tenses. “Why?”
“Because in death I might finally be free.”
He walks toward me again, and I still, silently begging him not to touch me. My body screams on the inside to stay away, but I’m afraid if I speak, he will stroke me intentionally. My skin crawls at that thought.
He doesn’t touch me as he circles me like a hawk determining how to snatch its prey. After circling he stops in front of me.
“Death won’t free you.” He steps back, giving me space to breathe.