Page 9 of Born into Darkness

Keeping a hand on the wall, I slowly make my way around the room. Every ten feet or so my hands brush over a metal hook that’s embedded in the cement, and when I get to the only other door besides the one Mateo used, I look in to find a filthy toilet and sink. I ignore it for now, knowing I’ll need to be at the point of nearly bursting my bladder before I’ll use it.

The main door is locked, of course, and when I make my way around the other side of the room, it’s obvious that there is no way out of this dungeon. No windows, no door that I can open, and no way in hell anyone could possibly know I’m down here. I don’t even know where in the hell I am. Did they just take me down the coastline, or did they go somewhere else? Am I even in America? I have no idea, and with each passing second, I start to lose hope of ever being found. My family’s good, but there’s no way for them to track me, and I’m guessing the cartel has this place heavily guarded.

Sitting back down, I lean my head against the wall, my thoughts immediately going to my family. I miss my brothers. I’ve always had them around me, always had them to talk to, and I miss Wallace and the way he’d lay down in my lap and let me love on him anytime I needed a cuddle. I’ve never been on my own, and as much as Allie and I always dreamed about freedom, I quickly decide that I’d much rather be protected and coddled, because fuck this. Fuck creepy-ass cartel men and scary, mildew-ridden torture rooms. I want my overprotective Bratva family and a fenced in home with tons of bodyguards on duty to keep it safe.

I’m left alone for what feels like hours until finally the door opens, and a man I’ve never seen before walks in with a plate of food. The grin he’s giving me has all kinds of warning bells ringing in my still-sore head, and when I wrap my arms around my legs, trying to remain as small as possible, he just gives a soft laugh and steps closer. Stopping near me, he says something to me in what I now know is Spanish before setting the plastic plate near my feet with another bottle of water.

“Eat,” he says, giving the plate a nudge with his dirty boot.

When I don’t move, he growls the command again and then squats down so he can roughly fist my hair and tilt my head back.

“Eat the food,” he hisses at me, each word sharp and hard as he fists my hair tighter, pulling a pained whimper from me. He smiles at the sound and pulls my hair even harder before letting me go. He waits until I reach for the plate. The hard look he’s giving me makes it clear that I’m going to get way more than a sore scalp if I don’t do what he says. I pick up the plastic fork and use it to dig through the food. It looks like ground beef, rice, and beans, and when I lean closer and sniff it, the man laughs. It doesn’t smell rotten, and I know if they wanted to drug me, they’d just do it. These men don’t need to sneak it into food. They’d just give me a shot or force it down my throat.

“Eat,” he says again, and this time I fill my fork and take a bite, surprised to find it tastes good. I’d been expecting rotten, old food, and when I eat another bite, he gives me a smirk before standing up and taking a step back. He watches, waiting for me to finish everything, and as soon as I’m done, he grabs the plate and fork, not wanting to leave me with anything that could potentially be used against them, even if that weapon is plastic and could barely stab through the beans I’d just eaten.

Grabbing the water bottle, I take a long drink and then decide to save the rest in case I don’t get any more for a while. The man leaves without another word, and the meal we just shared quickly becomes our routine. Days must pass, but I have no concept of time. He brings me three meals a day, I eat them while he watches, I ignore the way he looks at me, and let out a sigh of relief every time he leaves. Aside from pulling my hair the first day I was here, he never touches me, and I live in a constant state of fear that my luck will change with that.

On what I think is my sixth day, I hear the door open and immediately freeze. Something’s not right. He’s already brought me my supper, so I shouldn’t be seeing him again until tomorrow morning. The smirk he’s wearing has me curling in on myself as he walks closer. Grabbing my wrists, he binds them with a pair of metal handcuffs, closing them tight enough to make me wince before attaching them to a chain.

He growls something to me in Spanish and then gives a hard tug on the chain, yanking me roughly to my feet.

“What are you doing?” I ask, struggling to stand and keep my balance when he gives another hard tug on my bound wrists.

