“Welcome…to MM textiles,” I say in a small voice.
“She’s a little slow,” Mercedes whispers loudly. “Part of a charity work program.”
My eyes narrow just a fraction, anger and frustration filling me.
Mr. Conti’s gaze sharpens on me, almost as if he’s gratified.
Please leave, I think as hard as I can.
As if answering my prayers, he nods to Margo. “Show me around.”
Her smile looks brittle, but she rushes to obey, leading him and the other man into the main working area. I know the other women won’t speak, because they’ll be too afraid. Some of them speak English, but they know better than to talk to a man like this.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
At least the charade is over now. Maybe things will go back to the way they were, however depressing that’s been. And maybe I won’t be punished for that awkward moment with Mr. Conti. But I know neither of those things are true.
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.”
The door shuts behind her. At least I get to change back in private. It’s small things I find to appreciate here.
I pull the skirt down and step out, one foot still inside when I hear the low voices outside. Without thinking I hop onto the crate and strain to the ledge. I’m still naked, the concrete radiating cold against my bare skin.
“What did you think?”
“The place is a dump,” replies a deep voice. Sebastian.
“It’s a dump that makes money. Their profits are impressive for such a small operation. I’m not sure how they’re doing it.”
“Which means you don’t want to know.”
“Even if there are problems, we could probably find a buyer. At least sell off the parts.”
“It’s not worth the liability. I’d rather burn it to the ground.”
“But—”
“Shut it down.”
CHAPTER FOUR
My hands are shaking as I feed the fabric into the ancient sewing machine. The loud whir is a familiar comfort. As long as I’m working, no one yells at me. No one hits me. Even with the comforting rhythm of the machine, I can’t calm down.
Over the mechanical roar, echoing inside my head, I can still hear Sebastian’s words. He wants to close this place. No, he wants to burn it to the ground.
This is more than a sweatshop. It’s home.
The thread pulls taut, forming a perfect row of stitches over the blue floral fabric. It’s a pretty sundress, the kind I imagine a woman wearing at a picnic. She’s in a park with miles of deep green grass. A man strolls behind her, holding a heavy wicker basket full of wine and cheese.