by Anthology
I fell for Lorenzo a little when one of Alberto’s men tried to hurt me. He protected me and took me home to Alberto after beating the man to a pulp. I had apparently conned Alberto’s associate out of a few grand of drugs. He slapped me around before Lorenzo could make it to my side, but when he did, I couldn’t stop the frenzy of attacks that were unleashed. I had no idea he was quite so brutal, but what else could I expect? He was Alberto Abbiati’s sidekick, he had to be without morals as it was, but seeing someone hit me made him feral.
It was that night as he cleaned me up that we first kissed. For the time before I had been enamored of him, but that was a matter of who he looked like. That night, I started an affair with him I knew I couldn’t finish, but only because he made me feel safe in a place that will never be deemed that. He offered me love when I had none around me, nor did I have any to give.
“Your sister,” Lorenzo starts off, giving me a chaste look before looking at my brothers, “she is a very special lady. She shouldn’t have to be forced to do the things she has.” He reaches for my hand, taking it and lacing long, slender tanned fingers with mine. “I only save her from so much.”
“You did a great job,” I say, weakly trying to let him know he had no part in forcing me to be a bitch.
“Not good enough,” he whispers to me, and I see the doleful note to his bright green eyes. “A woman so beautiful should only be loved. Never harmed. I intend to make you see that. I love you, Amelia, let me show you just what I will do.”
My eyes water as he pledges a promise of something I cannot take. I have to go for air. I cannot tolerate the amount of love he has for more when I feel nothing but lustful greed to get a quick fuck and a beating heart. I think, of all my actions, this is my worst. I’m toying with a man’s heart like I never had. I know how fragile my own is, so why is it okay to play with Lorenzo’s and think he’ll be just fine? It’s not okay, and I’m even more of a beast for assuming so.
The air outside is like a cold bucket of water and I unravel. I mutter in broken Italian under my breath as I walk across the veranda away from the doorway to the kitchen, and I feel like I’m falling apart. I can be mean to my father and not care, but Lorenzo makes me feel;, he makes me feel like I should be a better person. Maybe that’s the only reason I didn’t stop him from coming with me. I needed him for verification that I could still feel something other than unbridled hatred to the world.
“Hey,” Enzo’s soothing voice travels toward me. “What’s got you bolting away?”
“Everything,” I admit feebly, and I rub the back of my hand over my face to rid the tears. “There is no going back from this now, Enzo. There’s no way to save me. This is me set for life now, you know that, right?”
“It’s not,” he states, and even as I nod, he sticks to his word. “There is going to be something that will give you some sort of faith back.” He offers me such a sincere look, and I wish that was enough to move on from the pessimism I live with. “I don’t know when, but it will.”
“I’m too far gone to be saved,” I murmur as shame fills me up, drowning me. “I don’t even deserve it, Enzo. What I’ve done...” I don’t finish, just shake my head in dismay, and feel that disappointment in myself take over. It wraps itself around me, and I feel like I’m suffocating within its tight squeeze. “It makes me more like Giovanni than anything. I don’t want to be like him.”
“A monster wouldn’t be sorry,” Enzo says, and I look at him. “Monsters don’t feel, don’t care, and don’t repent.”
His words trigger a spell of nostalgia. Zane reminded once that I was never the monster I thought I was. He believed in me, fought for my own self-worth, and built me up – only to tear me down. After all, the day Zane broke my heart and ended round two was the day I ceased to properly exist. But I never lost the belief that somewhere within me was a beacon of hope. A prospect of salvation. A likelihood of rescue. Now, I struggle even to smile. What hope do I have to dream of a better outlook?
“You are not a monster,” he states again, this time with ample conviction lacing his every word.
“You don’t know what I’ve done,” I defy him, dropping my gaze. “I am not the same sister that left.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to be her.” He grants me the chance to be damaged without a second glance of regret. Enzo accepts that I will have changed, that I’m not the girl I was, but he looks at me with a heated demeanor. I feel a swirl of serenity come to live within me as I look back up. Enzo isn’t giving up on me and I see that all over his face. “I wish I had saved you. I wished we could have done more to find you, but Papà made sure you were nowhere to be found when really you were right under our noses. Amelia, I would have been there in a heartbeat, but the one time we got there, you weren’t around and nor was anything that would tie you to our Amalfi Coast home.”
“You came for me?” I ask, trying not to sound so horrified.
“Of course we did,” Enzo says, placing his arms around me to draw me in a hug. “Amelia, we have been at was with Papà and Giovanni to get you back with us. Our family isn’t complete without you.”
His hug tightens tenfold, and I enjoy the suffocating hold he has on me. I relish it, holding on tighter and falling hard against him, enjoying the sweet scent of his cologne. Enzo makes me feel safe and calm. He makes me feel sanity take control again. It’s for this reason that he is and always will be my father figure.
“I’ve missed you so much, Lia,” he whispers, kissing my hair. “I knew I would get you back damaged, and I know I still have no idea how bad you are, but I will never stop fighting for you.”