“Shut up,” he hisses at me while dragging me towards the door. I follow him out, refusing to let the tiny spark of hope that’s starting to flutter in my chest take hold. I can’t help but wonder if my dad got in touch with them, though, and if maybe I’m about to be released.

When he drags me out of the room, I look around, but there’s nothing to see aside from a dark hallway and a stairway off to the right. It’s just as dark and dank as the room I was being held in, and when the man pulls me along after him, we don’t go far, just to the closed door that’s to the left of us. Opening it, he drags me inside, and panic races through me when I lift my eyes and see two large men chained to the wall. Their faces are bloody and beaten, and the hope that was sprouting in my chest dies a quick death as dread takes over. I know I’m next. Whatever they just did to these two, they’re about to do to me.

Pushing me closer, I slump to the ground next to one of the men while the chain I’m attached to is connected to the hook embedded in the wall above my head. Instead of just leaving, he squats down in front of me and grabs my chin, digging his fingers in hard enough to hurt as he forces my face up to meet his. He growls something in Spanish to me, and even though I don’t understand a word of it, the fierce hostility in his tone and the sick, leering look he’s giving me is enough to have me cowering before him.

I’m stunned when the man chained next to me yells, “Get your fucking hands off her.”

The man in front of me gives a soft laugh and looks over at the guy who’d just yelled while he trails his finger down my cheek, making my skin crawl at his touch. Tears fall, but I stay as quiet as possible as I try to turn my face away.

He strokes my face again and says, “I can do whatever the fuck I want with her.” He gives another harsh laugh and brushes my hair aside so I can no longer hide behind it. “Isn’t that right,puta? And if Daddy doesn’t cooperate soon, then they’re going to give you to me, and I’m going to get to play with you all fucking night.”

His words pull a sob from my throat as I try to curl into a ball and the beaten guy next to me yells at him to leave me alone. My captor laughs and stands back up. Before he walks off, he spits on the ground near my feet and mutters another threat in Spanish. I’m terrified, more scared than I’ve ever been, and my instinct is to look over at the man who’d tried to help me. I have just enough time to see a handsome face that not even the beating he just took can hide and the most beautiful pair of grey eyes I’ve ever seen before the lights go out and we’re plunged into darkness again.

I let out another terrified whimper, and with the lights out, my soft sobs seem to echo around the room. I try to get myself under control, but I can’t. When I let out another muffled sob, I hear movement from beside me. The pitch black of the room makes it impossible to see anything. I’ve never been in such a dark place before. Even when the light is turned out in a room, there’s usually some sort of illumination—moonlight coming in from around the blinds, light seeping in from beneath the crack of a door, something, anything, but this is a darkness so thick that nothing can penetrate it.

When my breath hitches at the soft scraping noise, a whispered voice says, “It’s okay. I’m not trying to scare you. I just didn’t want you to feel like you’re alone.”

“I don’t want to die here,” I whisper back, voicing the fear that won’t leave me alone.

I hear him scoot even closer before letting out a soft, pained sigh. His voice is right next to me when he says, “You won’t die here.”

“How can you possibly know that?” As much as I want to grab onto the hope he’s trying to give me, I’m very aware of our situation and how precarious it is.

He’s quiet for a few seconds before saying, “Because you’d already be dead if that’s what they wanted. They’re keeping us alive for a reason. Have they hurt you?”

“No.” I wait a second and add, “I’m sorry they hurt you.”

I hear the huff of air that’s meant to be a soft laugh. “My cousin and I will be fine. Don’t worry about us. It’s good they haven’t touched you, though. It means they’re scared to.”

“What’s your name?”

“Max. What’s yours?”

Even though I’ve just met him, his presence is comforting in a way that surprises me. I feel like I’ve known him for far longer than the few minutes we’ve spent together. Maybe it’s my desperate need to feel a connection to someone, or maybe it’s the fear that’s slowly gnawing its way through my body. Whatever it is, it makes me close the distance and rest my head on his broad shoulder as I whisper, “Talia,” into the dark room.

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