For Adriano (4 page)

“Contact me as soon as you’ve heard from them.” I rake a hand through my hair. “Anything else?” I need to go meet James and Henry.

“Not at the moment. I’ll call you as soon as I know more,” Jeffrey answers.

Nodding, I depart for the Syndicate’s headquarters.

Usually, issues arise within Mafia parties, between Mafia parties, or between Syndicates. Soldiers or
Capi
wanting to move up in rank, causing death and violence. Underworld fighting underworld. Those issues can be resolved quickly and without a trace by the police we have in our pockets. But, in this case, it could also be that an outsider is targeting us; I’m not convinced it’s someone on my staff. If an outside party is involved, I don’t know how to protect us. We have influential people and power on the state level, but not on the national level. However, I’m not sure this is actually an attack from the outside. I
am
sure that Luca and I need to stay under the radar and remain known as two regular, successful businessmen.

We work with criminals and must never forget that. I trust no one but the holy four: James, Luca, Salvatore, and myself. We are the core and the power of the Chicago Syndicate. Now, for my plan of action: first, Luca needs to be informed and return to Chicago as soon as possible. Second, I bring James and Salvatore up to date and let Salvatore primarily handle the monetary problem of Security Simplicity. And third, I focus on locating Cam.

While speeding alongside the Chicago River – making the same trip Cam and I traveled together often – I’m not distressing about money, I’m obsessing about how to find Cam.

CHAPTER 4

Camilla

The soft breeze of the wind hits my cheek when I venture outside for the first time in weeks. I’m cornered with nowhere to go but back. I’m withdrawing money to await my fate.

This is not a life, and I’m tired of running. My options aren’t limited anymore; they’re nonexistent. It’s either wither away in reclusion or let Fat Sal or the Syndicate find me, and then I’ll find a way to fight back.

Tears sting my eyes as I reminisce on my way to the ATM.

*

Two years and ten months ago

‘The Dungeon’ is what the insiders call it. It’s a secretive fight and BDSM club. This is not a club with a referee during a fight or safe words during S&M sex. Everything is allowed. It’s a fetish club.

Fat Sal is a human trafficker, and I’m his new slave. Or so I’m told in his office the night I’m caught in the fight club after witnessing a man slicing a woman to death and getting off on it. Sal’s bodyguard takes me to him and leaves us alone.

Trembling on my feet in this bleak, windowless room, I remain upright while an overweight, balding Italian in a crisp white shirt with sun kissed skin and pearly white teeth spits fire at me.

Fifteen minutes later, his bodyguard returns with my purse. I can hear them whispering heatedly back and forth behind Sal’s desk: no family, no living relatives.

Sal takes my driver’s license and traces a finger down my cheek as I stand with dread skulking over my skin.

“What did you see?” he asks calmly.

“Nothing,” I murmur, fear causing me to break out in a sweat.

His mouth curls into a malicious smile. “You saw everything. And you’re beautiful, Camilla Guillermo.” He pauses and grasps my chin roughly between his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to look at him. “I own you now. You’ll work in this club. You have nowhere to go, no family. And you witnessed something I should murder you for. But such a pretty face.” He jerks my chin in mock presentation to his guard. “It would be a waste.”

I’m in an acute state of shock. Not fully understanding what’s happening.

“Take her to the other women, Santino.”

What I didn’t know at the time is that I wouldn’t see the outside world again for five months.

Santino shuffles me through the maze of passageways and into a beige room where he throws me onto an empty bed with white cotton sheets. My skintight, sleeveless uniform mini dress has ridden up my hips, and Santino gawks at my legs.

But there’s no time for me to let everything sink in because Santino jumps on me, pushing me back on the bed. I wave my arms, but he catches them and pins them next to my head.

“Get off!” I yell.

With his entire weight pressing on me, he handcuffs me to the bedframe.

I choke under his chest, kicking and screaming.

Santino unbuckles his belt and slides it off to put it around my arm. He tightens it roughly, making me grimace, and I see a spoon and syringe on the nightstand.

“No drugs, please,” I beg as the first tear streams out.

