Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance

by Watson, Meg

  At first I wondered how they were doing without me at the club, how Gianna was doing, but now I don't even care. At least that beast Roman hasn’t tried to break down the door yet. Alek I would peg for more of a scale-the-exterior-wall-sort. Something flashier.

  But neither has shown up. I keep expecting it, keep dreaming where Alek comes bursting through the window, or Roman through the door. Or one of them flowing through the air vents like smoke. They’re haunting me.

  In my dreams, I'm outside, just walking around. Going to the store or the movies or whatever. And then Roman is there, his breath in my ears and his hands on my skin. I slip away somehow but Alek is there, popping up in my path like he knew where I would be. I want to run but I can't go anywhere. It's like his fingers are cages. He doesn't even hurt me, I hurt myself. I turn around and Roman is there too. I throw myself at the bars of the cage until I'm bleeding.

  But they are the cage. They are the trap, and I know it.

  I'm fairly certain that they're not calling as often now. Daddy must have given one of them my number, probably Roman. And then Roman must have given it to Alek since he seems to like to talk so damn much.

  At first it seemed like my phone was ringing with calls and texts every few minutes. Then the times between just got longer and longer as they got the hint. It probably seems natural, right? Of course I don't want to come out. Of course I want some time to myself.

  But I'm just waiting for my moment, and I think my moment is here. The phone starts buzzing again and I count to twenty, then it stops. If it doesn't ring again for another four minutes, I'm going to do it.

  I'm leaving. I'm done.

  Over the past several days, I've packed everything. Piece by piece, with long periods of time in between in case there are cameras in here, in case there are microphones. I couldn't just open every drawer and dump everything into a bag. I had to do it little by little.

  Luckily, I was already about halfway there. But gathering everything from soap to shoes to cosmetics took some doing. I didn't want to arouse suspicion, didn’t want to find Nuncio with an ax taking down my door if Daddy figured it out.

  It's been two minutes, and the phone hasn’t rung again. I stare at the backpack. After some thought, I decided one bag was all I needed. One backpack plus one purse with $12,000 in the bottom of it. That's it. It had better be enough.

  The backpack only has essential things. I'm leaving behind a whole wardrobe. Any girl would kill for this wardrobe, and I only took a few pairs of jeans and some nondescript T-shirts out of it. Everything else can stay. I won’t need it anymore. I can buy things at thrift stores or something, whenever I get to where I'm going.

  If only I knew where that was.

  Three minutes.

  Taking a deep breath, I open up my bag and drag out my wallet. I snap it open and pull out four of the five credit cards. I won’t be able to use credit cards, they’re too easy to trace. Just cash from now on. That's it.

  Three minutes and thirty seconds.

  Suddenly I hear footsteps in the kitchen, shuffling and the sound of pots. They're all in the kitchen, yelling and cooking something apparently. Nuncio, maybe Bobby. Maybe Rico and Steveo, what do I know? There could be a whole battalion of soldiers in my kitchen right now, just waiting for something to do. Starting on breakfast. Waiting for the chance to either save me or arrest me. Put me back in my prison, safe and sound.

  Four minutes.

  All right, let's go.

  Taking an elastic from the cup in my bathroom, I put my hair up in a high ponytail and cover that with a knit cap. Pulling it down over my eyes I carefully open the chain on my door, then turn the handle as silently as I can. I hear their voices in the kitchen, laughing and joking as the espresso machine heats up. That's excellent. Couldn't have planned it better. I wait for the sound of foaming milk, that loud roar of the steam wand, and then I dash down the front stairs in my sneakers and silently slip out the front door.

  Miraculously, Nuncio is not out here. Everybody's in the kitchen. I hold my breath and run as fast as I can, turning left immediately and heading through a gangway between two buildings, then down the alley, then right toward the hospital.

  In two minutes I'm breathless and still sprinting and further from my apartment than I thought I would be. Excitement bubbles in my chest and I feel like I've just been let off my leash. I want to turn around in circles like a puppy who doesn't know what he's doing yet.

