CHAPTER THREE
While the sisters show the men around, I sit idly at the desk. I know better than to move, even if no one’s watching. Instead I find more letters on the keyboard and type with two fingers.
The door leading outside is so close. Jorge isn’t guarding it right now. There will never be a better time to escape than right now. Except that Tia would suffer. All the women would be punished if I manage to get free. I can’t do that. That’s the real reason I don’t try to escape—knowing the pain it would cause the other women. I have to stay here.
And if I ever find a way out, I have to take them with me.
I hear footsteps from inside. Only one person emerges from the hall. Sebastian Conti.
The height of him, the breadth of his shoulders, fill the front office. They steal all the air, and I can only drift, hollow and weightless in his orbit.
He smiles at me, and I wonder if he means it to disarm me. Because it’s the scariest smile I’ve ever seen, small and dark. The kind of smile a panther would give you as it stalks you through the forest.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
My gaze falls to the keyboard, where my fingers are typing away, all on their own. L. U. C. I. A.
My name is Lucia. I can’t say that.
“Okay,” he says, almost as if he expected my silence. It’s a game for him. “Let’s try a different question. How long have you worked here?”
Since I was a little girl. “How may I help you?”
His lips twist in a wry smile. “It would help if you stop bullshitting me.”
My gaze flies to his.
“I know you’re not slow,” he says, his gaze speculative. “I may not know what the fuck is going on here, but I know you’re the smartest person in this shithole. That’s a skill I had to develop early, finding that person.”
I press my lips together. My fingers move faster and faster over the keyboard, but who knows what I’m typing? I’m not even looking at the keys or the screen. I’m looking at him.
He takes a step closer, his shrewd gaze seeming to take in everything—my ill-fitting suit, my too-big shoes. My hair that hasn’t seen a brush except for Tia’s fingers. “I noticed something interesting. How many are there downstairs? Twenty? Thirty?”
Thirty-nine women. Do our lives mean so little to him that he doesn’t keep count? Of course he doesn’t. We’re coffee beans in a jar, meant to be used up and thrown out. My hands clench into fists. I hate that he sees my helplessness, my anger. He’s a stranger. And if he’s working with Mercedes and Margo, not a very nice one.
He cocks his head. “Only two cars outside, though.”
What does he expect? Sweatshop workers don’t drive away. They don’t leave at all. I’m on the verge of telling him that, the words on the tip of my tongue, ready to tell him exactly what I think of men like him—
Footsteps sound on the stairs.
The stocky man appears at the top. “We should go,” he says in a low tone.
“Wait,” Margo says, appearing at the top of the stairs, her voice wheedling. “The ball. The annual ball. We’re invited, aren’t we? It’s for all employees of Conti Industries, isn’t it?”
The men exchange another glance that sends dread down my spine.
“Yes,” Sebastian Conti says, his voice cold. “You’re all invited.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Conti. And you too, Mr. Daly. It will be wonderful to get out.” Margo laughs as Mercedes comes up behind her. “My sister and I work ourselves too hard.”
Sebastian says nothing. His gaze slides to me before he turns and leaves.
“We’ll be in touch,” the other man says.
Then he’s gone too.
As soon as the door closes, Margo’s smile turns into grim determination. Her eyes turn shrewd. “We need to go shopping.” Her gaze snaps to me. “Take that stupid slut downstairs. She’s going to have to bust ass to make up for missing work this morning.”
It’s only when I hold down the Backspace button that I read what I’d written. While Sebastian Conti had been speaking to me, I was typing help me help me help me help me. Which proves I’m as stupid as Margo says I am. Why would a man like him help me?
By the time Mercedes rounds the desk, the screen is blank again.
She grabs me by the arm and pulls me down the stairs, back to my room. It was probably a storage closet when this sad building was first built. I’m the only girl to get a private room, another nod to my father’s old status.
“Change into your clothes,” she says, with a huff of impatience. “And bring those out when you’re done. You better not leave anything on them.”
