Silence simmered on the other side of the phone line as Faraji contemplated the same information. “Stay where you are. I’ll send someone to pick you up.”
“Not even gonna ask if I’m injured?” Ekene tried to chuckle. Anything to lighten the dreary mood.
“Wouldn’t matter if you were.” Faraji drawled, and Ekene imagined his brothers eyes rolling right out of his head. “You know dad expects you to fix this, be it with two broken arms or full health.”
When the car arrived, he waved off the paramedics and their insistence that he go to the hospital for further observation. He got into the passenger seat of a sleek Italian sports car. On the ride to Caton Industries, his father’s Italian division, there was nothing to do except ruminate on what happened.
The helicopter had continued to fly closer to the ship, and the photographer distracted Ekene with her incessant complaints. It was too little too late when he glanced at the sky and noticed black masks and automatic weapons.
“Give me that camera!” he’d shouted, ripping the lense from its stand. As he suffered through the screeching demands to put it back, and ignored the gentle touch of Rosamma’s hand on his arm, he angled it up. With a powerful zoom, he identified the weapons they were using. But there was no time. One of the masked men raised a control with a red button. “Get down!”
His arms engulfed Rosamma as the trireme shook from a powerful blast. Bubbles erupted from beneath the ship, the explosion coming from down below. Knocked to the ground, the helicopter arrived before Ekene could drag himself to his feet. Rosamma rolled along the ground when three men propelled from the helicopter, descending on black rope. She collided hard with his chest, loud whimpers filling his eardrums with wordless pleas.
He grabbed at the beretta tucked in his waistband, and a hail of bullets splintered wood next to Ekene’s face. It stopped him in his tracks. The ship wobbled as it began to sink, the hole in the trireme’s hull sucking in gallons of water. Armored men approached with skilled weariness, prepared for attack.
One of them reached for Rosamma. She screamed at the touch of a gloved hand, and Ekene couldn’t help but try to hold her against his body. “No-” He grunted. He begged. Ekene never lost a man, all the people he protected were safe at the end of his contract. “No!”
A rifle butt slammed into his temple, and there was silence. Pictures played a wordless movie as he laid stunned. The world tilted on its axis when they pulled Rosamma from his arms, but his joints were too leaden to hold on. When he blinked, they were at the rope, two men standing guard as another strapped a struggling spit fire to his chest.
No matter how much she bit and clawed, there was no escape. A backhand collided with her cheek stunning Rosamma into compliance long enough to tug on the black rope. Water rushed to meet Ekene’s boots as she rose in the sky. She screamed his name, a long drawn-out wail of terror the first sound to break through the overwhelming silence.
Seconds later calm ocean took the ship, dragging him beneath the waves with it. He replayed scene after scene on the drive to Caton Industries, looking for something he could have done different. Finding nothing. That was the most frustrating part. Because he wasn’t prepared enough, they took Rosamma. Wherever she was, she was suffering because of his own failings.
By the time his driver arrived at Caton Industries, a tall glass building with reflective windows, Ekene’s brain felt like mush. Faraji was waiting at the door, arms crossed and ready to take on the world at the drop of a hat. His brother jogged down concrete steps to meet him, opening the butterfly door with a whoosh.
“Father is waiting in the conference room.” A greeting would be too much to ask for, but at least they shared a quick hug before making their way upstairs. Faraji looked at odds with the interior. Rich hardwood covered the floor, expensive flora decorating the place in fancy vases. It clashed with his brothers skinny jeans, and death metal shirt. The face piercing and the impractical chain belt too.
Elevator music played a soft classical piano as they stood in silence, the beep of each floor making Ekene flinch. They went to the tenth floor. Without needing to ask, Ekene met his father in the second conference room to the right. It’s a damn near replica of his own office in the states. Glass windows, a glass table, and flowers. It was the ‘in’ corporate look for conference meetings this and every other season.
