Page 2 of Forgotten Sacrifice

My fist slams into the monitor; glass crunches, the feed glitches, before the screen goes black.

Chapter

One

Luna, seventeen-years old

“Where the fuck have you been?” My old man slurs from his arm chair, a half empty bottle of vodka on the coffee table in front of him.

“School, and then I was playing chess at the community center.” Both of which are my refuge from this hellhole.

“You win anything?”

“I don’t play for money,” I remind him. Not yet, but one day. My mentor at the community center thinks I’m good enough to go pro. And maybe one day even become a Grandmaster. With a few junior tournament wins under my belt, I’m starting to believe maybe it could be possible. Traveling the world doing what I love, away from my old man’s fists?A girl can dream.

He sneers. “I thought you were supposed to be this big-shot prodigy.”

I ignore his taunting as I start to my room.

“Stop,” he barks. “We’re going to the social club.” He staggers over to me.

“I’m not going, but have fun.” One addiction wasn’t enough for my old man; he had to add gambling to the mix.

To be a drunkard, he moves surprisingly fast, punching me in the stomach. I double over, groaning. He curls his lips, his eyes having that vacant, soulless look I know all too well. “Want to change your answer, prodigy?”

“Okay, let’s go.” I grit, clutching my stomach.

“How much money you got?” he demands.

I reach in my backpack, pulling out a five-dollar bill and some change; my lunch money for the entire month. Handing it to him, he looks at it in disbelief before flinging it at me. A quarter bounces off my cheek as he rages, “You’re useless; just like that slut of a mother of yours!” I flinch, expecting another blow, but his mercurial mood shifts. Now, his eyes are lighting up like a Christmas tree; not that we’ve ever had a Christmas tree. “Go make yourself less ugly.” He eyes my oversized hoodie with disgust. “Change into a dress and put some lipstick on.”

Wanting to get away from him in case his mood returns to violent, I hurry out of the room. “Dear God, please let him pass out,” I quietly beg a deity that’s never given a single fuck about me. Opening my closet, I grab my only dress and change into it.

I don’t have any lipstick; it’s not like I have bundles of cash laying around considering my old man rarely works. Improvising, I apply some lip balm and pinch my cheeks to make them rosy. My angular face—made more so by my perpetual state of hunger—looks back at me in the mirror as I take my strawberry blonde hair out of its ponytail and give it a quick brush. I’m the spitting image of my “slut” of a mother; maybe that’s why he hates me so much.

I flip off the light and tiptoe out of my room.Please let him be passed out.

Rounding the corner, I nearly run into my old man. He looks me over, sneering. “Not much of an improvement, but let’s go.” Grabbing me by the arm, he drags me out the door.

I take the keys from him, getting behind the wheel of his clunker of a car. I don’t have a driver’s license, but try telling him that.

Dad barks at me to go faster, but I ignore him. Juvie’s the only other worse possible scenario than the one I currently live, and not wanting to wind up there, I obey the speed limit.

We reach the social club, and I pull into a parking space. “Come on,” my dad says.

My eyes wide, I stammer, “But I’m not allowed in there.”

He exits the car, marching around and opening my door, jerking me out. “Be glad there are cameras in this parking lot; otherwise, I’d beat the shit out of you for the backtalk,” he threatens. “I said come on.” He releases his grip, and I trail along behind him.

We reach the entrance to the social club and stop at the front desk. My dad flashes his membership card to the attendant, and we continue past a large room of old folks playing bingo. We continue down a hallway, coming to a stop at a door guarded by a muscled-up man. “The girl can’t come back here.”

As I tried to tell him.

“She’s a gift for Vincenzo,” my old man says, and my eyes go wide in panic. Please, God, don’t tell me he means what Ithinkhe means.

The man says something in Italian in his headset before opening the door for us. I plead with my eyes for mercy, but the bouncer ignores me as he continues speaking on his headset.

We enter a large, smoke-filled gambling hall, with questionable-looking men playing poker at multiple tables; a much different picture than the innocent bingo game happening up front.