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  The car pulls away and pauses briefly. I silently pray that the guards don’t look in the trunk. There’s the low rumble of voices before we’re moving again. The car rolls over bumpy, pothole-filled roads for what feels like forever. The trunk gets hotter and hotter until the odor of rotting body starts to choke me. I try hard to breathe through my mouth so as not to retch on the ever-intensifying smell.

  Eventually, the car stops and the second the engine cuts, my heart leaps into a sprint. I clutch the gun so tightly that my fingers start to go numb. The car doors slam and there’s a tense silence, broken only by the sound of my own erratic breaths. When I hear nothing for a few seconds, I tentatively push the back seat forward and peer through the gap. I can’t see much. People pass by the window, and there’s the faint red glow of what looks like neon lights cutting through the dusk. A cold, lifeless limb presses up against me, and I lose my hold on any semblance of calm control. Slamming my weight against the seat, I sprawl into the back seat, sucking air into my tightening lungs. Without hesitating, I yank the door handle and fall out of the car onto a busy street. People look at me as I get to my feet and glance around. The car is parked outside a run-down bar with rows of motorcycles out front. There’s a wooden porch outside, and several men covered in gang tattoos stop and stare at me. They study me intently, until one of them steps forward, a twisted smile on his face.

  “Well, well, what do we have here?” he shouts over the music.

  I turn and run. I run as far and as fast as I can on my injured ankle. At least my captors had a reason to keep me alive. Out here is where unleashed monsters live, and I’m now the limping gazelle in a city full of them.

  3

  Anna

  I barely made it a few blocks from the car before a guy approached me. I tried to run, I tried to fight, but it was pointless.

  And now I’m here. Wherever here is. I tug at the chain attached to the wall and clasped around my wrist. The skin beneath the metal cuff is chaffed and raw. Pulling my knees up to my chest, I rest my forehead on them and tentatively brush my fingers over my swollen ankle. A sharp breath hisses through my gritted teeth as pain lances up my leg. I think it’s broken. A tremor rips through me, and a chill sweeps over my sweat-slicked skin. My stomach rolls and clenches violently. Groaning, I lean over the edge of the bed and throw up on the floor. The coarse sheets beneath me feel like sandpaper tearing over my skin. I need…I need a hit. The craving is so intense, so all-consuming. It’s like my senses are being overloaded, and everything is too bright, too loud, too real. I crave the darkness, the feeling of nothingness that has surrounded me for so long and made my life bearable. Another convulsion rips through me, and my body feels like it’s tearing itself apart.

  I lay on my back gasping, staring at the beige walls, peeling and stained yellow with years of nicotine. A window is covered with dirty and torn curtains, letting in a depressing, muted light. The entire place smells of body odor, cigarette smoke, urine, and now vomit.

  I ran from one master only to gain another. But now, I’m literally chained to a bed, and I feel like I’m dying. Really though, it’s all the same. Men fucking me. Why does it matter which men they are? And honestly, I don’t mind being fucked. It doesn’t hurt me. It’s just an act. It’s all the other things that I know will break me if I have to endure them again.

  The door opens, and I wince against the bright light that pours inside for a moment before it closes again. A skinny man covered in tattoos grins at me, and I sigh, fixing my gaze on the stained ceiling.

  “Eh, a little gringo bitch.” He sniffs as he walks over to me, already stripping out of his shirt. He grabs my breast and squeezes roughly. I barely feel it. Simply remaining conscious is an effort right now. Pawing at my thighs, he wrenches me down the bed so hard that the chain snaps tight, threatening to rip my arm from its socket. With a sigh, I close my eyes. My mind drifts to the same place it always does; nowhere. Utter absence of thought or feeling.

  I hear the clink of his belt buckle, the rustle of fabric, and then the door opens again…

  Bang!

  My eyes flash open, and my heart leaps into my throat, ears ringing. Something wet covers my chest and stomach, and when I look down, I have to fight blind panic. Blood. I’m covered in blood. A man in the doorway stares at me, a gun in his hand as his enormous frame almost blocks out the light from outside. He approaches me, and I watch him through slurred senses. Closing my eyes, I wait for the shot to come. I know how this works. No witnesses, and really, no one will think twice about shooting a whore, especially not a gang member. A smile touches my lips at the thought that this might end here and now. I wonder what it will be like. Will it be as peaceful as I’ve often thought it might be? Will there be something beyond this, or simply nothing?

  Fingers brush my arm, and I flinch. The man yanks at the cuff on my arm, and I hear the click of metal against metal before it falls away. Tentatively, I glance up at him, my heart beating in a ragged rhythm as I take in thick biceps covered in tattoos, his vest, and his jeans. He picks up the dead guy’s shirt, tossing it at me with a grunt and a jerk of his chin. With trembling hands, I pull the shirt over my head, the scent of body odor and marijuana clinging to the fabric. Then I’m dragged from the bed and out of the door without a word. The bright sunlight physically hurts my eyes, sending blinding pain ripping through my skull. My legs threaten to give out, and the world tilts and spins on its axis. I stagger, and his fingers grip my arm tighter, but it’s too late. I blink once and time seems to slow for a moment before everything goes black.