He stops his preparation and glances at me without expression. Then, he continues while I struggle miserably.

I’m held in the deep, dark underground along with five other women, all of them spaced out on their beds, doped up on heroin. The tiny hairs on my arms rise from the cold down here.

Santino taps my vein and the tip of the syringe punctures my skin. I watch him push the liquid into my blood.

My fighting stops, and my body goes weak. It feels so good. I’m becoming lighter and lighter. Until...until I’m flying. I’m flying. It feels so effortless. Let me close my eyes and enjoy it more...

Unconsciousness.

The night has passed, and I awake in an instant, knowing exactly where I am and what happened the previous evening. The drugs knocked me out.

I have no sense of time. Is it morning or afternoon?

Santino comes in. “Shower.”

He undoes the cuffs and takes me to the neighboring bathroom.

I quickly shower and am drying off when I notice that my clothes are missing.

Santino approaches while I’m drying my hair, staring at my breasts.

My hands fly to hide my naked body. “Where are my clothes?” My voice sounds pitiful and fragile.

“No more clothes, Camilla.”

“What? I can’t wear clothes? What are you going to do to me?”

“Come with me.” He doesn’t touch me and allows me to trail him this time, back to the fight club area.

Before we arrive, I can hear the voices of the people.

Santino turns around to me. “You are not to speak or protest. If you speak, you’ll be punished.”

My eyes were already bursting with tears, and now they overflow. I wipe away the wetness as I hesitantly follow Santino across the threshold and toward the center stage while dozens of people – some clothed, some not – watch my march. The space is dark except for one spotlight on the podium, which I take the steps up to when Santino motions for me to do so.

The light blinds me, giving me some shred of decency; not having to look at these people who are going to bid on me. And then I don’t know what will happen. The part
after
the bidding is what I fear.

The auctioneer with the black mask comes up behind me, and he lets a knuckle graze my nipple, causing me to shrink back in terror.

He grips my arm and bends down to whisper, “Behave.” Next, he shouts to the small crowd, “One thousand!”

Different voices yell, “Aye!”

Never have I felt so exposed. I tremble in revulsion when the man’s calloused hands slide down my side, stopping at the flare of my hip.

“Two thousand!”

“Twenty-two!”

“Twenty-five!”

Everything goes so fast while coldness envelops me. I’m pursing my lips to keep from crying out for help. The spotlight blinding me is now freaking me out. All I see is a white blur, all I hear are scary voices, and I’m so cold.

“Twenty-five going once, twice... Sold!” the auctioneer announces and shunts me to the side.

I barrel into Santino and break down, clutching him to shield my body from others. He stiffens and pushes me away but then grabs my shoulders and rushes me forward.

We careen through the throng. No one touches me while I make myself as small as possible.

Acute panic scorches my skin when I’m halted in front of a huge man with bulging muscles and cruel intent blazing in his eyes, standing next to a cross.

“Work starts,” Santino says into my ear.

“Please don’t do this,” I plead, whisper soft.

“You must. You’ll be tied to the St. Andrew’s Cross and take what he gives you. Understand?”

I swallow.

“Camilla, do it or else...” he urges me, but my feet refuse to budge.

“Come here!” the man yells and pulls me to him.

His sweaty hand covers mine, and I’m pressed with my back against the cross.

The crowd is focused on a fight that’s now taking place on the stage. I see blood sprays. I turn my head to my left and am confronted with a woman being beaten while she’s strapped to a similar cross. Not wanting to watch, I turn to my right while my ankles are being shackled. I see another woman, also naked, being choked while she’s trapped against the cross. And another woman is just lying on a table with her feet getting licked.

Can this be real? People passing us don’t even glance my way, like what’s happening to me is the most mundane thing in the world.

The man who paid for me stands right in front of my face. “Your skin is too flawless.” His finger traces down my cleavage, and I recoil from his touch. “Be still, or I’ll cut you,” he warns, his tone menacing.

My face is wet from tears that I can’t keep in. From fear, from confusion, from disbelief. And then the worst happens. The bite of a whip slashes the bare skin on my thighs, and I scream out in agony.

Another crack of the whip makes contact with my stomach. And another one stings across my breasts.

