Page 41 of The Devil's Den

“Fuck you!” I roar, coming at him, face-to-face. “Fuck you to hell! She’d never want a kid to die just to save herself! That’s one thing you’ll never have in common with your daughter. A conscience.”

But I don’t know how I could refuse when there’s a chance he means what he says. How could I let that happen?

His punch to my jaw comes quick, and my fist lands square into his eye before the men have a chance to hold me back.

Damn, that felt good.

“Fucking motherfucker!” he bellows, rubbing where I hit. Stan and another grip my arms behind my back as I fight their clutches, snarling at Agnelo like a beast.

“You’re gonna regret this, you ungrateful little shit. Your whole fucking family is a bunch of ungrateful bastards, starting with that father of yours.” He removes his blazer, throwing it to another guy, rolling up his sleeves. “I should’ve sent you to the club from the beginning. I’d never have to look”—he slams his fist to my cheek—“into”—he lands another hard hit to my nose as it starts to bleed—“your damn face again.” He punches me in the jaw this time. “But I let you live in my fucking house while you ate my food!”

I don’t react, my eyes on his as he hits me, again, then again, until the raw pain blends with the roaring of my skin. I can still see, but it’s blurred, my cheeks swelling right under my eyes.

The boy looks at me, gaping, his body trembling as another hit comes to my stomach. He cries heavy now, and his father does too.

“String him up,” Agnelo demands, his voice even. I’m being dragged by my shirt, my sneakers squeaking against the floor.

At first, I have no idea what he’s talking about, not until seconds later when Stan and Drew remove my shirt and lift me up in the air, tying my wrists together.

Then I’m raised in the air, feet dangling. The pain to my wrists comes rough, and I groan, peering up, seeing the metal beam where the rope is attached.

Will it hold me? Could I escape?

“You think you have choices here?” Agnelo asks, standing a couple feet from me as I zap my eyes to him. “You’re nothing. I’m gonna show you what you’re worth.”

His belt comes off, clinking in the silence, the quiet heavy, and I know what’s coming, I know what he’ll do before the first whip hits my back. But I’ll take it. All day. As long as he leaves her alone. As long as he doesn’t send her to that horrible place.

Blow after blow, my flesh tears as he slashes it with the heavy whip of his belt. But I don’t make a sound. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

She appears before my eyes, her face, her smile, the feel of her lips on mine, her hands in my hair. I hold on to her—our love, her beauty. I don’t stop thinking about her even as he removes the pistol from his waistband, aiming it at the boy in the chair. Not even when he shoots him in the head, his father’s muffled screams reminding me of my dad’s the day they killed him.

Once the father goes too, they all walk out, and I’m bathed in true silence. I’m alone now, drops of crimson leaking onto the floor, tormenting pain on every inch of my body, not knowing if I’ll survive it.

I’m sorry, Aida. I love you. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

* * *

AIDA AGE 20

I haven’t told a soul, but I’ve been having nightmares. A lot of them. I can’t explain them all. Sometimes I’m alone in a dark, empty place with no end. I just keep running, screaming for help, trying to find a way out. But it never comes.

Other times, there’s a woman, her hair long and blonde, her features not so clear, like she’s been blurred. But her hand reaches for mine, and she asks me to come with her. But fear envelops me and I don’t go. She pleads with me, saying my name. When I ask her who she is, she just disappears. Then I wake up, sweat drenching my forehead and my back, breathing heavy, trying to remember every detail of that woman. But it never comes until I see her again the next night.

“Are you okay?” Robby asks, patting my knee as we sit beside one another, me with a book in hand. I realized I had stopped reading, consumed by thoughts of my nightmares.

Clearing my throat, I try to push them away. “I’m fi—”

The door flies open as we startle, my father’s heavy stomping coming toward me. “Get dressed.” He throws a bag on the floor, looking irate, his forehead wrinkled with rage-filled lines.

“What?” I sit up straighter. “I am dressed.”

“Put the dress on,” he grits. “The one in the bag.”

Ms. Greco walks in, wiping her hands on the apron as she looks questioningly at him.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “Where’s Matteo?” An eerie feeling in my gut tells me something is wrong. It’s been hours. He should’ve been back already. But I was so distracted with Robby, I hadn’t looked up at the clock until now.

“Put the fucking dress on!” he screams so loud, Robby runs under the table, like he does every time my father loses his temper.

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