It’s then that I break down into a flood of tears. The torrents align across my lashes and fall in drops down my cheek, leaving a trail. I become unbidden, and I just cry. I cling to lost hope and he’s here feeding my new faith. He’s trying to get rid of my worries, save my soul, and restore me all in one quick jaunt. I’m terrified it’s never going to be that easy to continue living with myself.
“Don’t ever think I’ll leave you in the dark.” His words hit me hard, my heart listening, my soul a little more resistant. “I know you better than you know yourself. I know the demons you carry with you.”
I nuzzle into his chest a little more seeking. “You don’t know the new ones,” I whimper and feel my desolation echo louder than ever.
“I’ll meet them soon,” he vows. He does learn of all my demons, and he does take them on as his own, so I shouldn’t be so shocked that he’ll want to know my recent torturous devilish imps. “I wouldn’t be your big brother if I didn’t try and help you whenever I can, Amelia.” He continues to rub soothing lines and circles into my back and I finally begin to calm down enough to pull away. “I will never leave you to deal with this alone. I’m just happy you came home so I can prove that.” Before I put distance between us again, his places a hand to my chin, rubbing his thumb across my cheek to smear away my tears. “We are never past saving.”
We are all but choking angels. We have clipped wings, slipped halos, and dirty consciences. Every one of us has secrets and inner fiends that will destroy from the inside out, but we all have a fighting spirit. We are all worth saving. We have a secret yearn to be free of the devilish clutches that force us to decide between right and wrong, family and freedom, life and death.
Being an Abbiati forces you to become a dreamer. Being the fallen angel sounds alluring until you become just that and you realize hell is already burning around you.
“Amelia!” my name punctuates the air in the same way it had when it rolled off my uncle’s tongue. This time, however, my father’s voice tosses my name out. “Get to my office now!”
“Showtime,” I whisper miserably and finally withdraw from my brother’s arms.
I don’t go through the kitchen. Instead, I head through the meeting room, evading an array of worried looks like the one Enzo presented. I march toward my father’s office and find him walking toward me.
“What do you want
now?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. “To be honest, I have terrible jet lag and the last thing I want is another altercation with you.”
“I think we should take this to my office,” my father declares, admonishing my comments all over again. “There’s business we need to attend to.”
Great, straight home and straight back to the grind, I think to myself. “What is this? Now that I’m home, you’ll give me a new kill list?”
“No,” my father blandly replies and the look in his eyes is unreadable. He looks lifeless right now and I hate not seeing any intent in his eyes. “This is far more dire.”
“Whatever,” I state and roll my eyes. I know I must look like a petulant teenager, but I want to sort a room for Lorenzo and hop in a shower before settling back into the normality of Abbiati life. “Let’s get this over with.”
He leads the way and I follow. As always, I prepare to assume the seat I usually do – the one to my father’s right, but I find it already occupied. I can only see the back of the person’s head, but I can tell from the hair color and cut exactly who it is. I don’t need to see the face.
My heart stops dead in my chest before thundering to life. I feel my ribcage struggle to refrain from crashing out and revealing with a lover’s fool.
I reach for the doorframe as my legs weaken, and my eyes water as I utter the only thing I can, “Zane?”
HOLT
By: A.M. Wilson
An Important Note from the Author:
Dear Readers,
Holt’s book was the hardest book I’ve written to date. I never expected to struggle so badly with a characters story as I did in this novella. The amount of times I had to put down my laptop and take a break was incredible. And frustrating. In the end, I accomplished it. It just took longer than expected.
This book contains scenes of graphic violence and abuse towards women. I tried to be as delicate as possible, while at the same time, staying true to my characters. If rape, torture, violence, and death are triggers for you, please skip over this book. There is a use of an artistic license to paint the picture how it appeared in my head, but sex trafficking is a very real thing.
For more information, check out the National Human Trafficking Resource Center at traffickingresourcecenter.org or The Polaris Project https://polarisproject.org/sex-trafficking
Holt and Brandi’s story is a very special tie-in to my Revive series. It can be read as a standalone, and for those of you who haven’t picked up my Revive series, there isn’t any information you’re missing by not reading those books first. This is a prequel of sorts, taking place around six years prior to Redesigning Fate.
Lastly, Holt and Brandi’s story does not have an HEA. As you read the Revive series, the reasons why there story is the way it is will become more evident. But also, not everything in life works out the way we want it to. No matter how hard we push and fight for the outcome we want, sometimes things happen. People get sick, they die, lose their jobs, become homeless, and innocent children are kidnapped. The best we can do is learn from our mistakes and learn to pick up the remaining pieces and live on.
So live on. It might not feel like it, but there’s good in this story too. I hope you can find it.
Love,
Allison
A. M. Wilson
Holt
MY ALIAS IS BRIXTON Holt. Using my real name could get me killed. When the FBI needed a man undercover, I was the perfect candidate. Unattached and an all-around badass. Two years of infiltrating the largest sex trafficking ring in the country, I feel as dirty as the monsters I work for. I spend day after day locked in this shit hole, trying to pretend I’m one of them.
It’s becoming easier to not have to pretend.
I stalk the foyer, watching as the girls line up to work tonight. When they’re in house, there’s a no clothes rule, but when they leave for prostitution, Gutierrez gives them something to wear.
