Page 8 of Keeping My Captive

I hold my tied hands out in front of me as best I can so that I don’t accidentally bump into anything along the way. My fingers become tangled in the long, matted hair of a girl in front of me, and she whimpers when I pull them free. “Sorry,” I whisper quickly. I don’t want her to get in trouble because of me.

We walk for a while before I hear metal scraping. A door opening maybe. And then suddenly, the dark hood is pulled from my head, bright fluorescent lights above instantly blinding me. I slam my eyes shut, desperately seeking another way to ground me to my surroundings. I reach out in front of me but instantly regret my decision when I feel the muscular arm of one of the guards. He immediately shrugs me off, almost sending me toppling to the ground. Stumbling around, I manage to grab onto a wall and get my footing in these godforsaken heels I decided to wear earlier tonight. Was it earlier tonight? No. No, I’ve been gone for far longer than that. It must have been at least two days ago now that I was taken. Stolen away from my friends and family by Constantine Carbone. The bastard. I hope he rots —.

“Keep moving,” the guard from earlier says, breaking me out of my bitter thoughts as he shoves me in the back. I fall to my knees, whipping around, ready to snap at him again. But the challenge in his blue eyes daring me to say one word to him has me biting the inside of my cheek to keep from telling him what I really want to say. I have a feeling the other guard won’t save me this time, and I don’t feel like pressing my luck.

Let’s just say my mouth and choice of words have gotten me in trouble in the past, and right now is not the time to be audacious. Right now, I have to play it smart, bide my time, and hope that someone rescues me from this place before things get worse. And I have a feeling they’re about to get so much worse.

With a lot of effort, I manage to pick myself up off the dirty floor and huddle into a corner with the rest of the women, who range in ages from very young teens to middle age. The look on all their faces is the same — we are screwed. Totally and completely. I tear my eyes away from their despondent expressions and focus on my surroundings.

We’re in some kind of concrete jail cell. Possibly in a basement, because there are no windows, which ultimately means no way out.

My designer dress is dirty, mangled and torn, barely providing me any sense of warmth or cover, and my metallic gold Louboutin red sole pumps are scuffed beyond repair. If I wasn’t in such a dire situation, I would be pissed about the shoes. They were in perfect condition when I put them on to go to the club. A present from my mother.Maybe the last gift I’ll ever get from her.

And when I think about my parents and the rest of my family and friends, my chest aches with a pain I’ve never felt before. I press my tied hands against me, desperately trying to rub out the hurt when the first of what will probably be many tears finally cascades down my cheek. A sob threatens to break free from my throat, but I don’t allow it. I quickly swallow it down and straighten my back. I was raised tougher than this. My dad and brother did their best to prepare me in case I found myself in any similar circumstances. Although, I don’t think anything or anyone could have prepared me for this exact situation. I know how many bad men there are in the world, and I know how many bad things can happen to people. I’ve seen it firsthand.

My father has been taking down places like this for years; even before I was born. He’s a bad man himself, but he does good things, like saving numerous women and children from human trafficking rings. He’s made it his mission in life to save people from being bartered and sold like animals. And I can only hope that he’s on his way right now with his team to save me.

The door opens suddenly, and one of the masked guards steps inside, holding an assault rifle. I recognize him from earlier; the same one who almost hit me after I smarted off to him.

“It’s time for the auction,” he announces, motioning with his gun for us to get up and walk out. “Stay quiet or die. Those are your only two options,” he says, purposely looking at me.

I stand up slowly, my entire body bruised and aching. All of us fall in line, our footsteps forced and slow, like we’re being led to slaughter. It certainly feels that way at this point. I don’t know exactly what will happen after we leave this room, but I know one thing for certain — all of our lives are going to change forever.

As the group of us are led down a dark hallway, I hear one of the other guards say, “Smile and look pretty, girls. It’s almost showtime.”

Slowly, a wicked grin forms on my face. They want us to pretend to be polite, pretty, little dolls for those sick, rich perverts? Well, they’ve got another thing coming.

CHAPTER5

Mateo Navarro

WHEN ONE OF my business associates suggested we take a little trip, I didn’t think it would involve traveling in a private jet for hours to some remote island in the middle of the fucking ocean. Thiago was very secretive about this whole thing, claiming it would all be worth it in the end, but he did tell me that one of the rules of where we were going was no weapons.

The moment we land and exit the plane, there is a team of security that runs metal detector wands up and down our bodies to make sure we’re not carrying. Little do they know that my suit has a special lining that fools archaic methods such as this, and I’m happy that my Glock is secretly resting near my heart inside my jacket where it belongs.

“Getting felt up by these men is your idea of a good time, Thiago?” I quip, irritated by the fact that they’re attempting to pat me down, clearly not trusting their previous search. “Touch me again and I’ll break your goddamn fingers,” I tell one of the men. I don’t fully relax until he puts his hands up and slowly steps back, knowing that I’ve had enough of this bullshit.

Thiago chuckles. “Calm down, Mateo. It’s just protocol.”

I glower at him, contemplating all the ways I could kill him right now. I know numerous ways that would be particularly painful, and I wouldn’t even have to make it look like an accident.

After the security guards have deemed us safe and acceptable, we’re put into a car and driven for a while to a large, nondescript building in the middle of the island. From there, we’re led down a long hallway and into a small ten-by-ten room where we’re told to wait.

Fed up with the theatrics already, I turn to Thiago and ask, “What the fuck are we doing here?”

He tells me cryptically, “You’ll see.”

I tower over him, wanting so badly to put my fist through his puffy, red face. He’s short, much shorter than my height of six-foot five, and about as wide as he is tall. He glances up at me and flashes a mouth full of yellow teeth as he runs his fat fingers through his dark slicked-back hair. The dated hairstyle makes him look older than he actually is when, in fact, we’re the same age of thirty-five.

Sighing in barely confined frustration, I stare out the wide viewing window before us, stepping closer to examine it. I can see myself in the reflection since the outside of this room is completely darkened. I tap on the glass, curious.

“It’s one-way. We can see out, but no one can see in,” Thiago informs me. “It keeps everything private,” he says, stressing the last word.

“So, you’ve been here before,” I presume.

“Oh yes, many times,” he confesses.

He’s never told me about this place, or perhaps I never remember him telling me. Thiago has a tendency to run his mouth a lot, and most of the shit I just block out for my own sanity. I’ve known him for years. He’s one of my closest associates and biggest dealers, distributing the rainbow-colored fentanyl that my people produce in the numerous warehouses in Mexico that I own and run. So, I let a lot of his shenanigans slide, for the sake of business alone and for the amount of money he makes me.

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