Eighteen months ago
No problem.
Her blithely uttered words had haunted Charity weeks after she’d first uttered them to Stefano “Monty” Montgnaro. He was a regular client she saw a few times a month, whenever his traditional Italian wife and their three children went to visit her parents upstate.
Monty was rich and powerful, with looks that definitely screamed pays for sex. He had a proposition for her, and sure, it sounded cliché, but she couldn’t refuse.
He hadn’t threatened her to accept his “request” because he didn’t have to. His reputation preceded him in more ways than one. Long ago, she’d found ways to avoid his inclinations for painfully rough sex.
Fix a drink. Wind him down. Avoid questions like how was your day, and sure as hell don’t bring up the wife.
And if all else failed, a crushed-up Klonopin in a ready glass of cheap whiskey would at least make the two-hundred-pound gorilla manageable. But he paid well, and saying no came with consequences.
But fear wasn’t Charity’s motivator when she accepted his offer. Greed did all the talking. Double her rate wasn’t good enough. Triple was more like it. Triple! And cash up front—for a one-nighter. How could she say anything but no problem?
The photo he’d handed her didn’t mean anything, and the name that went with it meant even less.
Monty didn’t quite understand her indifference. “Don’t you know who he is?”
Her head shake and shrug was enough to earn her his hard grip on her jaw. “Learn fast. You’ve got one week.” Shoving her head free, he put a small case in her hand. “The guy has a different girl every night. You’ll need to be really close to his phone—right on top of it is best—then press the button.”
The only distinguishing thing about the clip-on device he gave her was a silver button at the top. Turning it to get a closer look, Charity thought the small gray box looked more like a garage door opener than anything else.
Half joking, she asked, “I’m not blowing something up, am I?”
He chuckled, his tone sarcastic. “Did I wipe my prints off it?”
“Then what is it?”
Monty’s stern glare was enough of a warning. Talk time was over.
Tearing her clothes off meant their business discussions were finished. He’d be moving on to the less pleasant parts of their evening, dragging her with him.
* * *
Getting close to a guy was sort of Charity’s thing. Soon enough, though, she learned that CEO Alex Drake was well protected and unapproachable.
With each passing day, her overinflated confidence shriveled to fear. The man was a fortress. Certainly, Monty would understand.
The week Monty had given her to accomplish her task came and went, and he returned despite her attempts to put him off.
“I need more time,” she said, her voice cracking from her anxiety. “Just a little more time.”
Monty’s normally dark eyes grew even blacker with each passing minute of her excuses, and he repeated those two overconfident words back to her. “No problem.”
The basic rule of business is no different from that on the street—under-promise and overdeliver. It should have been simple, but it wasn’t. Instead, her overpromising was a dangerous mistake.
For a low-end hooker barely making ends meet with nothing in the world but her looks to lead the way, Charity was more than frustrated that a guy like Alex Drake was untouchable. And her time was up.
So, what happens to a girl who is all talk and no results?
Nothing. At least, not at first.
But letting Monty take her for a drive to get some air was her second mistake. And her nervousness quickly led her to mistake number three.
Charity welcomed the drink he offered her in the car. A few minutes after a swig from his flask, her body grew warm and she slumped back, feeling sluggish and heavy.
Confused, she watched Monty, then the road ahead. It was dark, which made sense with it being night and all. But it was darker than usual. Are we leaving the city?
With a deep inhale, she closed her eyes for a moment until she realized the car was pulling over in the middle of nowhere. Monty maneuvered the car through a maze of shipping crates, where he parked. His smile set her at ease.
She must have nodded off again but cracked open her eyes at the familiar sound of a lighter striking. Blinking, she refocused.
After lighting a cigar, Monty began babbling on and on about things that didn’t make sense.
Is that Italian? And with every deep puff of that obnoxious stogie, annoying billows of smoke filled the luxury car. Can’t he at least crack open a window?
Coughing, Charity tried pressing the button to lower her window, but his hand swooped to her neck. His rough fingers smoothed over her skin as he whispered more Italian in her ear.
The strong scent made her dizzier by the second, her headache increasing to massive, relentless throbbing. Her head dropped forward but didn’t fall far. Something was wrapped around her neck, keeping her pinned to the headrest. It was tight, but loose enough she could wedge her fingers between it and her skin.
Getting free was a joke. Every move felt feeble and worthless.
Charity’s panic gave her just enough to tug, then claw, until her desperation caused her to dig into her own flesh. Terrified, she cried out loudly, then louder.
“Let me go. Get me out of this.” Her words were insistent and demanding before she softened her tone. If she said the right things, used the right tactic, Monty would be reasonable and sane. Wouldn’t he?
But deep down, she knew. He wasn’t releasing her. And the thought made her yank the binding harder.
The more she fought, the more amused Monty seemed as he watched her. His cold laugh didn’t last long, but a crooked smile stayed on his fat, hideous face the entire time.
