Page 34 of The Devil's Demise

I swipe under my eye. Robby had gone through so much thanks to those monsters, his relief at feeling the safety in the arms of his parents makes sense. His counselor had said he has made great progress, and his school psychologist says he’s adjusting great in school. He already has made so many friends. How could they not love him?

Having Aida close by definitely helped Robby in the beginning. She was the only constant he had growing up. I was thrilled when she and Matteo bought a house on the block. Luckily it had gone on sale not too later after, so they were able to move out of Chiara and Dom’s place. I’m glad Aida and Robby have remained close. She’s like his big sister, and the love he has for her is something that needs to be nurtured. After all, she saved my son in a way no one would’ve. She loved that boy like her own and I will never be able to repay her for that.

“Okay, you two. I really have to go now.”

“Love you, Mom.” He waves at me.

“Bye, baby girl. Think about me.” He sucks the corner of his lip into his mouth, and holy hell, I ache with renewed fervor.

“You . . .” I tighten my mouth, grabbing his face and kissing him again, giving another one to Robby on the top of his head.

“Behave, boys.”

“We will!” Robby calls as I step away.

“We won’t,” Enzo throws in just as I make it out the door.

* * *

Most survivors of trafficking are not as lucky as I am. If they do survive, they don’t have anyone to help them transition from that life into the real world.

My idea came to me three months into living with Enzo. I envisioned a place that could offer survivors everything—from a place to live, to counseling, to programs that teach them life and work skills they could take with them to become integrated into the society they were ripped away from.

At first, I didn’t think I could achieve what I wanted. It felt too big. But after spilling my heart to Enzo one night, he assured me he had my back and supported me one hundred percent.

He convinced me I had to do it. That a place like that would be a great help to other women, especially when run by a woman who understood what it’s like. I wanted to focus on women because many of them wouldn’t feel comfortable sharing sleeping quarters with a man, even if he was on a different floor. I wanted to provide safety, not fear.

So, with Enzo’s help, we found a place within a week—a three-story building with offices on the first floor, perfect for lectures and workshops, and the upstairs serving as living space.

We quickly found another location, with the intention to provide both places with housing and programs. Six months after that, Helping Hand was born—a nonprofit organization that has grown more in these first few months than I ever envisioned. With the connections the Cavaleris have, with the funding their wealthy colleagues and friends have provided, it's become a thriving refuge for many survivors.

Seated at my desk, I scan the inventory on my laptop, then proceed to order more cases of shampoo and conditioner, among other things the women here desperately need. The amount of donors we have is miles long. It makes the women feel good, knowing there are people out there who care about them.

There’s a small knock at my door.

“Come in,” I say and the door slowly parts. I find seventeen-year-old Elena there.

“Ms. Jade, I—ahh—n-never mind.” She steps back out just as quickly as she came in.

“Elena, please, come in.” I rise to my feet, going to her, towering over her small frame. “You’re not bothering me. Whatever it is, I’m here to listen.”

She timidly glances up at me, flicking her light brown hair away from her face, the round black and blue around her blue eye no longer there. She came to us three months ago. At first, she wouldn’t stay.

She left twice before she came back again, beaten and bruised, after returning to her pimp. The same man who sold her for thirty dollars a pop, allowing men to do whatever they wanted for thirty excruciating minutes. There are marks on her that will never vanish. Her thighs, her back, branded with scars. But the scars on her soul, those are the ones she holds tightly to.

She barely ever talks at group therapy. It’s hard. Not everyone can speak about what they’ve been through.

Elena has no one. Her father abandoned her family when she was too little to remember him, while her mom preferred the company of drugs and men to her and her older brother. Jason, her brother, has been in prison for years. She has nothing to return to. So it’s no surprise she’d return to a man like that.

Her abuser has been arrested, and she’s supposed to testify against him, but I worry about her, having to relive her emotional trauma.

“Let’s go sit,” I tell her, leading the way to my bright yellow sofa. The girls here tease me about it, but I love it. Aida picked it out. She said it reminded her of the sun. We all need a little sunshine in this place. “Want some water or iced tea?” I ask, turning toward Elena as she settles on the furthest corner.

She shakes her head, glancing at her lap, picking at her nails. “I’m okay.” She doesn’t say anything for long minutes and I let her be. She’ll find her voice when she’s ready, and I’m here to listen. I may not be an official counselor like the two I employ, but I talk to the women every chance I get—in group, in the lectures we host. I haven’t shied away from my story. I gave them every raw detail, so they know that they’re not alone in this, and that if I can make it through it all, they can too. It physically hurts when some of them leave. I want to find them to tell them to come back. That they’re worth more, but nothing I say will make a difference. They have to want this for themselves.

The abusers are gifted at dismantling the self-esteem of their victims. They know how to push at their inner turmoil and peel at the skin that already aches with their demons.

Many of them come from a life that’s been riddled with horridness, and once they find someone who promises them a better life, they cling to that.

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