The next morning Vanna was driven to a warehouse somewhere in the bowels of Chicago. Eight girls were already there, and the place was filled with camp cots, sleeping bags, makeup, and trash. Like in the apartment she and Jenny had been kept in before she’d gone to the farm, a clothing rack held all sorts of hooker clothes that, presumably, were shared. The women ate only one meal a day, usually sandwiches from a nearby deli. Most of the girls didn’t speak English, but they chattered incessantly, so much that Vanna had a persistent headache. The only peace she got was when they were out hooking. For some reason she was no longer sent on booty calls. She spent the entire day inside the cramped quarters of the warehouse.
The only consolation was that Sergei had come with her. She tried not to think how low she’d sunk to consider a Russian goon her ally; it was clear he was supposed to keep an eye on her. But she smiled when he brushed by, and when they were the only ones in the warehouse, he would perch on the edge of her cot. He didn’t speak much English, nor she Russian, but they were able to communicate through pigeon English, pantomime, and gestures.
Sergei, Vanna learned, was not only a guard, but also Vlad’s part-time chauffeur. She asked him where Vlad was; she hadn’t seen him since they’d brought her here, and that was nearly a week ago. Was her “relationship” with him—she wasn’t sure what else to call it—over? Or was Vlad punishing her because she tried to escape? Did he know she was pregnant?
Sergei shrugged. “I not know. No ask.”
Vanna pursed her lips. “Am I going to be here forever?”
He shrugged again, implying, at least to Vanna, that she was better off not knowing.