To Hell – And Back (Preview)
Chapter 1
Virgilio
This devil is out to bargain.
After being cleared by some bodyguards just outside the door, I step into the VIP section of this Bratva-owned club.
I stop at the entrance and scan the room. It is not my turf, and while I do not feel uncomfortable in any way, I know it’s better to study the environment you are entering, just in case.
That is why I also brought along four bodyguards.
I finally spot Mikhail, the Bratva Pakhan I’m here to see, sprawled on a semi-circle French rose lounge couch, with fairy lights in the same color hanging down from its headrest to the floor.
This will be a simple and quick negotiation.
I take a step in Mikhail’s direction. At the same time, a girl in a glimmering, deep-colored, very skimpy bikini with fairy-like feathers strapped to her, saunters elegantly on strappy heels to his table with a champagne bucket and bottle, and flutes.
She is an exotic dancer, and I’m fully aware that after this meeting, this place will be crowded with men who come here to have their pick for the night.
I know these are girls who no longer own their lives. They have been kidnapped and reduced to nothing but objects. This bar is exclusive for a reason. The girls have nowhere to go and are at the mercy of the Bratva until they outlive their use.
“Ettore Russo,” Mikhail calls to me. “Welcome.” The man has always blended perfectly with all the trends.
I already hate more than half the human population, so my hatred for him is just a grain of sand on the beach.
I strut to him. No rush.
“Champagne?” Mikhail asks as I approach him, hand pointing for me to take the seat beside him. It is another semi-circle lounge couch with a better view of the cubicles.
“Water,” I sit. “Thank you.” I ignore his drawn-together eyebrows at my request for water, and after contemplating it for a while, he snaps his fingers at the girl who brought the champagne.
She tips her head, and then with the same grace, she saunters to the large, stretched bar under the hanging cubicles to a bartender dressed in the same slutty fairy costume.
“The bartender makes a good mix with eh…” he circles his forefinger, trying to remember, and then snaps his finger when it comes to him, “bourbon, scotch, or whiskey,” he smiles, leaning into his seat with satisfaction for remembering and thinking he sounds classy.
Never seen a man with so much access to class and yet no class of his own.
It is not how he dresses; he pays to look good and he mostly does look put together. He is buffed, tall, and very lousy.
Other than his appearance, though, every single thing that comes out of his mouth that isn’t business-related is classless. It speaks of the rottenness inside the man.
The girl returns with a tray holding a glass of water with a slice of cucumber. She stops by the table beside my seat, and without meeting my eyes, she drops the tray.
“She is beautiful,” Mikhail swells. “All my fairies are.” He taps his lap, and the girl goes over to him, but instead of sitting on it, she kneels beside him and drops her head on his lap, tilting her head in a way that one side of her cheek is on him, making her look like a loyal dog.
I’m bored. “Business?”
“Sure,” he clears his throat, “you never hover, Ettore. Always business, business, business,” he sways, like he is making music with the word, thickening his accent, “All work and no play…” I scowl at him, and he grunts, “Fine, business.”
I’m here to discuss an anti-trust agreement concerning our mutual supplier—the Colombian Cartel. There’s enough cake for both clans; we only have to figure out how to slice it.
“Good enough?” Mikhail asks after stating the conditions of our agreement that he thinks will be favorable to both parties.
“Good enough,” I will give it to him when it comes to business. He knows just how to handle things. He is practical, and I admire that.
“Good,” he claps his hands and pours himself some champagne. “We should do this more often,” he lifts his glass. Life shouldn’t be about business alone; men need to have fun,” he strokes the ponytail of the girl, who is still kneeling on the floor. “Too many toys for a grown man,” he chuckles. “Am I right?”
I won’t dignify his words with an answer. Because if I do, I might just undo whatever truce this meeting has done for both clans.
“I was told you are no fun,” he leans forward, bringing his stoned dark eyes to a snit.
