The warehouse smells like damp metal and old oil, like someone tried to scrub the place clean and only succeeded in spreading the stink around. The overhead lights flicker in a slow, taunting rhythm. Every time they buzz, the shadows jump and my stomach twists tighter.
My wrists ache where the rope bites. My shoulders burn from being yanked into position. My cheek still throbs from the backhand at the gas station, and my mouth tastes like copper. I keep swallowing, trying to get rid of the blood, but it just sits there, sour and stubborn.
Beside me, the man in the chair breathes like each inhale costs him something.
My father.
The word feels wrong. Too big. Too loaded. Like a present someone threw at me without wrapping it and expected me to be grateful.
I stare at him. His face is swollen and bruised, one eye nearly closed. His lip is split. There’s dried blood on his neck and collar. His hands are tied to the chair arms so tight his fingers are slightly purple.
He looks up again, that one good eye locking on me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he blinks.
“You’re really…?” My voice cracks. I hate that. I clear my throat, forcing steadier air. “You’re my father.”
His throat works, and he nods slowly. “Yes.”
“Why did this happen to me?” I ask.
“I think your mother and her rotten boyfriend sold you,” he tells me what I’ve been dreading to hear.
Anger surges hot and immediate. It has nowhere to go except straight up my spine. “Then answer me,” I snap. My voice comes out louder than I mean, and the sound echoes off the empty walls. “How did you know I’d been taken?”
His gaze flickers, and something like shame crosses his battered face. “I saw you.”
My stomach flips. “Where?”
“Online,” he says, voice hoarse. “A site. A… listing.”
My skin goes cold.
A listing.
Like I was furniture.
Like I was meat.
My breath shortens, panic trying to claw its way back in. I force it down and lean forward as much as the rope allows. “What site?”
He hesitates. “It was a buy-now platform. Private. Hidden behind layers. You needed access. You needed an invite.”
Acid surges up, burning the back of my tongue. My eyes burn, but I refuse to cry in front of him. Not after all this time. “So you saw my face,” I say, each word sharp, “and that made you suddenly remember I exist.”
“No,” he whispers quickly. “Salem, no. I’ve always known. I’ve always… I’ve always carried you.”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “In your pocket. Like loose change.”
His eyelids lower for a second. When he opens them, that one eye looks glassy. “I’ve been undercover.”
I blink. “Undercover.”
His voice roughens, and the words seem to scrape out of him. “A crime syndicate. They call the woman who runs it Serafina.”
The name hits like a bell in my head. I’ve heard it before through Ozzy’s phone, through hushed conversations. A ghost name. A danger name. A name that makes men like Dean Maddox go quiet.
My stomach turns again. “Serafina?”
He nods. “I went in deep. Years ago. It was supposed to be short. It never is. I couldn’t get out without getting people killed.”