Page 1 of Enzo (Redcars #1)

ONE

Roman

He left me on my knees.

I didn’t even feel the cold at first—I was numb. My body and mind was locked into an endless cycle of pain and submission. Hope had been stripped from me, torn away, until all that remained was the emptiness inside my chest. I used to believe I could survive anything, but here, in this place, I knew better. Survival was a cruel joke, a whisper I barely remembered. Maybe it would be easier if I just… stopped.

Not yet.

Not until I was sure there was nothing left to fight for.

The rough concrete bit into my skin through my torn jeans, the damp chill of the basement seeping into my bones. My arms ached, bound tight behind me, wrists raw from the coarse rope holding me captive. The chains on either side rattled when I moved, a cruel reminder of my place, my punishment.

Beyond the locked door, I could hear muffled laughter. It was distant, careless. The kind of laughter that belonged to men who had choices, who weren’t caged in the dark like an animal. I swallowed, my throat dry, my ribs throbbing where his boots had found their mark. The coppery tang of blood sat thick on my tongue, mixing with the taste of failure.

John had been drinking. He was always drinking.

Stealing. Making me hide the evidence. Drinking.

Hurting me.

That first time, when he’d found me, I thought maybe—just maybe—it would be different. He’d fed me, given me water, promised me safety. That was the hook. The lie. Safety didn’t exist in his world, only control. Only what he decided I was worth. And he decided I wasn’t worth much at all.

Every day was the same. The cycle. The routine.

A hand in my hair, dragging me from sleep. Words slurred; orders given. I was a thing. A possession. Something to be kept. He’d whisper it like a promise, “Your brain belongs to me now, Roman.”

I lost track of how long it had been. The days blurred together and became years. No windows. No way to mark time beyond his moods, beyond the weight of his fists or the sharp crack of a belt when I failed him, and the bite of the cage on my penis, locked, and the key thrown away right in front of me.

“They want you locked up, I don’t want to see that pathetic thing. I’m not fucking queer and you don’t get to feel anything as long as you keep your mouth shut.”

The cage twisted with hair and blood and cut my skin when they wrenched on it.

“They don’t know what you can do! You remember boy, you don’t tell them shit!”

Tonight, it had been more numbers to remember, statistics to work out, letters to memorize. Then, a visit from the two who join in, who use me, who hurt me, who laugh.

I was too exhausted to get them right, my mind sluggish, my body trembling from lack of food. I’d tried. I always tried. But trying wasn’t enough. Mistakes had consequences.

Now, I knelt in the dark, the air thick with mildew and the acrid scent of old sweat. The cold steel of the collar at my throat was a constant, pressing weight. A mark. His mark.

I used to have a name. A life.

I used to be Roman Lowe.

I wasn’t always this pathetic thing. I used to matter. But John had taken every part of me away, crushing everything good until I couldn’t remember what it felt like to be whole.

Piece by piece, he’d destroyed me until all that was left was what he’d made of me.

And if I stayed here much longer, I wouldn’t survive.

He told me they were coming tomorrow—the people he answered to—and I knew this was my last chance because when they realized what he’d done with their money, and then he realized I’d hidden money that money out of everyone’s reach…

I’m dead.

I had a plan. It wasn’t much—a desperate, last-ditch gamble born of sheer panic. I was at the edge, teetering between hope and surrender. I’d decided I wouldn’t let him keep me if I couldn’t break free. I’d make him kill me first. I’d rather die than let John and his friends win. Every time he forced the drugs down my throat, I learned how to half swallow, gag after he’d gone, how to spit them out when he wasn’t looking, how to scrape them into the fibers of the rug or let them dissolve in the drain, and then to stash them in my secret place. The more I resisted, the clearer my mind became. The haze he tried to keep me under was lifting, but with that clarity came a sharper, more unbearable desperation to escape.

Escape or die.

Escape or swallow every pill I’d stashed.

After he left, I counted to a thousand—sometimes, he came back to check on me, and I’d figured out that a thousand was the magic number before I could be sure he wasn’t returning that night. Only then did I dare to move, to test my restraints. I pulled at the left chain, my fingers raw from nights of the same ritual, of the same desperate hope. The metal links groaned under the strain, the resistance familiar, yet like before, I felt it—movement, however slight. The mortar in the old wall crumbled a tiny bit, a whisper of freedom. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough to keep me going, enough to keep me fighting, sufficient to remind me I might be able to get out.

I yanked again, harder this time, the chain biting into my skin as I twisted it with all the strength I had left. My wrists burned, slick with blood, the raw wounds reopening with every desperate yank. My ribs ached, each breath a sharp stab of pain, the bruises deep and unforgiving. The air was thin and damp, but I couldn’t stop. I wouldn’t stop. Freedom was there, just beyond my reach—I had to keep pulling.

When the chain finally gave way, I toppled sideways, the sudden lack of resistance sending me sprawling onto the cold, hard floor. Papers scattered beneath me, their crisp edges sharp against my skin as blood smeared across them—ruining the numbers, the letters he’d forced me to memorize. My head struck the floor, and a dull thud reverberated through my skull while my ribs flared in agony, each breath shallow and sharp. But the chain was loose.

I froze. What if someone heard it hit the floor? What if he came back?