“I have no time for fun while dealing with business matters, and I’m here for work, Mikhail,” I haven’t touched my glass of only the fucking devil knows what, so I pick it up for the sake of courtesy, and stroke the cold glass, enjoying the condensation. “But thank you for…”
My following line of words drowns as I catch a shocking sight in my peripheral vision.
I snap my head in the direction of what feels like a hallucination.
But it is not.
Zoe.
Hell, it is her. Unmistakably her. The light and heavy glitter makeup has done enough to mask her, but I would recognize her anywhere.
The exotic dancers in the cubicles retire, and Zoe, along with another lady dressed in the same fairy costumes, saunters elegantly up the stairs to the cubicles. I watch, unable to tear my eyes off her as she climbs in, waits for the song to cue her, and then starts to dance around the pole like a diva.
She is alive.
I sit straight but then remember where I am and regain my composure.
Zoe is alive. After fifteen fucking years, she is alive and has been under my nose all this while. A slave, stripping at the Bratva club for men who will buy her for the night and use her as a toy.
“See something you like?” Mikhail sips from his champagne.
“How much is she?” I cut to the chase, “The one on the left.”
“For the night or the weekend?” Mikhail leans forward, eager to sponsor this new side of me he sees for the first time, “I can let you have her for a night for free.”
“I want to keep her,” I lean back on my seat, masking my eagerness. I would raze down the club to get her out of here with me if possible. “Forever.”
“No,” Mikhail tuts and shakes his head, “She makes the costumes for the fairies, and people love that shit,” he sips his champagne and then shakes his head again as if he is still thinking about it, “Too valuable.”
“Everyone has a price, Mikhail,” I keep calm, but I want to rip him apart thinking of the inhuman ways Zoe must have been forced to survive, “Name it.”
She has been declared dead for fifteen years now. Was it he who took her and declared her dead to the press?
Fifteen fucking years of being a fucking sex slave.
I grit my teeth harder as I realize she wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t meddled. She wouldn’t have had to fucking live this life if I hadn’t fucking intruded.
I brought this on her.
I can’t fucking leave here without her.
“A price, Mikhail,” fucking damn it, just say your fucking price, for fuck’s sake.
“Still no,” he says as he chugs his champagne, some of the liquid spilling on his beard and suit jacket. “Save your money. I can give you any other girl, but she is too valuable.”
I observe him, “Would six figures be a good start?” I lean forward, resting one elbow on my knee, and in this position, I can see him breaking. Ultimately, they got these girls to make money off them, “On top of it, I will allow you an open request for personal business in the future.”
Now, that one piques his interest, and he sets his champagne flute down on the table. He unbuttons his suit jacket and then harrumphs lousily.
He knows I’m quite influential in our world and very beneficial to anyone who has me on their side. I can give him access to the people he has spent all his bitter years trying to access.
“Five million dollars,” he thinks the amount will make me back away.
“Two million dollars,” I’m determined to bargain. But I’m all too aware that I’m willing to give him whatever he wants if he refuses. I want her. And I’m not leaving this club without her, “Two million and my influence, starting from getting you an invitation to the underground gala next month.”
“There is an underground gala happening next month?” He taps the cheek of the girl kneeling beside him, and she stands, taking that as a dismissal. She saunters away.
“Yes,” I know no one would invite him, especially not the host, but the host owes me a favor, and he can stand Mikhail for a few hours if I tell him to.
“And that’s just one thing I will be getting out of this?” He asks curiously, and I nod.
“Two more invitations and you can tell by the first that they will be completely worth it,” I wait for him to break.
It’s simple.
Being accepted means something to him. He has a wounded ego from being stereotyped. He wants to be accepted because, in truth, we are all made from the same soil. The men who won’t accept him are no lesser evil than he is.
“Three million,” he doesn’t mean it. He can take the two million. It’s an outrageous amount, but I know she is worth it.
I try not to look at her as I make my bargain so he doesn’t see my desperation. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he wants this deal more than anything.