  4

  Rafael

  There’s a knock on my office door, and I huff out a breath, sitting back in my chair. “Yeah?”

  Carlos walks inside; his hoody pulled up over a ball cap. “We’ve found her. One of my contacts just dug her out of a back street brothel.”

  Finally. Two days of Nero crawling up my ass. Not to mention shit from Dominges, her former owner. It should not have taken this long to find a slave with no money, no friends and no passport. Of course, her being captured was always more likely than an actual escape.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing away the headache that’s brewing. “Whose brothel?”

  “Espanoza’s.”

  “Well, make sure Dominges knows that Espanoza found one of his escaped slaves and failed to turn her in.”

  It’s not my domain, and I can’t be seen to be getting involved with shit that doesn’t concern me. It’s not supposed to concern me, but I’m pissed because this fucker has caused me no end of hassle. All slaves have a cartel tattoo on them. Only someone with a death wish would steal one of Dominges’ girls.

  “On it, boss. She’s at Diablo’s.”

  I push to my feet. “Let’s go and see what all the fuss is about then.”

  Carlos guides the car through the busy streets. It’s a Friday night, and every street corner is bustling with dealers and whores alike. Run-down buildings pass by thew window in a blur. The steady pop, pop, of gunfire echoes in the distance like fireworks. This is my city. She’s a rose, her thorns coated in the blood of her victims, her petals war-torn and damaged—yet she will always be beautiful.

  The car pulls up outside Diablo’s. It’s a biker bar in the worst part of the city. The neon sign casts a red glow over the row of bikes outside, making the chrome exhausts shine demonically. Stepping out of the car, I take a cigar from my pocket and light it, inhaling the thick cloud of smoke.

  Carlos shifts beside me, taking his gun from the back of his jeans. He looks like nothing more than a thug with his ball cap in place; hood pulled up over it. Samuel is my second, the one who takes care of the business, but Carlos is my guy on the ground. He knows everyone, hears everything, and reports back. The two of them are polar opposites.

  “Let’s get this done and go,” I say. He nods and walks ahead of me, gun in hand. The doors swing open, squealing on their hinges. The second my shoes click over the worn wooden floorboards, the conve
rsation drops to a low rumble until the music blares alone. Patrons sit at scarred and worn tables, huddled over their beer bottles and shot glasses. Strippers, a little too old to still be working, hang off poles and grind over sweaty, drunk men. Rock music rumbles through me as I cross the room, nodding to the barman briefly before we head for the door at the rear. The back of the bar is nothing more than a dingy hallway with an office at the end. Inside, I find the bar owner, Fernando, sitting behind a desk, his heels kicked up and a cigarette in hand.

  “Ah, Rafael. How are you?” he asks, getting to his feet and hiking his dirty, oil-stained jeans over his gut.

  I ignore him, focusing on the barely conscious waif of a girl, shaking and tied to a chair in the middle of the room. Long blonde hair, the color of pure gold hangs in her face. I approach her, taking in every minute detail of her frame.

  “Is she hurt?”

  “She’s not exactly in one piece.” My eyes trace over the array of bruises covering her exposed arms and legs. Her left ankle and foot are swollen, the skin blackening, and her wrists are circled in bleeding, open skin. I glare at Fernando, and he holds his hands up. “It wasn’t me. What do you take me for?” He scoffs and begins counting the wad of cash Carlos just gave him. “You asked for her. I like my limbs intact. I’m not stupid. You should know…before Espanoza got her, she escaped Dominges’ compound by getting in Psycho’s car...” He shrugs. “Psycho had a body in his car, thinks she’s seen too much.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. Psycho is a sicario, and as his name suggests, a useful one, but he’s not mine. He’s freelance, which means my control over him is tenuous at best. “Just tell him she’s mine.” I turn back to the girl. “Untie her.”

  Carlos takes a knife and cuts the cable ties from her wrists. Still, she doesn’t lift her head. Pressing a single finger beneath her chin, I force her head up until the curtain of hair falls away from her face, and I’m met with her glazed-over, blue eyes. Tears spill down her pale, clammy cheeks, gliding over the duct tape that covers her mouth. She’s so pretty and fragile, not to mention tanked on something. What could Nero possibly want with this broken little bird?

  “What did you give her?” I direct the question at Fernando.

  “Look, she was in a bad way. Withdrawing. I had some methadone.”

  I clench my jaw so hard that my teeth hurt. She looks confused but aware. “How much did you give her?”

  “Not much.”

  “Bring her,” I tell Carlos and turn away, walking out of the shitty little room.

  5

  Anna

  I flinch away from the gentle touch under my chin, but he ignores it. Taking a deep breath, I tilt my head back, my gaze slowly moving over the perfectly tailored suit clinging to a broad frame. His shirt is open at the collar, revealing a network of tattoos that creep up his neck as if the ink were trying to strangle him. When I meet dark eyes, the hairs on the back of my neck rise and my pulse picks up. The suit, the cold mask of ruthless indifference on his face; everything about him makes me feel like prey. My foggy mind swims through whatever drug they gave me. But even through my muted senses, fear beats away with every staggered breath until I’m drowning in it. I don’t know who this man is, but I can tell he’s someone important, and in Mexico, that’s never a good thing. I’ve seen too much. I know too much. They’re going to kill me.