I forced myself to stay still, to listen. One hundred. Two hundred. Three. Silence. Only then did I move, scrambling to my feet, sluggish with pain and exhaustion. I crossed the room toward the table where he always left the keys—a cruel taunt, within sight but never within reach My fingers trembled as I grasped them, slipping the key into the cuffs and twisting until I felt the click of freedom, then doing the same thing for the collar around my neck. I couldn’t take off the cage encasing my cock, didn’t matter how hard I pulled or bled, it didn’t move. It would have to stay.

Carefully, I lowered the chains to the floor, arranging them as if they had never been disturbed. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, I nudged the stool under the tiny window—the same stool he sat on when he loomed over me, his voice sharp, his words like knives. The same stool where he would shout at me, scream at me.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I would be gone. One way or another—whether I made it out or whether John found me before I could—I knew this was my last chance. I was either walking out of here or I’d die trying.

The tiny window—sometimes he’d open it just enough so the cold air would run over my skin. I was so skinny that I could fit through. Scraping wood and splinters tore into my arms, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I squeezed through, hit the ground hard, and ran.

I ran. And I kept running across sidewalks, the freeway, and down side roads. My legs burned, my lungs screamed for relief, but I couldn’t stop. Every time I slowed, I imagined his voice, cruel and close. I pictured his face in the window, imagining his hand dragging me back. I ran harder. Deep inside, I thought about my name, the way it used to sound when I said it aloud. I thought about sunshine, the feel of clean sheets, a breeze through an open window—the tiniest scraps of memories I refused to let go of. I clung to them, to the tiniest spark of hope I could find something better. It was dark, and empty, and I didn’t care who saw me… not yet. Not when the city sprawled ahead, vast and unforgiving, the streetlights’ glow offered no safe spots to hide.

My body gave in. My legs buckled, and I stumbled into an alley, barely upright. The air was thick with the stench of rot, old garbage, and motor oil as I dragged myself into the narrow gap behind a row of bins, pressing into the shadows as if I could disappear entirely.

A harsh and sporadic light flickered above me, casting jagged beams across the brick walls. I wanted to move, to keep going, but my body refused. Every muscle ached, every breath was a ragged gasp, and exhaustion weighed me down like chains still wrapped around my wrists.

I curled up as tight as possible, drawing my knees to my chest, shaking. The taste of blood lingered in my mouth; the phantom grip of iron still fresh around my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut. I was free.

But John’s voice still echoed in my head, cruel and possessive, branding me with every syllable. I could still feel his hands, although they weren’t there, the bruises on my skin like a map of everything he’d taken from me. My body had escaped, but my mind and thoughts were still shackled to that place. Was this what freedom felt like? Hollow and terrifying?

I heard voices—one gruff, the other lighter. “I don’t like rats,” the lighter one muttered. “It’s just rats,” he added, as if trying to convince himself.

“Grow a pair,” the gruff one snapped. “The alarm tripped; we’re checking it out.”

I whimpered, trying to stifle the pain and fear.

“Is that a dog?” one of them asked, voice uncertain. “No, it’s—” The flashlight beam wobbled around, searching. My pulse pounded. I grabbed the closest thing I could find—a tin slick with something slimy inside. It had sharp edges, and I dug my hand into it, rubbing it against my wrist. If I could cut myself deep enough, I could bleed out here, and John would never be able to take me back. The beam landed on my face, blinding me. Panic surged, and I attacked, swinging wildly, my makeshift weapon connecting with a solid body: a grunt, a stumble. I scrambled, desperate, clawing for any chance to escape.

“No! No! No!” I screamed, “I won’t go back!” But a big guy held me tight, forcing me onto my belly.

The can was out of reach, his hand clamped over my mouth. The scent of oil was more pungent now, thick in my nose. “Shhh,” he ordered. I kicked, thrashed, and clawed, desperate to break free. The guy holding me grunted, his grip tightening painfully around my arms. “Shit, he’s strong,” he muttered, shifting his stance to keep me pinned.

“He’s hurt, bad,” the lighter voice said, shocked.

“Get a hold of him!”

“There’s too much blood!”

“Jesus, call the paramedics.”

“No! Help me!” My voice cracked beneath the oily palm, raw with panic. I jerked, twisting like a trapped animal, but the big guy only held me tighter, his grip like iron. I managed to free a hand and clawed at his face, my nails scraping the skin. He let out a sharp curse. “Please… don’t tell anyone… don’t!”

“Jesus! Stop!” But I didn’t stop. I thrashed harder, my foot connecting with his shin. He grunted, but his hold didn’t loosen. If anything, he tightened it, his arm crushing my chest. My breath hitched, panic spiking. I dug my nails in again, desperate to break free. “Damn it, he’s fighting like hell!” he growled.

But I didn’t care. I wasn’t going back. Not ever. In that moment, I was sure this was it. That I’d escaped only to be caught by someone worse. My mind spun with fear, the edges of my vision dimming. Were they with John? Had he found me already? Was this some new punishment? I’d never see the sky again. I bucked in his hold, but it was useless. I was being dragged into the unknown. I writhed, my breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.

“Hold still!” the gruff one snapped, but his grip was too tight, his arms like a vice around me. My wrists burned where they had been rubbed raw, blood slicking my skin.

“Kill me! Please!” Then I screamed, but he slammed a hand over my mouth.

I won’t go back.

I’d rather die than be dragged back into that nightmare.