There were two changes. One difference was a large flat screen TV at the head of the table, the other a laptop and brown suitcase sitting in front of a chair. Uday’s furious face glared at him from the HD TV screen, a mixture of disappointment and disbelief battling for superiority. His brother sat at the computer and began typing as if he were deaf.
“You were supposed to be taking this seriously.” Were his father’s first words.
“I was.” Ekene choked out.
“Don’t lie to me, son.” The harsh whisper of Uday’s voice was worse than the shout he expected. “You got a girl killed if we’re lucky. Depending on who got her… she might be wishing she’s dead as we speak. Explain yourself.”
“They knew where we’d be. They set explosive charges -”
“And you didn’t find them?”
Ekene’s lips pursed. “No. Sir.” There were no excuses his father would accept. Not after ignoring the first rule of security detail - do a sweep of all new settings. But she was a fucking fashion model, a nobody, someone to threaten to get under Saverio’s skin. “What do we do, father?”
Desperation seeped from Ekene’s question, a child asking daddy for help. The hard lines of his father’s face relaxed, unable to stay emotionless at the distress of his child. Even if that kid was Ekene.
“We get her back.” Uday sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “If we can. Faraji is checking our network for any whispers as we speak.”
“Yo.” His brother lifted a hand from his spot at the table, intense brown eyes never leaving the screen of his laptop.
“We have to wait?” Ekene demanded, a call to action aching beneath his breastbone.
“Depends.” Faraji said, unclasping the suitcase to reveal the contents inside. It’s a copy of the paperwork Uday gave to Ekene in New York. “Some groups will want everyone to know they have her. Others will be content letting her body wash up on the shores of Rome.”
A cold chill stole into the room, freezing Ekene’s blood to ice. The image of Rosamma’s sun kissed skin bloated from ocean water, hair limp and chewn on by fish would haunt him tonight. Bones creaking from the exertion of staying still, he sat across from Faraji, muscles tensed and ready for action.
His brother handled the seedy underhanded deals Uday (and any billionaire) was prone to making. If anyone could crack who kidnapped Rosamma, it would be him. “We’ll call you when we have something, father.” Faraji said, chin lifted to absorb the second of affection Uday offered in the way of an approving head nod.
Capitulo Sei
A twilight zone between the waking world and the unconscious trapped Rosamma. Her head swam, distorting reality into a jumble of confusing moments. Drugged as she was, the sting of a needle still pricked the side of her neck. It tickled and itched, but short walls and a low roof restricted her movements, making it too hard to scratch.
Wooden panel pressed against what Rosamma’s brain identified as naked flesh. In the back of her mind she wondered why she didn’t care about her nudity. Darkness surrounded her. Maybe that was it. Perhaps it was the fetal position her prison forced her to sit in. If not for the ache it created in stiff muscles, the lack of space was almost comforting in its ability to hold her together.
Her mind wandered throughout the drugs haze, slipping in and out of consciousness as what seemed like hours passed. Each time her eyes opened, the calming effect of whatever narcotic pumping inside of her faded more and more into a blind panic. It was when she woke to a cottonmouth, and a raging hangover that Rosamma’s first scream split the air.
It took a moment to even process the miserable headache pounding behi
nd her eyes from the noise. She screamed again, louder, as her hands rose to smack against the roof of her prison. A crate. Whoever took her placed girls in crates to transport. Sickness threatened to spill from her stomach, held back by the idea of sitting in her own filth should she give in and hurl.
Ragged breath after ragged breath, Rosamma tried to calm herself back into a rational creature, only for another surge of panic to claim her. Scream after scream, hit after hit, her hands felt like putty by the time they collapsed at her side. Useless against the hardwood prison.
But she had to try. Again and again, no matter how fruitless her endeavors were. A forlorn knee smacked against the side of the crate, a slow thump, thump, thump. Followed close by a strangled cry. By the pressure on her bladder Rosamma guessed she was left to her misery for no less than a day.
