Wait for Me in the Alley

I came to Chicago with my friend to visit her boyfriend. Three days in, her boyfriend said he'd show us "something fun." The car kept driving—farther and farther out. By the time we realized something was wrong, we were locked inside an abandoned factory. My friend was gone. Her boyfriend shoved me into a room and threw me a line: "Your friend sold you for twenty grand. Stay put and wait for arrangements." I scanned the room. A few men in black suits leaned against the doorway. Silver-gray pins on their chests. Shield-shaped. Dark red thorns. An inverted dagger. The family crest of Caleb Richardson—don of the New York mafia. I was held captive by him for three years. I barely escaped with my life— And now I've been handed right back to him. Chapter 1 "Save your energy. Ain't nobody coming for you." The man speaking had a cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes raked over me once, then he tilted his head toward the guy beside him. "Decent enough. Send her to the estate. Couple days' training, then she works." "What estate? What work?" I clutched the strap of my backpack and took a step back. "Quit playing dumb." He let out a scoff. "What do you think they do with girls like you?" My blood went cold. No wonder Nora had insisted on dragging me to Chicago. No wonder her boyfriend had been "conveniently" free to pick us up and drop us off the entire time. She'd sold me. For twenty thousand dollars. "I'm not going to any estate. Let me go. I'll pay you—double—" "Once you're through that door, you don't get to negotiate." He stubbed his cigarette out against the wall. "Either you behave and go work, or you take a beating first and then go work. Your pick." I backed up two steps until my spine hit the cold metal bed frame. "Neither." The man held my gaze for a second, then jerked his chin. The two guys behind him moved. Fists and boots landed on my ribs, my stomach, my sides. I curled into a ball, arms over my head, muffled grunts forcing their way out of my throat. When the beating stopped, I was face-down on the floor, blood dripping from my mouth, every organ inside me churning. The man crouched down, grabbed my hair, and yanked my face up. "Your choice now. Going or not?" I didn't answer. Just stared at him. He let go, straightened up, and nudged my shoulder with the toe of his shoe. "Stubborn, huh. Lock her up. Couple days without food and she'll soften." They dragged me up and threw me into a windowless closet. The iron door slammed behind me. The lock clicked. Then—commotion from outside. Footsteps running down the corridor. A voice, low and urgent: "The Don's here! Clean everything up. Hide the new merchandise first." Someone outside answered. Footsteps scattered. I closed my eyes, the back of my head pressed against the cold wall, a dull ache spreading through my chest. The Don. Caleb Richardson. He was here. I'd spent three years changing my name, running from New York to Italy, convinced I'd never cross paths with him again. And now I'd been sold—right back onto his turf. Chapter 2 A commotion erupted outside the storage room. Footsteps scrambled in every direction, people dragging things, voices hissing "clean it up, hurry." I pushed myself up, crawled to the iron door, and pressed my ear against it. Low voices drifted in from the hallway. "Don brought a lot of people this time. Heard he's in a mood." "When's he ever in a good mood? Been looking for someone for three years and still nothing—you'd be in a mood too." "Who's he even looking for? What woman's worth all this trouble?" "Beats me. Just don't cross him. Come on, let's go greet him." Footsteps faded. I clenched my fists in the dark. He was looking for me. Three years, and he was still looking. Three years ago, he'd locked me in that seaside villa. Windows welded shut. Phone lines cut. Even the bathroom had a babysitter. He said: "Olivia, you run, I catch. You run as many times as you want—I'll find you every single time." I tried seven times. The first six, I only made it as far as the docks before they dragged me back. The seventh, I waited until he left for a meeting, used three months' worth of sleeping pills to knock out the guards, jumped a wall and cracked half my ribs, then crawled onto a seafood delivery truck. That was how I got out of that city. New name. New passport. Three countries. Ended up in Italy. And somehow, of all places, I ran into him in Chicago. And now he was right there—at the end of that hallway. I crouched in the corner, staring at the sliver of light creeping through the crack under the door. People passed by outside: footsteps, murmurs, the scratch of walkie-talkies. Then a voice cut through—lazy, unhurried, with that slight upward tilt at the end. "The West Side accounts don't add up. Who reviewed them?" "Don, that was me... I'll redo them right away." "Redo?" A cold, clipped laugh. "You think this is a game? I want them fixed by tonight. If they're not—you're covering the difference yourself." Footsteps moved away. Caleb. I'd know that voice if I heard it in hell. Three years ago, when he had me pinned against the wall, that same voice had whispered in my ear: "Olivia. Don't leave me." I couldn't wait here and die. I had to make him see me. Even if he locked me up again—it was still better