Tessa.
The man’s words hung in the filthy air. “He offered you.”
For a second, she didn’t understand. The sounds of the city, the distant wail of a siren, the hum of the diner’s neon sign, all faded into a dull roar in her ears.
“No,” she whispered. “That’s not funny.”
“We are not laughing,” the man said. His face was a mask of indifference.
“My father loves me. He would never.” The denial was a weak, flimsy thing against the hard reality of the three men surrounding her.
The second man, the one who had chuckled inside, stepped forward. “He loves his poker games more, sweetheart. He signed the papers. You’re property of the Cassano family now. Payment in full.”
Property. The word was a slap. A cold, hard certainty washed over her, extinguishing the last embers of hope. This was real.
Her fear, a cold knot in her stomach, suddenly erupted into white hot rage. Not at them. At her father.
But that could wait. Survival came first.
“You’re not taking me anywhere,” she snarled, her voice shaking but full of a fire she didn’t know she possessed.
She feinted left, then darted right, shoving past the third man at the alley’s entrance. Her sneakers slapped against the pavement as she broke free, sucking in a desperate breath of night air.
Freedom lasted for three seconds.
A hand tangled in her hair, yanking her back with brutal force. She cried out as her head snapped back. Another man grabbed her waist, his arm a band of steel, lifting her off her feet.
She kicked and thrashed, a wild animal in a trap. “Let me go! Somebody help!”
Her scream was cut short as a thick hand clamped over her mouth. The smell of leather and sweat filled her nose.
“Stop fighting,” the first man ordered, his voice dangerously calm as he appeared in front of her. “You’re only making this worse for yourself.”
She tried to bite the hand over her mouth, her eyes wild with terror. Her foot connected with a shin, and she was rewarded with a grunt of pain.
“Stubborn bitch,” the man holding her legs muttered. “Just like Lorenzo said.”
“Enough of this,” the leader said. He pulled a small syringe from his jacket pocket. The needle glinted under the dim streetlight.
Her eyes widened. “No. Please, no. Don’t do that.” Her plea was a muffled mess against the man’s hand.
“Relax,” he said, his voice almost gentle. “Just a little something to help you sleep on the ride.”
She thrashed harder, a primal terror taking over. The man holding her arm squeezed, his fingers digging into her skin. She felt a sharp, stinging prick in her neck.
Instantly, a strange warmth spread through her veins. Her limbs grew heavy, her frantic struggles weakening. The alley began to spin, the edges of her vision blurring into a dark tunnel.
The hands holding her no longer felt like a restraint but a necessity, the only thing keeping her from collapsing.
“There now,” a voice said from far away. “That’s better, isn’t it?”
Then, there was only darkness.
***
Light. A blinding slit of it. Gone.
Sound. A low rumble. The world was vibrating. The floor was hard and cold beneath her cheek. It smelled of rubber and gasoline.
*A car? A van?*
Her mind was a thick fog. She tried to move her hands, but they were bound behind her. A rough rope chafed her wrists.
Someone was talking. The voices were muffled, distorted, like listening to a radio underwater.
“...is she awake?”
“Doesn’t matter. She can’t go anywhere.”
“The boss wants her unmarked. You think he’ll notice the needle prick?”
A dry chuckle. “Dante Cassano notices everything. But he’ll be more interested in the merchandise than the packaging.”
*Dante Cassano.* The name her father had whispered over the phone. He was the one who owned her now.
Her consciousness slipped away again, pulling her back under the waves of drugged sleep.
***
Smell. Sharp and sterile. Antiseptic. It reminded her of a hospital, but this felt wrong. Colder.
Someone had put a blindfold over her eyes. The fabric was rough against her skin.
She felt a hand on her arm. Gentle. Too gentle. It was terrifying.
“Her pulse is steady,” a new voice said. A woman’s voice. Calm and professional.
“Good. Clean her up. Get her presentable.”
*Presentable for what?*
Panic tried to claw its way up her throat, but the drug was a heavy blanket, smothering it.
Her thoughts drifted, hazy and untethered. They drifted to her father.
*Papa. Did you do this to save yourself? Are you safe now?* The question was a dull ache in her chest. She couldn’t hate him. Not yet. All she could feel was a profound, hollow sadness.
He had chosen the addiction over her. He had sold his only daughter.
*Is this what it felt like? To have your life taken from you? Not with a bang, but with a signature on a piece of paper in a smoke filled room?*
She hoped he was safe. In the deepest, most selfless part of her soul, the part that still loved the man who taught her how to ride a bike, she hoped this terrible payment had bought him his life. Because if it hadn’t, then her own sacrifice meant nothing.
***
A bump in the road jostled her. Her head knocked against something hard. She moaned softly.
“Almost there.” It was one of the men from the alley. His voice was a low growl next to her ear.
She tried to speak, to ask where they were going, but her tongue was thick and useless in her mouth. The words wouldn’t form.
The vehicle slowed, making a sharp turn. The squeal of tires on smooth concrete echoed in the small space.
She felt the van stop. The engine cut out, plunging them into silence.
A door slid open, flooding the space with cool air and new sounds. The distant murmur of voices. The clink of glasses.
Music? Was that music?
“Get her out,” the man ordered.
Hands grabbed her under the arms, hauling her upright. Her legs were jelly, unable to support her. They dragged her out of the van, her feet scraping against the ground.
She was being moved through a hallway. The air here was different. It smelled of perfume and expensive cigars. A stark contrast to the grimy alley where her life had ended.
This was the beginning of something else. Something worse.
A door opened. They pushed her inside. She stumbled, falling to her knees on a surprisingly soft carpet.
The door closed, and she was left alone in the silent, blindfolded dark. The drug was beginning to wear off, the fog in her mind thinning just enough to let true, undiluted terror seep in.
She wasn’t collateral anymore. She was a commodity.
And she had a terrible feeling she was about to find out her price.