“Two million, but if you want three, I take back the invitation…”
“Two million is fine,” he shrugs, “I can let her go for two million,” he makes a sad face, putting up a caricature show as if he is losing something of irreplaceable value. To me, she is that and more. To him, he can cut the bullshit.
“So?” I lean back in my seat.
“I will get the paperwork ready; let her entertain you while I do that,” he says, reaching into the inner pocket of his suit and bringing out his phone. “I didn’t know you were into slaves.” He smiles as if he has just found a buddy in me.
“I’m not,” I set the glass of shit down on the table, then turn my eyes to stare at her as she spins around the pole, then slides down to do a split.
I’m not into slaves.
I’m into her.
Chapter 2
Virgilio
I try not to touch Zoe as I open the door of my car outside the VIP parking lot for her to go in.
I can’t help staring down at her. The same blue eyes that remind me of the glistening ocean on a sunny day. The same mousy brown hair, chin-length, a little duller than I used to remember, but still the same.
She stands by the door. Her hesitation is like a slingshot aimed at the door of my mind’s dungeon, where I locked up the memories that now make up all of my nightmares.
The last time I saw her, she hesitated. And maybe I should have listened.
She didn’t want to follow through with it, even though a part of her knew it was for her own good.
“Are you sure?” Zoe stuffs her mouth with peanuts like she always does whenever she is anxious, and right now, she is a wreck of nervousness.
“Yes,” I answer again. It doesn’t matter that she has been asking the same question since we got here; I will keep giving the same answer until we get out of here and for good. “You will love Milan,” I add because I have seen pictures, but it’s not that we are leaving just for the love of Milan.
Zoe is pursuing her dream of becoming a fashion designer, and I am pursuing my dream of watching her succeed.
We are so close to putting everything and everyone behind us, and each step we take, hands interlocked, leading to the airport terminal feels like a step into the promise of a new beginning for both of us.
She is leaving her abusive father behind, and so am I.
All the hard work she has put into designing and having me model for her became fruitful when she got picked to be part of the breaking-out designers to showcase their collection in this season’s Milan Fashion Week.
“We are never coming back,” she smiles, and then more peanuts get poured into her mouth directly from the pack.
No more covering up her bruises with makeup. No more masking her pain, pretending to be happy. Now, she can truly live and live freely. She has been given a shot and I’m grateful just to be a part of it.
We breeze through the crowd, and I can feel the excitement inside her just by glancing at her face from the corner of my eyes.
“Did you remember to get the toothbrush?” She asks, not stopping like she normally does when she remembers something she has forgotten.
“Yes,” I chuckle, “But I told you we don’t need to fly across countries with toothbrushes,” I resist the pinch to suck my teeth, “No one does that.”
“It’s better to be safe, to be prepared,” she ruffles through the pocket of her faded copper hoodie, my hoodie that she is never giving back. With her hand holding the pack of peanuts, she brings out a rumpled paper that is our to-do list: “You get rashes when you don’t use your soap. Did you bring a bar at least?”
I laugh now, loving that she remembers so much for both of us, “I will take a rash anytime in Milan with you…”
“Did you bring it, Virgilio?” She frowns, and I come in front of her, walking backward to give her my best reassuring smile that everything will be fine, but then, in the distance, I see him.
Cold skates through my veins and goosebumps rise on my skin, visible through the parts of my lower arms that aren’t covered by the folded sleeves of my ivory sweater.
Officer Joseph Gray.
Her father and, what’s worse, he is in his cop uniform, meaning he will be unstoppable. All he has to do is flash a badge and alert airport security that Zoe is his daughter.
I can’t let him win. We are so close to freedom. Maybe not we, but she is. She can go to Milan. I can always catch up with her. But if he gets her now, I doubt he will let her out of his sight ever again.