It was then that Rosamma heard the clack of fine Italian made shoes. “Is someone there?” she wailed, new strength invigorating her muscles to beat against ungiving wood once more. A dark seed planted itself in the back of her mind. Rosamma knew she should demand whoever was outside leave her in the box and never come back. But she couldn’t. “Please let me ouuuuut.”
There was no response except for the still air of her crate, and the clack of shoes. The sound stopped in front of her nose. Whoever wore those shoes was so close she could touch them if not constrained by an impenetrable wall.
Knock, knock. Knuckles rapped twice against the roof of her jail.
“Who’s there?” she breathed, attempting to insert a teasing lilt to her voice. By pretending it was a game, for a moment none of this was real.
“Some guy.”
“Some guy, who?” she whispered, the silly joke causing a few tears to seep down her cheeks.
A man’s laughter trickled through the cracks of her crate. It was warm, meant to be soothing and not at all terrifying. Underneath the lie his chuckle was sandpaper trying to scrape away whatever reason she had left.
The whirr of a drill bit squealed when it connected with a screw. After a few moments a corner of the crates lid popped open. No light slipped through the new found crack, the outside of her prison almost darker than the inside. Another corner, then the next, and finally the square wood roof was lifted.
For a moment Rosamma wondered why they’d free her in such a risky way. Her arms shot upwards to bang against her former ceiling, hoping to send her captor reeling. Instead, violent cramps seized her limbs. Pain traveled in two lines down her arms, joining at the base of her neck, and separating at her glutes.
She screamed when her thighs seized, the large muscles twisting into a knot and ripping a sob from her lips. How long had she been in there for a single explosive movement to cripple her entire body? Strong hands gripped her outstretched wrists giving her little time to wallow or contemplate. Three forceful yanks and the man heaved her from the box.
“A joke, followed by a struggle. You are as unique as your packaging claims.” His words made Rosamma feel like a doll, all packaged and ready for delivery. Did that make this man the six-year-old girl who got to play with her?
Chills raked across her skin as her gaze adjusted to the moonlight coming through various portholes. Other crates crowded around her and the man, but no screams from fellow captives greeted Rosamma’s ears.
“Papa says removing something from its packaging makes it lose half the value.” It’s the first thing she thought to say while dangling in this guy’s grip. Another joke earned another laugh, and this time his honeyed voice worked its magic. An inch of tension slipped from her shoulders, and the mans hands let go of her in response. It took every inch of willpower not to collapse under strained, unused, muscles.
Engulfed in shadow as they were, Rosamma was unable to make out any key feature of her captor. Light skin, light eyes, lightish hair that could be any color except black. It wouldn’t be enough for the police to go off of when she escaped. None of this would be. She needed answers, and she needed them - crack!
Fire seared along her cheek, the imprint of a broad hand burning a hot pink on Rosamma’s face. “Wh- what-” Another slap, this time the back of the man’s hand. As if her legs were on a light switch, they gave way milliseconds after the second strike. Strong arms caught her limp frame before Rosamma fell against a dirty floor.
“I’ll allow you one mistake because you don’t know the rules. Please do keep your eyes lowered, my hand hurts.”
“Your hand-” they cut her indignant howl off by digging a fist into her hair and taking command by the root.
“If my hand hurts, I switch to the belt. Don’t think I have any qualms about strangling you until you’re nice and quiet.” With a yank, Rosamma fell into the man’s arms, her naked body rubbing against high quality fabric.
A low moan left her throat, tears springing back to life. “Let go, let go, I need something to wear!”
“I don’t think you quite understand what’s happening.” The strangers rough touch disappeared from Rosamma’s scalp long enough to fling her to the ships floor. Each of her bones knocked against the steel hull, sprouting bruises along every inch of exposed flesh.
Her rational mind said lay still and be the smallest target she could be. But the fight-or-flight instinct raging inside wouldn’t be quelled by thought alone. Scrambling to her hands and knees the sharp command that she “Freeze!” halted Rosamma in place. “Good girl.”
