Page 6 of Savior

I roll my eyes. “Faith? If there is a god who is all-powerful, why did he let us get taken in the first place?” I counter to her faith that’s built like a brick wall.

“He’s testing us,” she answers.

“What is your name?” I ask her.

I might as well get to know some of my roommates before we meet our maker, or at least find out if he’s real.

“Sarah,” she says curtly. She knows I’m not a sheep she can control with her bouts of random, idealistic ramblings while we’re in here. We’re all hostages, and she needs to get a fucking grip.

“Well, Sarah, maybe you should look around you. Oh, well, you can’t, can you? This situation we’re all in proves that yourLord and Savior doesn’t care about you or me. He allowed this to happen and hasn’t come to save us.”

She says nothing, but the sound of teeth grinding is audible through the space.

The sobs of the scared woman directly across from me grow louder.

“And what is your name?” I ask her.

“Kristen,” she gets out.

Clothes rustle as someone in the room adjusts against the wall. Chains rattle.

My chains lay across my thighs, my hands clasped in my lap.

“Kristen, how old are you?”

More so, I’d like for her to stop crying. In a situation like this, it won’t save you, and it’s grating my fucking nerves on top of that.

“Twenty-five,” she says, with no evidence of tears in her voice.

Older than I am. Yet, I’m controlled.

I wince at the inner realization. I’m not like everyone else. Growing up in Brownsville in Brooklyn would harden even God himself.

“Your cries won’t do you any good. They’ll only dehydrate you more than you likely already are. Save them.”

My words settle in the room as I hear shifting from the direction of Sarah’s voice to my right. “And what is your name, then?” Sarah asks.

“Sloane,” I reply quickly.

“And your age?” she prods.

“Twenty.”

The tension in the room thickens. “So young, and yet so hardened to life already.”

“Mm, growing up with a drug addict father and a whore for a mother will do that to you.”

The door to the room we’re locked in opens abruptly. “Shut the fuck up in here!”

It seems our guards don’t like idle chit-chat.

I smirk, sighing as he moves too close to the door.

“Tommaso, dammi una nuova ragazza da vendere. Ho un cliente costoso che vuole la più bella che abbiamo!” a man shouts down the hall before the door shuts. —“Give me a new girl to sell. I have a priority client who wants the nicest one we have.”

We always hear the same deep, raspy voice before the girls disappear from inside the room.

I’m pretty sure the Italians have us, which means it’s likely one of thefive familiesof New York, but sussing out which one will take some time.

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