Page 7 of Shadows of the Past
"Well, well. What do we have here?" Within seconds, his shoes appear in front of me.
I look up just as Carmela explains how I was taken as payment for my father's debt. Don Rogelio's expression remains neutral, and I wonder what's going through his mind.
"I thought you might want her for yourself," Carmela concludes, sending ice through my veins.
The thought of being touched by this man is enough to make me wish for unconsciousness again.
"How old is she?" he finally asks.
"From what I understand, eighteen," Carmela answers.
I watch him weighing the options in that thick skull of his before he exhales sharply.
"Too green for my taste."
The breath I'd been holding escapes, momentary relief flooding through me.
"Ivan will like her. He prefers them younger, but I think he'll make do with this one."
My eyes widen because I don't know who this Ivan is, but dread crawls up my spine like spiders.
"You'll make a perfect gift for him," he says, something glinting behind his eyes.
"Carmela, make the necessary arrangements to get her to the Russian," he commands before turning and leaving the room.
Something like pity flashes across Carmela's face before she masks it quickly.
I want my home. I want to hear Dad complaining about the car breaking down again. I want to hear the twins arguing over cartoons.
Time blurs until the gold-toothed man enters and heads straight for me, ignoring Carmela completely.
"I hear you're going on a trip, muñequita," he says, something in the way he says "trip" setting off every alarm in my body. How do I get out of here? I can't leave the country.
Before I can speak, he grabs my arm and pulls me up. My knees nearly give out, but his grip somehow keeps me pressed against him, forcing me to stay upright.
"Come on, we have a long road ahead."
Before I can register his words, I feel the prick of a needle at the base of my neck.
"Martin, you know you're not allowed to play with the toys before they arrive, right?" Carmela says, and something changes in the posture of the man apparently named Martin.
He doesn't answer, just drags me outside where the sun is already setting. We're near water—I can hear waves and take several deep breaths. Somehow I know it's the last time I'll smell this salt-heavy air that means home, and this knowledge breaks my heart.
My head is spinning and I force myself to calm down. Whatever was in that needle was meant to make me dizzy and disoriented. Nausea rises in my throat, and the ground tilts dangerously as waves of sickness wash over me. I have to steady myself before I lose control completely.
I'm thrown into a van, and we drive for what feels like half an hour. When he opens the door and pulls me out, I register that we're beside a small house, likely outside the city but still near the port, as I can hear boats.
"What are we doing here?" I ask, hating the tremor in my voice.
He doesn't answer, dragging me toward the house. When we enter, the smell of tobacco hits me. Various ashtrays with carelessly abandoned cigarettes make my stomach turn. I haven't eaten, but the van ride and now this smell make me turn and involuntarily empty my stomach onto his carpet.
"Son of a—" I hear him snarl as his hand tangles in my hair. "You'll clean it up later, don't worry," he says, shoving me into what appears to be a bedroom.
NO. NO. NO.
"Please, I can get money," I beg, hating myself for the tears I know are in my eyes.
I can see what he wants in his gaze, and it isn't money. As he unbuckles his belt, my mind screamsRUN.
