Page 1 of The Bratva Sinner

1

Lila

Something is wrong.

The black SUV parked outside our trailer is way too new and shiny to belong to anyone we know. I slow the truck. I don’t have a license. No one will say anything to me out here, but that SUV makes me think Mom has done something.

She probably got busted stealing from the market—again.

She’s not a thief. But sometimes, we’re a little short on cash, and she can’t buy food. It’s not the first time, but they don’t normally send the fancy police to the house.

She must have done something really bad. We joke about her robbing a bank, but I don’t think she’d actually do it. Would she?

I cut the engine of the old truck and climb out. Something is terribly wrong; I feel it in my soul.

I make my way toward the trailer with the sagging roof and stained metal siding. I look around. Nothing but flat, dusty earth stretching in every direction. I tell myself someone got turnedaround, and Mom’s probably offering them a cold drink. Maybe a salesman. Someone desperate enough to show up out here and knock on our door.

But my gut has made up its mind.

My boots are quiet on the porch steps, careful to avoid the rotted spots on the old wood. I push open the door.

“Mama?”

The smell hits me first. Metallic. Copper. I know that smell. Blood. My stomach rolls as my eyes dart around the dark room. The blankets we use as curtains are closed over the window. Mama likes it dark during the day. It keeps the trailer cooler.

It takes a second for my eyes to adjust.

Then, I see her.

My mother is zip-tied to one of our two mismatched kitchen chairs. Both wrists, both ankles. There's a rag stuffed in her mouth and a rope tied around her head to hold the gag in place. Her left eye is nearly swollen shut. Her lip is split. Blood drips from her chin, down her pink shirt, and onto the cracked linoleum beneath her bare feet. She’s still in her pajamas.

"Mama!”

I rush toward her, and that's when they step out. One from the hallway. One from Mama’s bedroom. The one from the hallway is tall, broad-shouldered and dark. Dark skin. Dark hair. Dark dead eyes. He's got a phone in his hand. He raises it and takes my picture before I understand what's happening.

"Get her," he says to the other one. "We'll wait for confirmation."

"Don't you touch me!”

I raise my elbow in time to catch the second man in the chin when he reaches for me. He's bigger than I am, but I've been thrown, kicked, and stepped on by horses. I learned a long time ago that the thing that matters in a fight is not size, it's whether you're willing to hurt someone. I am absolutely willing.

I catch him in the shin with the heel of my boot. He swears. Mama is bouncing in the chair and shouting behind her gag. For about fifteen seconds, I think I might have a chance.

Then, the second one gets me from behind with an arm around my throat. Not choking, just controlling, locking my arms at my sides, and no matter how I throw my weight, he doesn't go down.

I keep fighting.

"She's got some fire in her," the tall one says, like he finds it amusing.

“Who are you?” I choke on the words as the man’s arm comes dangerously close to cutting off my oxygen. “What do you want? Look around, assholes! We don’t have shit!”

A phone beeps. The man looks at the screen and smiles. “It’s her, no doubt.”

Mama is screaming and trying hard to break free, but it’s pointless.

The man with the phone walks toward her, bends down, and gets in her face. “Did you think you could hide forever?”

I see the fear in her good eye. She looks at me. She’s trying to say something. I see the anguish. All those years ofwe can't use our real names, Lila. We don't talk about your father, Lila. Don't put yourself online, Lila. My name wasn’t always Lila, but I was never supposed to use my old name.