“I need to use the restroom,” I shrug out of my backpack and shove it to her, making her halt from the weight and force, “Zoe,” I keep my cool as best as I can, observing that Officer Gray is now standing and talking to airport security, “You go and never look back.”
She snorts, “You want to use the restroom, why would I not wait for you?”
I smile at her, then tenderly brush her cheek with the pad of my thumb. “Board the plane,” I say, leaning down to kiss her on the lips. I savor the moment, knowing it will never be like I dreamed it to be. I wanted our first kiss to be in Milan.
She follows my gaze to see her father behind me, and her blue eyes go wide in panic, “No, I’m not leaving you behind, Virgilio, we are doing this together, please,” she grips my sweater, my backpack smothering between us, “You can’t be here alone with him. He will kill you.”
“Listen, he must not see you. If he does, all of this will go to waste,” I drop my hands on her shoulders. “Get to Milan, and I will be right behind you, I promise.” I know I might never be able to keep my promise, but I make it anyway. “Go, now,” I bark.
She clasps my backpack to her chest, the one with all our savings, hesitation waving in her now teary eyes. She nods and then dashes past me to slip into the crowd.
I take a detour in case Joseph sees me so he doesn’t look straight behind me and find her. I aim towards him, and he lifts his eyes from the airport security to me.
“Where is she?” He thunders, his brows weaving in a straight line, his forehead beaded with sweat. Brown eyes like his hair, the same color as hers. Aside from that, they have nothing else in common. I have seen pictures of her mother and thank heavens she took after her.
He closes the distance and tries to move past me, but I tackle him to the ground with all the strength I can muster.
Right now, the best form of defense is to attack him.
He is a big man, and I’m a tall kid, but I do not stand a chance with his build and height.
He switches, turning me over, and then the punches come down like a gush of wind. Everywhere he hits hurt like shit, and I’m screaming my guts out, spurting blood. He keeps hitting.
The pain is not unfamiliar thanks to my father but this feels different because, with every blow, I think of how she has had to endure this.
Even when someone tries to get him off me, he still manages to get them off to continue with his assault.
I’m fighting back as much as I can. Crowds gather, chaos breaks out, and it’s the perfect mix to keep buying her time. Just a little bit more and…
The announcement for our flight comes on, and I cave in, allowing my bruised body to rest before I push it too far and get dragged out of this airport as a dead body.
It would have been worth it to die for her, but she needs me alive.
I drop to the floor, but it’s fine.
The sound of the boarding call for her flight makes me smile as my body and mind fold into numbness.
She is on her way. She made it. And that means we made it.
Chapter 3
Zoe
Mine?
Why?
I stare at the bedroom I have been given in my new owner’s estate, tugging at his shirt—the one he took off to give to me when he noticed I was cold in his car.
Why would he give me his shirt?
I also wondered why he wasn’t saying anything or asking to sample his purchase.
I thought about the fact that I had never been owned for more than a few nights, and then, somehow, he bought me for himself. For life.
I flip my eyes from the queen-size bed covered in black sheets to the window behind it. A glass wall gives a view into the expanse of New York, one I have never been privileged enough to see.
Except for the whiskey-gold lights arranged around the floor and ceiling, my bedroom is completely black. The color scheme is the same as the charcoal-dipped exterior, with more whiskey-gold lights lining the rails of the staircase.
He cannot be handing this bedroom to me. I’m a slave. The only time I’m glamorized is when I have to perform on stage. It’s the only time I’m worthy of anything flashy or fancy. Not expensive, just eye-catching so I can make more money for my owner. Former owner.
This is not for me. I shake my head, taking a step back, refusing to accept this space as mine. It’s new and clean. It’s not a place for me.
I cringe at the neatness of it.
I can sleep in the garage or somewhere else. If he is giving me this, what would I have to do to earn it?
My former owner made me work and owned my body because it was a way to pay for the food I ate, the water I had access to, the mattress, and the four walls I was given. Still, I could never pay off their kindness.