  A taxi swerves past me and I’m about to raise my hand, but then I stop. If they figure it out, that's exactly what they'll expect. Daddy knows all the cab companies, and they’ll find me in moments.

  But up ahead, I see the blue sign for the L. I can take the L train to the airport, and they would never look for me that way. They would never think that I would actually just go ahead and take public transportation. So that’s exactly what I'm going to do.

  ***

  It's like a dream. Everything I have is now in these two bags, my starter kit. The first day of the rest of my life, I think as I look out the windows of the train car. Between stations, it’s just hazy glass. Then we slow toward the station to see the banks of fluorescent lights and the tiled walls. Guys with guitars and hats on the floor. Signs of the nearest intersection. The train starts up again.

  People get on, people get off, while I sit here clutching my two bags like life rafts. People get on, people get off. Then the doors close and the train shoots into the darkness again.

  Closer to downtown, the tracks rise and we emerge from the ground to the elevated tracks that circle downtown. There are probably half a million people in these offices, just trained to ignore the el as it rumbles outside their businesses. They don’t even know I’m here. They don’t even care. I could be any one of them.

  We come to another stop and I leave the car, standing still on the platform and waiting for the other train that will get me the rest of the way to the airport. People walk past me, not even looking at me. I'm just some regular girl, maybe a college student or something. I feel utterly, deliciously anonymous.

  I get on the blue train and find a seat. The same sorts of people glance at me and then away, looking back at their phones and their magazines like I don't even exist. I almost want to cry out, to tell them what I've done. They don't even know the kind of jailbreak I just pulled off. Everybody would be so impressed if they knew.

  It takes about another half an hour before we are cruising alongside the highway, getting close to the airport. The rocking of the train is so soothing, I almost want to sleep, but my whole body is buzzing with anticipation.

  Finally, we slow at the last stop: the end of the line. The doors open and everybody piles out into the subterranean station. Long escalators stretch up into the ticket area, and as I'm standing on a stair, trying to be calm, I have to suppress another wave of noisy glee.

  Unconsciously, my hand goes to my pocket because I want to text Gianna. But I know that's the wrong thing to do. I can't reach out to her, not yet. She’ll be so disappointed… Yet so happy. She knew I wanted to do this, knew I'd been saving up for years. I didn’t know it would be so soon, but I knew that one day I would get out. One day I would be free.

  My eyes scan the departures list as I'm waiting in line, trying to pick where I should go. Could be anywhere, really. There's a whole world of places. To be honest, the best place for me to go is probably Halifax, or Alberta. Somewhere in Canada. I doubt anyone would look for me there.

  But instead I decide to treat myself to something a little less snowy and look at the flight to Argentina. It seems like a sort of poetic thing to do, fly to Argentina and retire. Live out my days over the water somewhere, drinking tiny coffees and talking to other expatriates.

  I should change my name. What should it be? Loretta. That sounds good.

  No wait. That is a country music star.

  Amber. Ricky. Toni. Lisette. Eloise.

  A million names. I could take any one. A different one every day. The pos
sibilities are breathtaking.

  Or, more sensibly. I could just use my middle name, Francesca. That might be a little easier, because Daddy calls me Francesca sometimes. At least I might remember to respond when people call me.

  Oh, Daddy. A wave of remorse surges inside me. He's going to be so sad. I know it. Even though he's gruff and horrible sometimes, this is going to break his heart.

  The ticket agent waves me forward, and I step ahead boldly into the empty space in front of her. I drop my passport and drivers license down at the counter and slide them to her.

  “Argentina, please. The next flight,” I say in a trembling voice.

  She snaps open my passport and peers at it, then compares it with my drivers license. After tapping into her keyboard, she gives me one of those professional smiles and raises her eyebrows. “Return date?”

  I take a deep breath and smile. “One way,” I whisper.

  She nods, crinkling her eyes at the edges.

  Any moment now, I expect her to stop typing and look up at me, startled. I think that I must be on some kind of universal no-fly list, or a list that says you have to call my daddy in order to get permission.

