Page 92 of Brutal
Funny that none of them went to the police. Or maybe they did, and they were told nothing could be done.
The train arrives, and I hop on with all the other commuters.
There’s only one other place in the city I can think of.
It takes me almost an hour to get to my sister’s apartment. It’s not the worst place we’ve lived, but it’s far out of the way. I know she’d been talking about moving somewhere nicer before… everything.
I go into the building—the front door isn’t even locked—and walk up the three flights of stairs to her door.
It takes me several minutes to work up the courage to knock.
When the door opens, I brace myself for seeing a stranger and having to explain that I’d gotten the wrong house.
But it’s Irene on the other side.
She’s skinnier than I remember, and her eyes are more sunken than before. But as soon as she sees me, she gasps and wraps her arms around me.
“Amber! Oh my god, oh my god.” She pulls back enough that I can see the tears in her eyes. “You’re alive. I thought… fuck, Giulio said…”
“Yeah, I’m alive,” I say, calm—or maybe just empty. “Can I come inside?”
Irene nods and steps aside, motioning me in. She closes the door and follows close behind, one hand on my wrist, like she’s afraid I’m going to disappear.
There’s less furniture than last time. The small living room looks bare without the armchairs, and the TV is gone, too. I sit down on the couch, and Irene follows, wrapping her arms around me again.
“Amber,” she says, sobbing. “I’m so glad. I can’t believe…”
“Do you have a blanket?” I ask. “My legs are cold.”
She jumps up immediately and nods. “Yes, of course. One second.” She rushes off to the bedroom.
What am I doing here?
My hands curl into fists as I look around. I’d spent months trapped in a small cell of a room, servicing men, all because my sister had pissed off Giulio Pavone—her employer. Her nice boss, the one who tipped well and was always chatty and friendly and made sure the club was clean and orderly.
Irene returns with the blanket and hands it to me. “Do you want tea? Or food? I could order takeout, or?—”
“You didn’t tell me you were a prostitute,” I say, my voice still flat.
She flinches, fidgeting as she looks past me instead of at me. “I wasn’t really?—”
I give her a look, and she stops.
Sighing, she says, “It wasn’t something I was particularly proud of, Amber.” She comes to sit on the couch again, leaving distance between us this time. “And I never meant to drag you into this.” The tears well up in her eyes again. “I am so, so sorry. I never thought Giulio would do that. If I had, I wouldn’t have tried to leave. I just thought, I could have a higher paying job, and?—”
“Yeah. Guess the higher wages were worth it.” I play with the strap of the leather bag. “It’s not like the mob took it out of your hide.”
Irene hunches down on the couch, looking miserable. “I know. I know. Giulio was—” She shudders, then finally seems to clue in on the fact that I’m actually here. “Wait. How are you actually here? Did you run? Do we need to be getting out of the city? I have a little bit of money saved up.”
“It’s fine. I don’t think anyone will look for me.” I don’t think Drake will, in any case. He’d been very sure of how little he wanted me around.
I don’t want to think about that. I’d rather be angry at Irene than be fucking worried for Drake.
I’d given him a chance. More than one chance.
But I don’t want to be his personal punching bag.
If I’m going to be in a relationship with someone—and it feels unbelievable to think about being with Drake anything like a relationship— I need to trust that they aren’t going to lash out at me all the time, and that my fucking feelings actually matter to them.