He managed to pry one of her hands away from its desperate grasp, laying a long, unexpected kiss on the back of it before he pressed the glowing tip of his cigar to it.
The first burn seared through her skin as the pain ripped screams from her throat. Still fighting to get free, she was frantic to find she was helpless. Monty, however, was just warming up, taking his time and seeming to enjoy it much more than his disgusting rounds of sex.
Desperately, Charity pleaded with him to stop—begging and crying until her throat was raw and scratchy, and she was barely able to breathe. He only stopped long enough for a string of successive puffs to ratchet up the heat, making each new branding even more intense from the red-hot tip of his cigar.
Two more burns on her hand were just the beginning, and then he added a blade to the mix.
The torture lasted hours, with her night of hell finally ending as he dumped her mutilated body on the side of the road, miles from anywhere.
* * *
When she came to in the darkness, Charity dragged herself to her feet and headed numbly toward home, but the details were a little fuzzy. Exhausted and confused, she’d staggered in the direction of the city until a car pulled to a stop beside her.
Scared, she backed away, keeping her head low and letting her hair cover her eyes as she almost refused the ride. Charity wouldn’t look at the driver’s face, or her eyes, but kept her blurred vision fixed on the woman’s clothes. Something about the unicorns on the lady’s scrubs made her feel safe.
Nutjobs can’t possibly like unicorns. Is she a nurse? Will she call the cops?
Hesitant, Charity considered her options, and the driver seemed in no hurry, letting her think it through. Eventually, she relented and got in.
The SUV was comfortably worn in, smelling fresh and sweet from the woman’s perfume or body lotion. Its driver made idle chitchat, but when the first question came out about the hand she held protectively to her chest, Charity’s street-smart instincts kicked into high gear.
Deny.
“I’m fine,” she said softly, more than once, following it with a thank-you to avoid suspicion.
She noticed the soft twang in the woman’s words, its familiar cadence soothing her for a moment before her guard went back up. Kentucky.
A sad smile warmed her face as she thought of her grandmother. Memories of Meemaw were filled with sunny days and laughter, fanciful stories, and butter cookies with sugar crystals sprinkled on top. Gone now, she was buried in a makeshift grave at the foot of a hill Charity would never find again in a million years.
Would her mother know where it was? And let’s be honest, finding her mother would take a hell of a lot longer. She hadn’t seen her mom since she was thirteen.
Overwhelmed by her own sorrow, she shuddered out a breath, missing her grandmother, but no tears fell. She was all cried out.
“Where can I take you?” the woman asked.
Stalling, Charity realized she didn’t want to go home, but where could she go? “You can drop me off near Saint Joseph’s. If that’s not too far out of your way.”
Only then did she notice how raw and quiet her voice was. But the woman didn’t ask again, so she didn’t repeat it, opting to reserve her strength—holding herself together long enough to last a car ride.
Asking to be dropped off almost a mile from her run-down week-to-week motel was crazy, but Charity felt like she had to. She held in the gasps that came with every painful step of the walk there. But if Monty was waiting, she didn’t want anything to happen to her helpful unicorn.
Climbing the flight of stairs to her apartment nearly killed her, the pain causing her to wonder if a rib had cracked when he flung her from the car. But at last, she was home.
From the hole of a space she called the bathroom, the decrepit mirror reflected back her face. Monty left it completely untouched, yet had ensured his mark was everywhere else.
Struggling to see any glimpse of herself behind her swollen red eyes, Charity couldn’t find a trace of the woman she’d been just a few hours ago. Maybe her face being spared was something to be grateful for, but the sight of herself just pissed her off.
It was typical Monty. Leaving her face for later gave her a warning of what would happen if she made trouble. That is, if he let her live at all.
But it was all she wanted to do. Make trouble. And make that motherfucker pay.
Her clenched fists released as fear forced her hand to the mirror. She opened it, relieved to find amongst the orange and white bottles the one she needed now before she made a hasty decision.
Swaying with pain and exhaustion, she stared at the bottle of Klonopin in her hand, thinking. Her overdose was three years ago. It had seemed accidental to the medical staff who had pumped her stomach. She wasn’t suicidal. At least, that was what she’d told herself. And them.
But what happens the next time Monty comes by? Wants to touch me? Fuck me? He’ll kill me if I refuse.
Charity’s gaze traveled down her body. She couldn’t bear to see how bad she was hurt beneath her clothes, and that was reminder enough.
He’ll probably kill me anyway.
Emptying the container into her palm, she enjoyed a small swirl of satisfaction that lifted her rage as she scanned the pills in her hand.
What if I make trouble for that bastard, then beat him to the punch? Do I have enough to do it before he can get to me? How many did I take the last time?
Nodding silently to herself, she dumped the pills back in the bottle. All but two, that is. Tossing them in her mouth, she cupped a handful of water from the tap to chase them down, then headed to collapse, letting herself sink into the illusion of a safe bed and a good night’s sleep.