“Stop it,” Mommy yells.
A glass shatters somewhere.
“You want me to stop, huh?” Daddy yells back. “Why not destroy everything?”
“You know what?” Mommy is sobbing. “Go ahead. Break everything. That’s all you’re good for, you son of a lousy bitch.”
A curse. A loud bang. Then, the awful, awful silence.
Sometimes, the silence is worse. Daddy won’t come home until tomorrow. Mommy will cry all night and not come out of her room. Damian will butter toast, and we’ll eat it under the tent he’ll make of our blanket on our bed, but there’s nowhere to hide from the guilt.
Father Mornay says guilt is good because it tells us when we’ve done something wrong. I don’t like feeling guilty. Mommy will scream at us and say it’s our fault, all because there are so many mouths to feed. I’ll feel really bad and not know how to be better or less of a mouth to feed.
Daddy will come home stumbling up the stairs and crashing into furniture, and he’ll ignore Mommy and be angry with us. He’ll give me a hiding for not cleaning the kitchen, even if the dishes are done. He’ll take his belt to Damian for not taking out the trash, even if the trashcan is empty. I’ll cry quietly in our room, and Damian will get broody and glary-eyed, but Daddy won’t touch Ian or Leon. They’re too big, almost as tall as Daddy, and stronger.
“Once upon a time…” Damian starts, his voice cracking a little as if it’s on the brink of breaking, becoming deeper like Ian’s, “…there was a princess…”
One day, Damian will be strong and tall, too.
I don’t care what Damian says. One day, I’ll find my prince. He’ll buy me beautiful dresses and lots of pretty glasses, and he’ll never break them. He’ll take me very, very far away from here, and I’ll never come back. Just wait and see.
Chapter 1
Johannesburg, South Africa
Zoe
My gaze is trained on the pavement to keep from stepping in the dog poo that litters the four blocks from the sweatshop to my apartment, but I’m not present in the glorious summer afternoon. My thoughts are where they usually dwell, dreaming up fantastic plans of escaping the hellhole I’m living in. Dreaming makes my existence more bearable. Dreaming is my escape.
Near the flea market, the air is thick and heavy with the smell of carbon from the coal train tracks. Everything underneath the train bridge is gray, covered in layers of soot and smog. I glance at the sky. Up there, the air is blue and clear, pure and unobtainable.
With a sigh, I fall in line at the fresh produce stall, using the waiting time to stretch my sore muscles. My back aches from being bent over a sewing machine all day. In my head, I count how far the coins I have left in my purse will go. The end of the month is always the worst, but on the upside, payday is around the corner. When it’s my turn, I take a banana and two tomatoes.
I drag myself the last two blocks home, weary to the bone. I’m eager to feed my empty stomach and soak in a warm bath. Then I’ll collapse into bed with my new stack of library books.
At my building, I curse under my breath. The door that gives access to the street is ajar. The lock is broken again, and it will take ages before it’s fixed. The landlord doesn’t maintain the building. That’s why the façade is black with years’ worth of grime and the inside walls moldy from permanent damp.
With my gaze trained on the floor so I don’t step on one of the cats always begging for food, I push the door open with a shoulder while balancing my tote in one hand and my shopping bag in the other. The gloomy entrance is quiet, strangely absent from meows and furry bodies rubbing against my legs.
My eyes are still adjusting from the bright daylight to the somber interior. The light switch has been broken for years. I frown, scouting the stairs in the sliver of light that falls in from outside before the door swings shut with a creak and basks the space in semi-darkness. The weak glow from the single bulb on the upstairs landing is the only light preventing the inhabitants from not tripping on the stairs.
I’m about to call for the cats when something crashes into me from behind. My mouth opens on a scream, but no sound escapes as a large hand clamps over my mouth and an arm knocks the wind from my stomach as it wraps around my waist and lifts me off my feet.
The bags in my hands drop to the floor. Fear slams into my chest. In a distant corner of my mind, I notice the tomatoes that roll to the foot of the stairs, and a logical, detached part of me worries about the spoiled food even as I start fighting for my life. I twist and buck. With my arms constrained at my sides, I can only kick. I try to bite, but I can’t force my lips apart. The hold over my mouth is too tight. It feels as if my jaw is about to snap. A button on my blouse pops from my efforts. It drops on the floor with a clink and bounces three, four, five times before it finally surrenders quietly in some corner. A smell of spices and citrus invades my nostrils—a man’s cologne. My senses are heightened. In the life that passes in front of my eyes, everything seems louder and clearer.
“Shh,” a male voice says against my ear, only making my terror spike.
I want to twist my head to the side to evaluate the threat, but I can’t turn my neck. Two men manifest from the shadows. One has long, blond hair and the other is bald with a beard. They move quickly. The blond one snatches up my bags while the bearded one goes up the stairs. He looks left and right before giving a nod.
At the signal, my captor follows with me. I have to breathe through my nose as he climbs the single flight of stairs to my floor. Like this, the smell of the urine on the stairs and the mold on the walls is stronger. It makes me gag. Or maybe it’s how our bodies are pressed together, and what he has in store for me.
The blond has taken my keys from my bag and has the door to my apartment open by the time we hit the landing. I glance at my neighbor’s door, praying to God Bruce isn’t playing his X-Box with his headphones on, but the sounds of his favorite game hits me before the stranger carries me inside.
Lowering me to the floor, he keeps his hand over my mouth. “My men are going to leave.” His voice is deep and his accent strong. The way he rolls the R makes the dangerous words sound sensual. “I don’t want to hurt you, Zoe, but if you scream, I’ll have to. Understand?”
Dear God. He knows my name. I pinch my eyes shut, my chest heaving with every breath. How does he know my name?
He speaks softly, pressing the words to my ear. “I asked you a question.”
I give a tight nod. What choice do I have?
He removes his hand slowly. “That’s better.”
The minute he releases me, I spin around and back up to the couch. “I don’t have money. I have nothing valuable.”
He smiles. “Do I look like I need to steal money?”
I take him in. His face is square with sharp lines, his nose slightly askew as if it has been broken many times. Thick, black hair is styled with fashionable sideburns. The tone of his skin is warm, but his eyes are cold, their color the gray of an overcast sky. He’s not a handsome man, and the broken skin of his knuckles tells its own story.
Swallowing, I drop my gaze to his body. He’s taller and broader than anyone I’ve seen. His chest and legs fill out every inch of his suit. It’s a gray pinstripe—pure wool, judging by the thread—but it’s the perfect cut that differentiates him. He screams money and power. No, he wouldn’t have broken in for money. The alternative makes me break out in a cold sweat.