  Tears slip down my cheeks, and I want to be strong, I do, but this isn’t some Hollywood film. This is the cartel, and there are no second chances for a disobedient whore. The thought angers me just as much as it scares me.

  I’d almost forgotten what fear felt like. I thought I was numb to such things, but the prospect of death will break even the broken. It’s all I can do not to scream at whatever god-awful twist of fate brought me to this very moment. I clench my jaw and stare right at him. His eyebrows pinch together, and full lips press into a tight line.

  “Bring her,” he barks, turning his back on me. The man who walked in with him approaches me, and I try to back away from him. He’s covered in gang tattoos. I can’t clearly make out his face beneath the shadow of his baseball cap with his hood pulled over it. Three tears are inked below his right eye, and a scar mars his left eyebrow.

  At his raised hand, I squeeze my eyes shut, flinching away instinctively. Fingers brush my cheek before he grabs the edge of the tape and yanks it away, taking a layer of skin with it.

  “Move,” he says.

  Warily, I push to my feet, and pain fires up my left leg as it threatens to give way. The guy in the suit is gone, and I’m not sure who I’d rather be with: him or the gangbanger. I limp to the door, clenching my jaw against the crippling pain. My heart is beating so hard, it’s like it’s going to burst from my chest. With every desperate squeeze, a warning echoes in my ear. Danger, danger, danger. I stumble into the packed bar, my gaze fixed on the wooden floorboards when I collide with something, or rather, someone. My hands come up in front of me, landing on the soft, expensive fabric of a suit jacket. Broad muscles roll and contract under my palms, and I snatch them away quickly. The music quiets, and the atmosphere in the room becomes instantly tense. The guy in the suit grabs my wrist, yanking me tight behind him until I’m pressed flush against his back. I’m unable to get away, unable to see anything but him.

  “Psycho,” he says. A hush falls over the bar, and I can feel the tension like a palpable force.

  “Rafael. I’m going to need that one.”

  Rafael laughs, the sound reverberating through his chest. Then the laughter cuts off, and it’s like that stifling pressure before a storm. The quiet. The suspense. “Get the fuck out of my way.”

  “She’s seen too much.”

  With a sigh, Rafael steps to the side, leaving me exposed and now standing in front of a man who looks like every nightmare I could possibly muster. A monster. A killer. His face is completely tattooed to look like a skull— eyes surrounded by black ink. Dead. Bottomless. He takes a step toward me before Rafael grabs me. Strong arms wrap around my body until my face is pressed against the soft material of his shirt. The scent of his cologne invades my senses.

  Bang!

  I flinch, inadvertently pressing myself closer to the suited stranger. I’ve barely acknowledged the thud of Psycho’s body hitting the floor before we’re moving again. Rafael pushes me away from him and walks off, leaving me standing in the middle of the dirty bar with a dead man’s blood pooling around my bare feet.

  “Move!” The other guy tucks his gun back into the waist of his jeans and shoves me forward.

  By the time we make it outside, the music has restarted. The gangbanger opens the back door and forces me inside next to Rafael. The guy gets in behind me until I’m pressed up against Rafael, trapped between the two of them. No one speaks to me as the car pulls away. I have no idea what they’re going to do to me. Take me back to the Sinaloa compound? Kill me? Maybe they’ll just fuck me and use me.

  For the briefest moment, I thought I was free. I thought I’d made it out. For a second, I had hope, and hope is so very dangerous for someone like me. It makes the fall into despair that much harder.

  “I am Rafael D’Cruze,” the man in the suit finally says, his voice weighted with authority. “Leader of the Juarez cartel.”

  I slowly look at him, blinking through the foggy haze still trying to cling to my mind. He’s staring at me, assessing every possible detail. I don’t like it. For the first time in years, I look at someone. Really look. Years of slavery has made me hate men like him with every fiber of my being, just men in general. They all disgust me, and yet, I can’t help but notice Rafael’s cold form of beauty. His face could have been carved by a master sculptor—every line flawless. I frown at my train of thought. “This is where you tell me your name,” he says impatiently.

  Wordlessly, I lift my hand and pull my hair away from my neck, showing him the tattoo just below my ear. A snake coiled around itself, the number 624 etched into its scales. “I didn’t ask for your sla
ve number.”

  “I have no name,” I say, years of ‘training’ kicking in. You have no name. You are no one. He narrows his eyes at me before a small smile touches his lips. He says nothing, and his silence makes me uncomfortable because it’s so much more threatening than anything he might say.

  “Your name is Anna Vasiliev.” I can’t remember the last time I heard my own name or even thought it. I find it strangely without meaning—just the name of a girl long gone.

  “It was once.”

  He grabs my chin and forces me to look right at him. His eyes are so dark, bottomless, and unreadable, yet flashing a warning as if he were pointing a gun in my face. Everything about him should evoke fear, I know this, and yet the emotion itself is absent, the same way it always is. “How do you know Nero Verdi?” he growls.