Praise for her obedience flowed in one ear and out the other. Panic bubbled in her chest as the man strode forward, slow enough so as not to frighten the terrified animal she’d become. Eyes down, naked, on her hands and knees unable to flee, a fissure formed at the forefront of Rosamma’s mind.
Schools never mentioned the third option people had when facing danger. They never talked about the terrifying paralysis that would keep her in place and docile, even as ‘Some guy’ crouched in front of her.
“Would you look at that?” The man gave a low whistle of approval, his fingers raising her chin to meet his gaze. Her own stayed lowered. Mama used to play these games for an excuse to ground her. “Why aren’t you meeting my eye?”
“Do as I say, not as I do.” Rosamma repeated Vittoria’s hypocritical mantra as a whisper. “You’ll hit me again if I do.”
“Smart girl. Good girl. You’re everything she promised and more.” Confusion swam through her head at the man’s free confession. Who she was related to garnered enemies, but this, she didn’t understand any of this. The only thing she thought of relied on the universal truth of greed.
“Do you want money?” Were they promised large sums of cash for her delivery to an even worse prospect? “I can pay you more. Double. Triple. Papa will give you anything you want.”
“I’m sure he would.” Heat caressed Rosamma’s naked spine, and she twisted back onto her haunches with a cry. Slender arms whipped up to steal back a modicum of modesty by covering her breasts and the secret place between her legs. Even in near pitch black conditions, where only the outlines of an object was visible, it felt like he could see her clear as day.
“How much, millions?” Her question earned a hum, followed by possessive hands clutching her hips and trailing up the length of her sides.
“A few.” He said, too nonchalant for her tastes. He was busy touching the naked curves of her body and invading the solace only her continued purity provided. She was a virgin and resolved to stay one until marriage. No mistakes like Mama’s.
“Please.” She breathed, a long drawn out whine.
“Please what?”
“Use a condom.” His hands withdrew as if burned.
“Amazing. It’s a bit disappointing how little work you’ll need, but amazing.” An indignant red flushed Rosamma’s cheeks. He talked and prodded as if she were cattle. With every fiber of her being, Rosamma wanted to demand answers. But to fight would only delight his sick mind and provide a tunnel into her psyche.
“Not even going to ask me what I’m talking about? God.” His voice sweltered with unrea
sonable ecstasy, the heat of his desire brushing her cheeks. “I’ve never seen a slave so well behaved without training.”
Her jaw slackened, a violent chill shaking her whole body. Slave? “Wha- what?”
“Now she talks? Finally.” White teeth glimmered in the darkness for only a moment. A false smile to set her at ease. “Perhaps a proper introduction is in order. My name is Guy, but you can call me Master.” No. This didn’t happen to women like her. “Your name is Girl. And I will call you Slave. As a slave, it is your job to please your Master. A new Master will purchase you, and he will want your pussy. He will want your agony, he will want you to enjoy the brutal fucking, and he will want you to thank him after.”
This wasn’t happening. The sex trade was prolific, and low tier models who had a bright future in the industry were delicacies that went missing here and there. But Rosamma was too high profile, who she was related to was too high profile. Every cop in the world would look for these men. It couldn’t be worth it. And for what, a bit of flesh? That would be… stupid.
“It doesn’t - it doesn’t make sense.” Eyes still lowered Rosamma saw his head cock to the side, encouraging her to continue. “I don’t - I don’t fit the profile.”
“What? You mean like in the TV shows?” This time his laughter is full of derision. “You don’t match the stereotypical street rat, ‘no one will look for you’, invalid?”
Were those the kinds of girls he took? The animosity he spoke with came from a place rooted in experience. Guy saw women as vermin, something that you exterminate or tolerate. Rosamma refused to respond and give these thoughts anymore weight than they had…
“Don’t talk about them like that.” She gritted between clenched teeth. Damn it, she just couldn’t be quiet. “Stolen women deserved to be mourned, not ridiculed. Puttano.” Spit hit his shoe before Rosamma realized what she’d done. With fiery determination she raised her eyes to glare as stillness spread like stone up Guy’s body.
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