than being buried alive in this place. I scanned the storage room. A metal trash can sat in the corner, with half a shattered vase inside. I grabbed a shard and dragged it hard along the doorframe. Ceramic scraping metal—a sharp, piercing screech. The footsteps outside stopped. Someone cursed. "The hell was that?" The storage door cracked open. A face appeared. "You looking for a beating—" I slammed into him and slipped right through his arm. The hallway exploded. "She's loose! That way—go, go!" I ran barefoot, lungs burning. Around two corners. Hands grabbed at my collar—I wrenched forward, fabric tearing, and went sprawling across the floor at the end of the corridor. My knees scraped raw. I looked up. Through the open doorway, several black cars were parked in the courtyard. A cluster of men surrounded a stretched limousine. In the middle of them, Caleb was lighting a cigarette, the flame catching half his face. I opened my mouth to call out. Only a broken gasp came out. The man behind me caught up, clamped a hand over my mouth, and started dragging me back. "Bitch can still run—guess we didn't hit hard enough." I bit down. Sunk my nails into his arm. He yelped and let go for half a second—and I screamed again toward the doorway. Still nothing. Just a rasp, barely audible. Another man ran up, grabbed a glass ashtray from the hallway table, and brought it down on the back of my head. Everything went red. The last thing I saw before I hit the ground—Caleb had glanced in my direction. But he didn't come over. He just turned to the man beside him, said something, and bent down into the car. The door shut. The engine turned over. Then—nothing but black. Chapter 3 When I woke up, I had no idea how long I'd been out. Still in that same windowless closet. My entire body felt like it'd been taken apart and put back together wrong. Every breath came with a metallic scrape in my throat. But I heard voices outside. A woman's voice. "How'd she end up like this?" I went rigid. I knew that voice. Nora. My friend. The one who'd sold me for twenty thousand dollars. "Come on,Nora," the guy who'd beaten me said, his tone all sycophantic. "She wouldn't cooperate. Refused to work. And she had the nerve to say she's the Don's fiancée. Can you believe the audacity?" Nora kicked me. "You? Don's girl? Keep dreaming." I lay there, too broken to curl up, too weak to do anything but take it. "Why isn't she moving? She dead?" "Nah. Still breathing." "Don't let her die. That'd be too easy." Nora's voice curled into a cold laugh. "Let her live. Work her to death in this shithole." I clenched my fists—nails digging into my palms—but I could barely even make a fist anymore. Someone ran in. "Everyone gather up! The Don's calling a meeting." They all cleared out. I forced myself to stay conscious, dragged my body inch by inch to the door, pressed my ear against the crack. I couldn't see. Could barely speak. But my ears still worked. From the hall outside, Caleb's voice cut through—cold as steel: "Where did this photo come from?" My whole body jolted. My photo. They must've found it in my bag and left it lying around. And Caleb found it. "I—I picked it up at the door. Just brought it in." The answer was thin, nervous. Caleb's voice dropped another degree. "You picked it up? You sure? Lying to me has consequences." The man's voice started shaking. "I—I found it, I swear..." "I want to see this person." Caleb enunciated each word slowly. "Do you know where she is?" "I don't know... she was probably just passing through. Dropped it by accident." A beat of silence. Then Caleb's tone shifted—not cold, but dangerously quiet: "Find her. Now." Quick footsteps came toward me. I pushed myself back, shrinking behind the door. The iron door swung open. The man who'd beaten me grabbed my collar and dragged me out like a bag of trash, hauling me to the center of the hall and dumping me on the floor. "Don, just some worthless whore. Not worth dirtying your eyes over." I lay facedown, blood and grime caked across my face. My eyes half-open, barely making out the silhouette in front of me. My hair was a rat's nest, my face swollen and bruised—so bad even I wouldn't recognize myself. His gaze swept over my face, then dropped lower. To my neck. There—a thin silver chain. So fine it was almost invisible. Hanging from it, a tiny pendant. The ring he'd put on me himself. Three years ago. Caleb's pupils contracted sharply. He walked toward me. One step. Two. Three. Kneeled down in front of me. He reached out, white handkerchief in hand, and began wiping the blood off my face. Bit by bit. Across my forehead. Down the bridge of my nose. Over my cheekbone. Until he stopped at the tiny brown mole at the corner of my left eye. The air went still. Nothing but breathing. "You—" His voice cracked. For the first time, that lazy drawl was gone. His tone bottomed out, low and raw. Caleb looked down at me, fingers closing around the ring. He turned it slightly. The name engraved inside—Olivia—caught the light overhead. Just a flash. He froze. Completely. I opened my mouth. Only a broken whimper came out. Tears mixed with blood dripped into his palm. Caleb turned his head slowly and said to the men behind him: "Anyone who touched her—dead." Then he bent down and lifted me off the floor.