Elira
“Get in the fucking car or I will put you in the trunk,” he spat. She sneered at him knowing that it would earn her a backhand to the face again, but she didn’t care anymore. There was no way that she wanted to get back into his car knowing that it might be the last time she got back out. Every time he moved her; she was sure it would be the last. She was waiting for him to find a reason to kill her and just be done with this ugly game he was playing, but the end never came. Hell, maybe she was hoping for him to finish her off—end her life and let her go, one way or the other.
“No,” she whispered. Her voice was so soft she wasn’t even sure that she had spoken.
“What the fuck did you just say?” he asked.
“No,” she said a little louder and bolder. If this was the end, she’d find a way to muster enough strength to face it with dignity.
“Kuçkë e ndyrë,” he shouted. Calling her a fucking cunt would have usually hurt her feelings, but honestly, she didn’t care what he thought of her. He was so close; she could feel the spray of his spit as he shouted at her. His breath smelled like stale beer and cigarettes, making her want to vomit. She gagged and even dry heaved before he pulled his hand back and let his fist fly, full force at her face. Elira staggered back as far as her restraints would allow. He had a collar around her neck as if she were his pet chihuahua, and she was tethered to a leather leash he kept a tight hold on. He gave it a quick yank back and she was once again standing face to face with the disgusting pig. He stared her down and she laughed, wiping at the blood that dripped from her bottom lip.
“You know,” he spat, “I thought we might be able to do this the easy way, but I guess I was wrong, you stupid bitch,” he shouted. “I gave you the option to live and you threw it away.” This is it—she was finally going to have her way out of the hell she’d been in for the past few months. How many days she had been his captive, Elira didn’t know. She had lost count so long ago as the days and nights blurred together. It had to have been months though, even if her captivity felt like it lasted years.
“You want to die, don’t you?” he shouted. “You want to be free of me but where would the fun in that be?”
Elira didn’t answer him, just stared him down as if daring him to fire the gun he was holding in her face. He was right, but she’d never tell him that. He didn’t know her—to him she was just a number, another woman on the auction block, another nameless face that would make his boss money. That was fine with her because she felt the same way about him—she didn’t know him, nor did she want to. All the asshole in front of her was good for was one thing—pulling the fucking trigger to end her misery. But she wouldn’t ask him for that—no, she wouldn’t beg. “Please,” would not be her final fucking words.
He shoved the barrel of the gun into her cheek and she defiantly pushed back against its weight. His laugh was mean and she knew he was going to do it. He didn’t seem like the type of guy who liked being taunted. He’d never let her get away with that. She closed her eyes and waited for him to do it—pull the trigger. It was her mantra playing through her mind in almost a singsong voice. She wanted it, but she’d never give him the words. Elira could feel the gun press into her face just a little more and then he pulled the trigger, the “click” of the empty chamber played through the air and she held her breath waiting—for the pain, the blood, the darkness, the end. But it never came.
“Guess it’s your lucky day,” he spat. “You’re going to auction and you should start praying now that whoever buys your disobedient ass is as kind as I’ve been with you.” He popped the trunk that she was backed up against and it bumped into her ass, jetting her forward, pressing her up against his sweaty, dirty body. She could feel the bile rise in her throat and if it came up this time, she wouldn’t stop it. The last time he took her body against her will, she suppressed the urge to vomit, but this time she wouldn’t. If he dared to touch her body again, she wouldn’t hold back anything.
They had kept her in a dirty cage with about thirty other young women. The men who guarded them rotated them out. When each woman was brought back they were bloody, used, and all had the same look in their eyes—they wanted death to find them. It was all they were living for now, and the end could not come soon enough for Elira. She had been used, broken, and had her spirit beaten out of her. When they first took her, she still had some fight that made her hope for rescue. Hell, she dreamed of finding her way out of there and never looking back, but that was before they “broke her in” as the guards liked to say. When they found her, she was so innocent, so naive and trusting, but that girl was gone. In her place was a ghost—a spirit looking for refuge, and Elira was sure she’d find it at the end of a barrel.
He backed her up against the open trunk again and this time, when her knees buckled, he used that as leverage to shove her in. Elira didn’t fight. What was the use? They were down by the docks and no one would see or hear her. No one was coming to her rescue. This was her life now, and her only hope was that whoever purchased her showed her no mercy. This time, when the person on the other end of the gun pulled the trigger, she wanted the darkness—she craved it.
Llir
Llir Tirana walked into the club through the back door. He hated these fucking things, but as the acting head of the Tirana family, what choice did he have but to attend the auction? He always found these auctions to be barbaric—the idea of having to purchase a woman was foreign to him, but in Albania, it was a way of life. The Albanian human trafficking black market was what funded his family, and as one of the most influential families in the syndicate, he had no choice but to show the hell up and pretend to enjoy the show. It wasn’t that bad, really—hot, half-naked women parading around on stage. Yeah—that wasn’t such a bad way to spend a night. Most of the time, these events were over within an hour, depending on how many women they had to auction off. After it was over he could find a willing woman to spend the night in his bed. No, he didn’t have to pay for his pussy—he was a Tirana.
“You finally made it in,” his brother, Veton said. As the youngest, he was the biggest smartass out of the three of them due to their grandmother constantly reminding Vet how special he was. Sure, their grandmother loved them all, but Veton was her baby and obvious favorite. They lost their mom when they were so young, their grandmother was like their surrogate mother growing up.
“Yeah,” Llir said. “Before you give me shit, I just got back from America and dealing with that shit storm. I’m thinking we need to diversify if things don’t get better with our dealings over there.” They had both grown up in Albania, taking trips to America with their father. Their middle brother, Altin, had moved to America to live and came home for holidays and to visit their parents, as any good son was expected to do. But a part of Llir didn’t understand his brother’s desire to live in that country full time. He liked visiting the States, but he was always happy to be back on his home soil.
Veton rolled his eyes, “They always have something holding up production over there—it’s their government. They can’t seem to make decisions to save their lives.”