No “Are you okay?” No “What happened in there?”He doesn’t ask the weak questions other men do. He just gives me a tether to reality.
I press my wet face into the paper towel and breathe.
But I am not unarmed.
The hard metal edge of the stolen USB drive bites into my sternum. The leverage exists. The bomb is primed. I just lack the muscle required to walk out of this compound alive and detonate it.
I need my own monsters.
I open the messaging app.
The security group chat sits exactly where I left it. The channel I swore never to use again after the humiliating masturbation text.
Pride is a luxury dead women cannot afford.
My thumbs fly across the keyboard. The message strips away every ounce of Costa armor. It is a total, desperate surrender.
LUCIA:
My brother just sold me to a butcher. He threatened my daughter’s life. If I walk out of this bathroom alone, I am dead. I am trapped. Please. Get me out of here.
I hit send.
My heart stalls in my chest. I stare at the glowing letters.
I just begged three lethal predators to save my life.
The small gray text appears at the bottom of the screen.
Read by Nick.
Read by Rafe.
Read by Jude.
Three typing bubbles appear simultaneously. They don’t hesitate. They don’t ask for clarification. They don’t care about Dominic’s grand plans.
The replies hit in rapid succession.
JUDE:Breathe. Stay exactly where you are. I have the perimeter exits tracked. I will not let them touch you.
RAFE:Fuck the dress. Rip it off if you have to run. I am coming to the door right now.
NICK:Breathe, Principessa. Stay in that stall. Don’t move until I tell you. We are coming through the door, and we are taking you home.
9
NICK
The bright green pixels glow on the encrypted screen.
My brother just sold me to a butcher. He threatened my daughter’s life. If I walk out of this bathroom alone, I am dead. I am trapped. Please. Get me out of here.
My right thumb hovers over the cold glass. The desperate words burn into my retinas. The sterile, climate-controlled air in the grand ballroom turns to ash in my lungs.
Time stops.
The hired string quartet plays a lively Vivaldi piece in the far corner. Wealthy men in ten-thousand-dollar suits drink expensive vintage champagne. Corrupt city politicians laugh at terrible jokes. Rival cartel bosses negotiate bloody territory deals over silver trays of miniature crab cakes. Oblivious to the shift in the room’s atmospheric pressure.