“No!” I cry uncontrollably.

More pain. More slashing of my skin. My own screams echo through my eardrums.

It stops. My skin is on fire.

Someone’s untying me, and moments later, I’m lowered onto a mattress. An excruciating prick stings my fingernail, and I zone out.

I wake up after I don’t know how long, feeling empty, and I’m marred with reddish purple welts and cuts. It hurts too much to move. When my skin pulls tight, silent tears rain down my temples.

This becomes a part of the routine. At night – at least I think it’s nighttime, because I have no idea about time while I’m held captive – I’m auctioned off. And I’m not certain if this happens every night, or not. Then I’m sold and strapped to the St. Andrews Cross to be spanked, whipped, or beaten by these fetishists, who, as far as I remember, never raped me. During several rare moments when my mind is clear enough to think, I learn that every girl is sold to certain fetishists and BDSM practicers. There is also sexual intercourse taking place down here, and not only in the sex club one floor above. I’ve seen some girls being raped while I’m beaten in the fight club. Somewhere, I’m thankful that I’m too intoxicated to have vivid memories.

I get simple food, I sleep, I’m shot up with heroin underneath my fingernails, instead of the inside of my elbow, often, and I’m auctioned; that’s the routine. For the next five months.

My body is damaged deeply. Emotionally, I’m empty.

But I’m also getting mad. Mad at Fat Sal. Mad at myself for taking it all, for not being able to fight because I’m too drugged up.

*

Two years and five months ago

I’m constantly slipping in and out of consciousness while I’m held at Club 7’s dungeon. Days pass in a blur of memories. I barely remember conversations with anyone except Santino. Time is a foreign concept to me. In moments of lucidity, I hear myself screaming. I hear lashes, crowds cheering, grunts, and silence.

Santino is the only man that guards me. I cling to him, begging for help, telling him to stop giving me drugs. He never tends to the other girls, and I don’t know why, but I use it to my advantage when I’m coherent enough to remember that bit of information.

After I’m struck with a fever, he finally begins to crack.

One morning, I wake up less disoriented than I’ve been in a long time. My eyes open, and I feel as if I’ve been asleep for weeks. Rational thoughts are trying to assemble in my mind.

I turn my head in the dimly lit, beige room and determine that I’m alone. Moving my body underneath a cotton sheet, I grimace from soreness. I know I’ve been here for a while but not the exact time frame.

A clang sounds when I move my leg. I sit up and wince, finding my left ankle shackled to the bed frame.

Footsteps from down the hall come closer, and Santino darkens the doorway in a black suit, staring at me with his hands in his pockets.

I pull the sheet up to cover my breasts, even though he’s seen me naked constantly.

“How are you feeling?” His tone is even, calm.

“Not good.” My own voice sounds foreign. “What day is it?” I cough through my dry throat.

“Tuesday,” he answers and shifts closer.

I follow his movement carefully.

He takes a bottle of water from the nightstand and uncaps it, handing it over.

With a hesitant hand, I raise it to my mouth and gulp down the entire contents.

“You had a fever,” he mentions, towering over me beside the low, small bed.

The water hydrates my throat soothingly as he just stands there.

“How long have I been out?” I ask again softly and grimace because my fingernails hurt.

“Two days.”

“How long have I been here in total?”

Stillness eats the room.

“Please.”

“Four months,” he answers tersely.

“Please help me,” I murmur.

He’s on me the next moment, straddling my hips and pinning my hands to the pillow. The bottle drops to the floor.

Acute distress courses through my veins as he leans in close to my ear. “I’m not going to hurt you, but there are cameras everywhere. Stop talking so much.”

I stiffen in his hold. “Are you going to help me?”

“I
have
helped you. You were feverish and were out for too long; I’ve decreased and then stopped your shots. But no one can know.”

A dampened sense of relief blazes over me. I haven’t been drugged for the past few days; that’s why I feel more aware now. “Why are you helping me?”

He ignores my question. “Why did you come down that night? It’s your own fault this happened!”

Why is he so upset about it? Is it his doing that the elevator went down and I accessed this part of the club?