The driver opens the door and a man steps out. Tall with broad shoulders. Dressed in a sharp black suit. Even from here I can make out the telltale ink scrawled on his hands, across his fingers. A dangerous man. Another man follows him out, slightly shorter but even more muscled. Protection? A subordinate?
Low voices travel through the cracks in the windowpane—undecipherable but enthralling all the same. I’ve seen very few men. Except for Jorge, but he’s more of a boy than a man. And a bully. These men are even bigger than him. How much will their slaps hurt? A backhand might break my jaw.
I should be afraid. I know how cruel men can be. The other women here whisper stories when they think I can’t hear. Memories from the whorehouses. Men are violent creatures. Animals wearing clothes.
But I know that women can be just as cruel.
The door slams open. Mercedes steps inside the small space, her hair bleached blonde, still pitch black at the roots. “There you are.”
I swallow hard, anxiety a thick knot in my throat. They lock me in every night. Where else would I be? Something must be wrong. Mercedes usually doesn’t show up until later. Usually it’s Jorge who lets us out of our rooms so we can start working. Jorge and his gun.
He’s watched me for years, hunger in his eyes. Every night I’m afraid he’ll step into my room. And every night he locks me inside, instead. Because he’s afraid of Margo and Mercedes. I don’t know how long that will keep him away.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
Is one of the women in trouble? Is Tia okay?
Mercedes and her sister, Margo, run the factory, which is a fancy word for the sweatshop of forty women. Thirty-nine, since Rosa disappeared last month. Rosa’s knuckles and wrists had swollen with arthritis. And then one day, she was gone.
Antonella’s movements get slower every day, especially now that we’re deep into winter. Luciana’s failing eyesight makes her stitches crooked. The women are nothing more than fancy sewing machines to be bought and sold, to be thrown away when they break.
Mercedes narrows her eyes. “Watch your tone. Don’t forget who’s in charge.”
My teeth clamp together. I could never forget that. Not as long as there are locks on the doors and guards patrolling outside. Not as long as I’m forced to work twelve-hour days so Mercedes and her sister, Margo, can buy those fancy shoes they wear.
My gaze lowers, hiding my defiance. “I saw a car outside.”
“We have a visitor. Get dressed.” A pile of clothes land at my feet.
I stare at the fine gray fabric like it’s a snake, coiled to strike. “What’s happening?”
“I said get dressed.” She glances behind her, and I know her sister’s coming.
Between the two of them, I’m more afraid of Margo with her black hair and blacker eyes. Mercedes doesn’t hurt us unless she has a reason. For Margo, breathing is a reason.
My fingers tremble as I slide off the thin shorts and tank top I wear day and night. Naked. Vulnerable. I’ve worn the same clothes for a year. They get washed once a week when the rest of the women get to do laundry. They’re threadbare now, only held together by the extra stitching I’ve put in.
Margo appears in the doorway.
She takes in my bare body with a smug smile. I look down, ashamed. I’m hardly a woman. Too skinny, too dirty. Especially beside these two women with their waxed bodies and glossy lips.
“He’s here,” Margo says, tossing a pair of black shiny heels at my feet.
I glance up in time to see fear pass over Mercedes’s face.
Dread settles in my gut. Mercedes and Margo are in charge here. They’re free to leave each evening. They have money—lots of it, judging by the new clothes and jewelry they wear. Whatever Mercedes is afraid of, it will be so much worse for the women here.
Whoever this man is, he must be terrifying.
And they’re preparing me for him.
“Please don’t let him take me.” The words are like acid in my throat, burning my tongue. I hate begging, but the thought of being taken away is much worse. I know what happens to women outside this building. I’ve heard the stories. They run through my head like a black-and-white film reel, crude and degrading.
It’s with shaking hands that I pull the gray skirt over my hips and button the suit jacket. The linen feels rough compared to my well-worn clothes, scraping over my nipples. Air brushes between my legs. There isn’t any underwear.
Margo raises a darkly penciled eyebrow. “Pathetic.”
“She’ll have to do,” Mercedes snaps.
A shiver runs up my spine. “I won’t let him take me.” I won’t let him touch me.
Margo’s eyes narrow. “If you don’t want your little friends to get hurt, you’ll do whatever the fuck I say.”
And like that, my small defiance is crushed. I’ll do anything for the women. They’ve been good to me, never treating me like an outsider. Never resenting me for who my father was. They didn’t make me feel guilty that I never worked in a whorehouse like they did.
That might change, if the sisters are giving me to a man.
“Don’t hurt them,” I whisper.
Margo sneers. “Calm down. He’s not going to fuck you. He’s the most powerful man in the state. He doesn’t need a stupid slut like you.”
Relief floods me. At least I won’t have to do that.
Just as quickly, my mind fills with every other horrible possibility. For years we’ve operated on the same work schedule in the same warehouse. The only deviations are when a new woman is brought in or when one is killed.
“What does he want with me?” I ask, my voice breaking.
“You’re going to be our secretary for the day,” Mercedes says, her tone business-like. “When he shows up at the door, you greet him. He’ll ask for us, and that’s when we’ll come out. You’ll sit there and look busy until he’s gone.”
Margo grabs my wrist. With a twist, she has my face pressed to the wall. “And you won’t say another word, got it? Welcome to MM Textiles. How may I assist you? That’s all. Say it.”
My lips press against uneven concrete, a cold kiss. The chill of it seeps into my skin, into my bones. She twists harder, sending pain up my arm. “Welcome to MM Textiles,” I gasp out. “How may I help you?”
“That’s right. Those are the only words you say to him. If you say even one more word, Tia will have a very bad day. Now, say it again. I want to be sure you understand.”
Tears spring to my eyes, not because of the way she bends my arm.
Because I know she means it about Tia.
When I turned fifteen, I started to fight them. Fought so hard and so often, I was sure they’d kill me. Maybe I wanted them to. Then one night I heard a loud bang. The crazy part is how no one screamed. Not Tia or any of the women in her room. No one made a sound when Margo went inside and shot Tia in the knee. They silently bandaged her up while I was still locked in my room, banging on the door, screaming for them to let me out. It’s a miracle she survived.
I’ve been obedient ever since. I can’t let them hurt her again.
Margo leans close enough that I feel her breath, hot and sticky against my neck. “Say it, bitch.”
The words are ripped from me. “Welcome to MM Textiles. How may I help you?”