  And yet, there's none of that. Tap tap tap. She reaches down and plucks something off of a printer and then slides it into an envelope, stapling neatly at the corners.

  “Checked baggage?”

  I can't believe how easy this is. “No, just this,” I say, indicating my backpack.

  She slides the envelope toward me with another impersonal smile. Her eyes are already darting over my shoulder to the next person in line. “Have a wonderful flight,” she says as her way of dismissing me.

  My mouth is suddenly dry as I pick up the envelope and nod my thanks. I head off toward Customs and wait in line, my lips pressed tightly together so that I don't start singing spontaneously or something.

  It's happening. Right now. It's totally happening.

  The flight leaves in 55 minutes, down to 35 minutes when I finally get through Customs and taking my shoes off and putting them back on three different times. I scamper along the moving walkways, briskly shooting through the terminal arm toward the airplane that's going to take me away from here. My heart is a hummingbird in my chest. My brain is awash with snippets of pop songs.

  Just before I get my gate, I swerve to the left to grab a quick latte. The lady prepares it in a flash, pushing it toward me with my new name scrawled on the bottom. Luna. That's a good name. The moon. That's me, waxing and waning. Currently full. Or new. I want to giggle at the thought, ridiculously pleased my own cleverness.

  I ask her where the ladies room is and she gestures with her chin. Shouldering my backpack again, I take a quick sip of the sweet, hot latte before heading to the bathroom.

  The stalls are hospital clean and flush decisively with a roar that indicates that anything I just left there has been scrubbed away into nothingness. I come back out of the stall and head toward the sink, ready to wash my hands for the last time in Chicago.

  I know it sounds silly, but I keep doing that. My last latte in Chicago. My last bathroom flush in Chicago. My last time staring in the mirror in Chicago.

  As I'm moving my hands underneath the roar of the hot air dispenser to dry them, I feel the door open behind me. Instinctively I glance over my right shoulder as a tall, stringy, dark-haired man approaches. He must be lost.

  I want to explain to him that he's in the wrong place but he looks like he knows me, his mouth curling up in a diagonal smile. I only have time to suck in one yelping breath before he's got his hand clamped firmly over my mouth. Another man comes up swiftly behind him, plucking my two bags off the counter and putting them over his shoulder.

  “One word,” says the stringy man, whispering so close to my face that I can smell his rancid coffee breath. Cigarettes and booze. Tooth decay. “One sound out of you, and I’ll slit your throat.”

  I shake my head, whimpering, I can’t help it. This can't be happening. This can't be right. I'm so close!

  The second guy picks up my coffee cup off the counter and smiles at it. He’s got a gold tooth and a neck tattoo that says “Gabriella” with a lot of curling shapes.

  “Luna? That's hilarious,” he scoffs. “Let's just see what we have here… Marie.”

  The first guy still has his hand pressed hard over my mouth. He raises his eyebrows at his friend. “Check her ID. Make sure.”

  The second guy pulls my wallet out of my purse and looks at the ID. “Marie Francesca Lauro,” he says in a lurid sing-song.

  Stringy guy’s skin is pockmarked and stained like a gravel road. He comes in closer, sniffing my hairline lasciviously. “Marie, Marie,” he snarls as he forces my head back. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you it’s not nice to lie?”

  I don’t say anything. I want to cry. I want to scream, but his hand is so hard over my mouth I can feel my lips bruising on my teeth. I just nod, hoping he's going to call Daddy and tell him I was good. Tell him I didn't try to struggle, I didn't embarrass him.

  Bad breath guy looks at me with a leer. “What we’re gonna do is, you're going to come with us real quiet. You can save your screaming for when we get to the car.”

  I nod quickly to indicate that I understand. Truth be told, I wonder what took them so long.

  “I don't think she's gonna do it," says stringy guy.

  Stringy guy pulls me closer to him, moving me up and down so my ass strokes against his front. When Daddy hears about this, he'll have this guy’s tongue for soup.

