This is my life now.

I’m a glorified excuse for a house cat. Declan even calls me “Puss,” like I’m a tabby he revels in keeping around; or maybe I’m some kind of trophy – what, exactly? I’m sure as hell not a trophy wife, or a trophy girlfriend. I’m a throwback, a trophy in the oldest sense of the word – a captive, a prize of war.

Declan hasn’t told me anything about what he does, but it wasn’t hard to figure out. Guys his age don’t get apartments like this without playing fast and loose with the law. That’s most definitely true for guys born this side of the river, with an accent like his.

But as luxurious as his place is, it’s nothing more than a beautiful prison. Hell, even the exposed brick walls remind me of a jail cell. Rule number one echoes in my mind: “you go where I tell you, when I tell you.” Right before he left, Declan told me to stay put.

He says it’s to keep me safe;, but stuck in my cell, waiting for his return, I feel like Rapunzel, wasting away in her tower; or the Princess from Shrek …

Either way, it grates on me.

I’m not one of those girls who can just sit on her ass all day doing nothing. I need to be out in the world, doing something, or I start to feel antsy. For the last few years, I had Luke to worry about, but now he’s gone. The more I wait around doing nothing, my thoughts descend into ever darkening depths.

Declan left before lunch, and it’s a quarter to eight at night, and he’s still not back. That’s a lot of hours to be left with nothing but my brain for company.

The doorbell chimes, and I almost sprint towards it, I’m so bored. Declan didn’t say anything about anyone turning up, but then, it’s not like we’re a married couple with a goddamn reminder whiteboard.

We’ve barely spoken, other than to negotiate my fate. It wasn’t much of a negotiation. Take it or leave it was the offer, and I didn’t have a choice.

My fingers rattle against the chain, and the door swings open.

“You her?” A man grunts. He’s tall, and between his dirty red hair and the accent, it’s not hard to tell he’s second-generation Irish. The weapon strapped to his hip tells me a little more about Declan’s line of work.

“Um, I guess so?” I reply, my eyebrows dancing with surprise at the man’s gruff manner. “But that’s a hard question to answer, isn’t it?”

He stares at me like I’m an idiot, and shoves a small black case against my chest. “Don’t open it; don’t look inside; don’t leave the apartment. Got it?”

By the time I’m recovered from his barrage of instructions, he’s already off. I close the door, muttering: “well – good day to you, too.”

Once that burst of excitement fades away, the apartment falls silent again, save for the slow, incessant ticking of a mahogany grandfather clock in the corner. It’s totally out of character with the rest of Declan’s place, and I guess it’s a family heirloom. That’s lucky, because if it wasn’t, I’d be sorely tempted to smash it into pieces. The sound is driving me insane.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

I can’t take my eyes off the case. It’s light – not more than a pound, and that’s including the canvas bag itself. A thousand different explanations pop into existence in my brain, each more fanciful than the next.

Money?

Drugs?

A weapon?

A fake passport?

Maybe it’s a test?

If it is, and Declan’s trying to figure out whether he can trust me to follow instructions, he’s going to be disappointed.

“Fuck it,” I grunt to the room at large, and scramble for the case. My fingers scrabble for the zip, and when I pull it open, my eyes nearly pop out of my head.

I know what I need to do. When Declan finds out where I’m going, he’ll kill me, but I don’t care. He might own my body, but I’m the one who’s got to live with my mind. And if I don’t do something, then I’ll go crazy. I need to feel like I’m still in control of something: even if it’s only over a fraction of my existence. I’m still his, but I’m not a goddamn house cat.

Maybe this is the only way I’ll get to feel alive.

* * *

I’m not dressed like a whore, not tonight. I might be someone’s slut, but I’m not Vince’s, not anymore.

Lenny catches sight of me the second I come through the warehouse’s rusting iron front doors. They squeal in protest as I push my way past them, and that sets off the dogs. I don’t know what’s worse – the fighting animals’ vicious snarling, or the knowledge that in a couple of hours men will goad them into ripping each other apart, while other men gamble on the result.

“You, you bitch, what’s your name again?”

I bet it annoys him that I’ve got to look down to look him in the eye. Sure, I’m wearing heels – I thought it’d help me feel more powerful, but still, I’m not exactly tall for a girl.

“Casey,” I reply, biting my lip, “And don’t call me by that other word: it’s rude.”

His mouth bobs up and down a couple of times in disbelief as his little brain tries to process what I just said. While the rusting gears are slowly ticking over in his brain, I brush past him. He grabs my arm, and his fingers dig in tight.

My body jerks back from the force. “The fuck did you just say to me?” Lenny growls. A little spark of fear ignites in my stomach, but I push it away. Now I’m here, actually doing this, it doesn’t seem like such a smart idea.

Run away, a little corner of my brain whispers. But I push that thought away too.

“I’m here to see Vince,” I say, pleased that there’s not a hint of nerves in my voice, “not you. Are you sure you want to get in my way?”

Lenny shakes his head. It’s a slow, clunky movement. “I tried to warn you,” he says, leaning forward so his lips are only a couple of inches from my ear, “bitch. When Vince sends you back my way – and he will – you best believe I ain’t going to have your best interests at heart.”

I try to think of a witty response, but my well’s running dry. I just shrug, and look down at Lenny’s fingers on my arm. “Do you mind?”

Lenny releases me, and I roll my shoulders to loosen them up.

“Bitch.”

I don’t look back.

By the time I make it to the door that leads to Vince’s back room, it’s not just a little spark of fear that’s burning in my stomach. It’s a full on conflagration – a hill fire, and I don’t think I’m qualified to put it out. I swallow a pool of tepid saliva, and the damp sound reverberates in my ears like a wringing sponge.