Tonight, they’ll be in two separate motels. Cheap, rundown pieces of shit where you pay by the hour for a room. Slimy bastards crawl out from whatever holes they hide in and know exactly what to say to get what they want.
It’s my night off, but I’m here as intimidation. They’re all afraid of me, even though I’m not half as bad as the rest of these fucks. I peruse the line, flicking my gaze between the pale, fearful, and drugged faces. Some of the girls need a little extra something to make sure they perform. Not all though.
Not her.
I tell myself to move on, but my eyes land on Brandi.
She once told me her real name is Molly Sinclair, but we don’t use those here. We don’t want to remind the girls of their pasts. Incidentally, I named her Brandi myself after she arrived a couple months ago. It was because of her eyes, a rich brown that reminded me of cognac.
Crossing my arms on my chest, I lean against the wall behind me and take her in.
I want to ignore her.
But goddamn, she’s beautiful. Her hair is a dark brown that she cropped to her shoulders after she arrived. And even though her skin is pale and her body is malnourished, she still holds a spark of innocence that I feel straight in my gut.
“Everyone out,” Gutierrez barks, and I startle from my daze.
The girls turn and walk single file out the door to the garage, but for a split second, her head turns. Her eyes latch onto mine. I keep my face cold and empty while she looks on. Her pale cheeks pink, and eventually, she turns forward again.
Getting attached would be a bad fucking idea.
***
This place reeks of sex. It always does, but tonight is particularly bad. Gutierrez is throwing a party of sorts. He isn’t celebrating, yet. A more appropriate name would be a pre-party, because tonight he’s selling. The room is full of potential buyers testing out the merchandise. Tomorrow will be the real party after he counts all his profits, taking out his frustrations on the bitches that didn’t sell and celebrating all the empty beds he can fill with new bodies for the next round.
Alejandro Gutierrez is the sickest bastard around, and I’m his right hand man.
The crowded room looks as if it’s undulating in the dim lighting. Every polished surface is occupied with a buyer and one to several girls. Gutierrez doesn’t run his business like most.
Many traffickers want their merch untouched for sales. They try to give off the impression of clean, wholesome virgins that the buyers can purchase to break themselves. Gutierrez runs a different game.
Every man who fucks a girl here tonight has to pay. If he fucks more than one, he has to pay for each. Even before he makes a purchase, he’s screwing the girls and racking up money for Gutierrez. And the boss man makes bank.
He rakes in more money tonight than he would in an entire month of prostituting bitches, and that’s before he even makes a sale.
These girls sell for tens to hundreds of thousands of dollars depending on their stats and where they’re going. Porcelain skin platinum blonde going to the Middle East? Fucking gold. Prime pubescent aged girl going to a breeding farm? Again, gold. Bought to be a sadist’s fuck toy? Not worth as much, but still more than a few weeks of prostituting.
I landed here as a job, but when you live with scum long enough you lose sight of yourself. As the right-hand man, I’ve been granted certain…privileges. Privileges I can’t let go to waste.
Or so it seems.
It’s taken me years to move up the ranks, to earn the trust I have. I’d look more than a little suspicious if I turned down the samplings offered to me. Besides, I like to think I’m a bit more palatable than the other sick bastards that come around.
I’ve never fucked a girl here, and I never make her perform if she’s particularly resistant. I never said I wasn’t an asshole. Appearances and morals just don’t mix in this world. I was condemned to hell the moment I ended up here. Might as well try to make it a little easier on everyone.
My eyes scan the crowded room, trying to decipher faces through the haze of smoke. Gutierrez is
across the room with a sick, smug look on his face, watching a buyer take one of the girls in the ass. I look away before I can recognize who it is. She’ll probably be sold by the end of the night anyways.
My feet carry me towards the pen on the other side before I decide what I want. I look around the tight pack of girls, searching for her. No matter how many times I tell myself to stop, I always search for her. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she wants me to find her, too.
Brandi looks out at me from the back of the group, her short brown hair hanging across her face in a thick curtain. Her cognac brown eyes are lifeless, yet I swear I see a flash in them when she sees me. It’s probably wishful thinking. A woman like her doesn’t want anything to do with a ruthless monster like me.
“Brandi,” I call out, and her head jerks.
She steps obediently through the other naked bodies until she’s standing by the gate. My eyes rake down her nakedness, stopping to take in her tight brown nipples and small round tits, continuing down to the rich brown curls of her cunt.
“Yes, Sir?”
“Come,” I reply, then wait until she lets herself out.
She stops on front of me, and I can’t help but reach out and grab her breast. I don’t know what the fuck is the matter with me, but this girl has me tangled in her web. The only reason I’ve called her out is so I don’t have to watch her fuck another man. That, and because I want those pretty pink lips wrapped around my cock.
Scanning the room through the haze of smoke, I find the perfect spot and lead her towards the mantel where a fire roars in the grate. I position myself on the wall beside it, facing the fire, close enough to feel it’s warmth on my face.
“Kneel by the fire, Brandi, and pull out my cock.” I watch astounded, and with a wave of pleasure, as her skin ripples in goosebumps.