What would I have to do to earn this?
I can feel his eyes on me as I step back again. His breathing on my neck spikes the hairs on my skin.
I gulp down nervous knots in my throat and take a step forward.
I turn to him, clasping my hands in front of me, feeling out of place since I’m still in my costume and this is not a stage. Or could it be what he wants me to be? A stripper. I can be that. I have been trained to be that.
I take cautious steps towards him, hearing the sound of my clattering heart and berserk pulse. He hasn’t said anything to me. He has been quiet. I don’t like quiet. It forces me to think. It forces me to remember. It forces me to accept reality.
I stop in front of him, not sure what to do with myself or what to do for him.
I do want him to say something. I want him to give me something to work with. Tell me what to do. Give me an order. State the rules. Lay out the punishments.
Tell me how many times I will be allowed to eat in a week or how many times I will be allowed to bathe with warm water. I want him to tell me something.
I lift my eyes from his black dress shoes, trace the seam of his black slacks, the loop of his black leathered belt, the black-stoned cufflinks hooking the collared sleeve of his black dress shirt, the rings on his fingers, the traces of tattoos that disappear into the sleeves of his shirt, back to the black-stoned buttons, and then I pause when I get to the small opening around his neck.
It is not that I find his scars scary, but I wonder if he wants me staring at them.
I want to throw my head back down and keep my eyes on the floor, fearing that I will get punished for this, but again, I should frame his face, even if for the last time.
I suck in air charged by the poignancy of his scent. It’s strong. It’s black. Bold. Daring. Evoking. Provocative. Like him.
I lift my eyes from the slashes of burn marks on one side of his neck, watching the division on his full, perky pastel-pink lips, with one side shrinking from the scars, stretched in a glossy slash.
I keep going, tracing the swipe of the burns until I meet his eyes—dark eyes, black as the color of his hair and aura.
But in them is a pull of familiarity like I have looked into those eyes before. I would remember him if I had seen him somewhere. It would be hard to miss remembering someone who makes something that is supposed to be bizarre and hideous so divine.
It’s like an eclipse on his face. It’s like war in his eyes.
He wears his scars in a way that makes me unashamed to have mine. He wears them beautifully. And he is beautiful.
I drop my eyes, then flutter my lashes to send the thought back to wherever it came from.
More silence.
Deafening. Brain-screeching. Mind-chugging.
We stay breathing, and with each breath I draw, I feel like clawing at my skin because of how the silence crawls on me.
“Food will come,” his voice is the same as everything about him. Black. Only this time it feels the same as molten, still retaining the heat but clogged already from the absence of fire.
It makes me shiver. He makes me shiver.
“Eat and go to bed, it’s been a long night,” he turns to leave, but I catch up quickly.
“Please, music,” I shrink as I feel his eyes on me, and I don’t wait for him to ask why, “I can’t sleep without noise, please,” I explain anyway. “Master?” It’s a question because I don’t know what he would want to be addressed as yet.
“Alexa,” he thrums, the timbre ricocheting in my clattering bones, “Play something… classical.”
A sound booms through invisible speakers, and I shudder, darting around searching for it. Then the music comes. Classical is my favorite.
Tears swell in my chest and mound my eyes as the song fills the room.
“Tell Alexa whatever you want to listen to,” he spins and struts with glacial steps out of the bedroom that is supposed to be mine.
I sit on the floor, pulling my knees to my chest as the soft harmony forms a bubble wrap around my worn-thin frame. I feel like a fabric that has been overworn and patched too many times, and at any point, I will turn chafed between the hard crush of fingers.
I drop my head on my knees and hug myself, marking this position as mine because I’m not leaving this spot. Everything else feels too good to be real.
He feels too good to be real.
But more than that, he feels familiar. Like the missing piece from the center of a puzzle. Like something I’m missing. Like someone I’m missing.
He might be a good thing—the first in fifteen years.
He might be the worst thing to happen to me yet.
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