“Come the fuck in,” Vince barks. I take a deep breath and push against the door. It moves slowly, hinges squealing, and feels fifty pounds heavier than it did the night before. I know it isn’t, it can’t be, but it sure feels that way…

“Da-fuck you wearin’?” The Morello enforcer growls at me. It’s the first thing he says. “Didn’t I tell you to ‘dress to impress’?”

“Impress who?” I say, but the retort dies in my throat, half choked. “I’m not here to work,” I mutter, trying to steer the night back on track.

Vince cocks his head to one side. “Oh?” He says with his voice pitched up an octave, and sounding like a man I should be very afraid of. I know that I’m walking a fine line now. It’s becoming increasingly clear just how absolutely, entirely, goddamn stupid my plan was from the beginning. I’m starting to wonder whether I’ll even get out of this mess alive.

“I didn’t realize that this was a negotiation,” he growls, dawdling over every word. I can tell he’s enjoying himself now. It’s the glint in his eyes that gives it away. It’s like he’s one of his fighting dogs, and he’s got the taste of blood.

“What have you got in that little bag of yours, a union rep? For your sake, I hope so; either that, or a change of clothes.”

A man in the background laughs, and I flinch. My eyes dart to the corner to see Tony, and he cradles his belly at my obvious discomfort, bent double by the force of his amusement.

Vince’s eyes follow mine to his man in the corner, and then back to where they started. In the dull gloom of his counting office, they look black, and the sight chills my spine.

I take a couple of nervous steps toward the counting table, and dump the black canvas case onto it. The sips clattered against the wood, and a pile of creased five dollar bills flutters in the slight wind it causes. Tony stops his laughter and watches, his eyes flickering with interest.

“What’s that?” Vince asks.

“My freedom,” I reply with more confidence than I feel. “The full fifteen, plus interest. Every penny I owe you.”

Vince leans back in his chair. “Bullshit,” he says, jerking his chin at me. “Where the fuck would a girl like you find fifteen grand?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, turning on my heel to leave, the warmth of success now heating my belly. “All that matters is you’ve got your money.”

“The fuck do you think you’re going?” Vince barks, and I turn to see Tony pushing himself laboriously to his feet, using a shotgun for leverage. Tendrils of fear prickle the underside of my legs – an ancient part of my brain screaming at me to run. I can’t, I’m locked in – those tendrils now vines tying me to the floor.

“We’re done,” I stammer. “You’ve got your money – that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

Vince nods towards the door, and Tony moves his massive bulk in front of it – blocking my exit.

“Better,” he smiles with satisfaction. “Now we can talk.”

I glance at the door, calculating my odds of getting out if I make a break for it. “You got what you wanted!” I protest, eyes whirling around the room and searching for another way out. Cold fear grips my stomach now. I know I’m screwed. Terrible images of what Vince has planned for me start to speed through my mind like an old-school projector: graphic and incessant.

The window’s not boarded – but it’s closed. To get out I’d need to hurl myself through it, and I’m no action hero. I’m just a girl who met the wrong crowd at the wrong time.

Vince’s eyes drink my body in. His nostrils flare, and he reminds me of a pig at a trough: greedy and hungry.

“You said that’s what I want,” he says, licking his lower lip. “Not me. I never did. You know what I want, bitch?”

I shake my head … but I do know. I know exactly what he wants. It’s the same thing Tony wants, and every man I’ve ever met – hell, even Declan – wants. He wants me: my body, to be precise. He doesn’t care about the thoughts and memories and dreams my body contains: everything that makes me, me. He just wants my flesh, my body, and my pride.

“Sit down,” Vince grunts. I try, but my legs are frozen. A grimace flickers across his face, and he nods at Tony again. His minion obediently pushes me into a hard-backed wooden chair with his rough, callused hands. A far-off part of my brain whispers, a niggling, insistent thought, but it’s too faint to pin down.

“Please,” I whimper, “just let me go.” A vision of my future flashes before my eyes. It’s not a camera reel this time. It’s just a single still: my body, face up in a ditch; my features, white and cold.

“First, business,” Vince beams. He’s in his element now. The sound of the fighting dogs barking and yelping in the background adds a sinister ingredient to the threatening brew, but it’s not nearly as terrifying as the beast sitting in front of me. “Where did you get the money?”

My mind scrambles for an answer. I don’t know why, but something is telling me that if I tell the truth, I’ll close off my last chance to get out of here alive. Declan’s expression when I mentioned Vince told me that he knew him … and that it wasn’t a friendly relationship. I would bet money that the feeling was mutual.

Besides, Vince has interrogated a hundred men, I guess. He’s probably got a keen eye for a lie. Still, if I can’t tell him the truth, then maybe something close; something close enough that it rings true without giving the whole game away?

“I –,” I stammer, “I did what Lenny said! I sold myself, my body to –,” my mind reaches again, “a banker!”

“So you admit it?” Vince smiles like he’s won the lottery. “You stole from me?”

I’m struck dumb. It’s my turn to copy Lenny now, and my mouth hangs open like a goldfish.

“Oh, yes,” he says, baring his teeth. “Didn’t I tell you? You’re mine, bitch. You eat when I say, and you sleep when I say. You drink; talk; drive; and you fuck when I say!” He punctuates the words by slamming his open palm down on the table, and I flinch backwards every time.

But even as the sound assaults my ears, he changes his tone. It quiets, and I almost have to strain to hear it. “But maybe,” he whispers, “maybe there’s something we can do. An agreement, let’s call it.”

I close my eyes, blinking back salty, terrified tears. One rolls down my cheek and I feel it cooling as it falls. Tony kneads my shoulders. I guess it’s meant to be reassuring, but it makes my stomach turn instead.

“What do you want from me?” I moan.

The sound of a belt unbuckling is my only reply.