  “Oh, she’ll be good,” bad breath guy sneers. “You like breathing, don't you?”

  I nod again.

  “Because it doesn't matter to me, you know,” he explains. “All I need to do is bring you to the drop off point. Whether you're still breathing at that point is negotiable. You understand? Move your hand, Emilio. Say you understand, Marie.”

  Stringy guy lets his hand fall. It knocks against my tit on the way down.

  “I understand,” I hiss, now free to breathe. My lips hurt. “When Daddy hears about how you're talking to me, he's not going to like it!”

  The two guys look at each other and burst out laughing. Seriously, when Daddy finds out about how these jerks treated me, they don't even know how much trouble they're going to be in. That's the only thing keeping me from completely losing my shit as the bad breath guy yanks me by the elbow and pushes me back out into the terminal hallway.

  I trudge alongside them as they practically drag me through the moving walkways. People don't even seem to really pay attention to what's going on here, but I'm not screaming or struggling too much anyway. I probably just look drunk. Maybe these guys look like they're helping me out, how ironic is that?

  We pass at least a dozen security guards who don't even notice these two have hold of my elbows as they pull me toward the parking garage. Nobody even gives a shit around here. It's like I would have to be waving a sign or something in order for anybody to pay any kind of attention. Even the guy holding my $10,000 purse on his shoulder doesn't raise any eyebrows. People are so stupid sometimes.

  We make it to the parking garage, and I see the black SUV idling right in front of the elevator doors. A third guy climbs down from the driver’s seat pushing a hand through his coarse, curly hair before flicking his fingers toward my captors. He's Puerto Rican, I'm almost sure of it. I couldn’t tell at first but all three of these guys are. Why is Daddy hiring Puerto Ricans to come get me now instead of our own guys? This doesn’t make any sense.

  The driver tosses a black cloth to bad breath guy who tugs it over my head. Now I’m breathing through a hood, and the world has gone completely black. A hood? This is totally fucked up. What am I, a political captive?

  “Jesus, guys!” I yell through the fabric. “Get this thing off my head!”

  I stumble blindly forward as they shove me in the direction of the SUV and hear a door open. My hands push out into the air in front of me. Just as I'm about to get to the part where I think the ca
r is, my right arm is jerked harshly forward and I stumble, knocking my knuckles against the metal door frame.

  I drop to my knees and hear a grunt and a wet squawking sound. Everything is confusion as bad breath guy’s voice cracks in an abbreviated snarl. I hear the sound of footsteps and someone cursing.

  Nobody's holding my arm so I pull the corner of the hood over my chin and peek out. A big form is blocking my view, but I can see bad breath guy crumpled on the ground in front of me. His eyes stare blankly at the ceiling, his mouth open in a frozen expression of surprise.

  The figure in front of me twists slightly. “Close your eyes!”

  I push myself backward toward the wheel well, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. “Wait? What?”

  Roman crouches so that his back is closer to mine. I can see that he's got the stringy guy by the scruff of the neck and the driver pressed to the ground under his boot heel. The dark metal of a pistol gleams in his hand, but then he moves his arm away so I can't see it anymore.

  “Close your eyes, goddamnit!” he snarls again.

  I yank the hood back over my face and jam the heels of my hands against my eye sockets as two soft pops echo briefly in the concrete garage. Heavy sounds follow immediately, and I can almost see in my mind’s eye the driver and the stringy guy falling to lie still on the oil-stained concrete.

  A hand circles my elbow and jerks me roughly to standing. Arms surround me and the hood slides off my head. I’m being carried or dragged in the opposite direction, swiftly.

  “What did you… Did you do that? Did you have to kill them?!”

  Roman gives me a disgusted look yet keeps guiding me through the maze of cars to an idling Jeep near a pylon. He opens the door and practically hurls me into the passenger seat, but then stops to take a second to strap the seatbelt over my waist.

  My breath is coming out in short, explosive gasps as he rushes around to the driver side and then gets in. In seconds we're out of the parking garage, barreling down the exit ramp toward the interstate.