Page 3 of Forgotten Sacrifice

Feeling eyes on me, I wrap my arms around myself as I keep up with my dad. We reach a stairway with another large Italian man intercepting us. “Wait here,” he orders, and I shift uncomfortably.

It feels like a lifetime before another man appears, causing all the little hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. His lips are turned up in a pleasant smile, but his hazel eyes are cold as ice. Not the vacant drunk look my father gets every night; this look might be more dangerous. Definitely more cunning.

He eyes me before politely addressing my father. “Mr. Barone, you and your guest follow me.” I suck at guessing people’s ages, but if I had to, I’d say this man is in his thirties. He’s handsome, I’ll admit, in a designer suit I bet cost more than six months’ rent for our apartment. I decide then and there I hate him.

We follow the man down the hallway to a locked door. Like some sort of magician, he places his hand to the sensor, and the door opens. I follow them inside an office, and the man motions for us to take a seat on a small couch. I sit next to my father, hugging my arms around myself even tighter as the man takes a seat behind his desk.

“Vincenzo, this is about that little chunk of change I owe?—”

Vincenzo holds up his hand, silencing my dad. He reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a handwritten ledger. “Let’s see, Mr. Barone. That ‘little chunk of change,’ with 7 points compounded weekly, has you owing the family $197,294.23,” he announces, and I let out a little strangled sound.

“And I have a solution,” my father says eagerly. “You can have my daughter, and we’ll call it even.”

“Will we, now?” The man says in an amused tone.

“We won’t!” I pipe up.

“Girl, shut your fucking mouth,” my old man hisses under his vodka-perfumed breath.

“Give me a moment alone with your daughter to see if I’m interested,” Vincenzo says.

I grab my father’s hand in panic. “Please, no!”

He jerks out of my hold and stands, leaving without so much as a backward glance.

“What’s your name?” Vincenzo levels those cold eyes at me, and I notice his left eye is off somehow; like it’s not focused on me, even though he’s looking right at me. “I asked you a question.”

“Luna.” My voice comes out small.

“How old are you?”

“Thirteen,” I blurt out, hoping that will somehow help my situation.

“Liar.” Heclickshis tongue, standing and walking over to where I’m seated. Holding out his large hand, I look at it for a moment before hesitantly taking it. He pulls me to stand. “Take off your dress. Let me get a good look at you.”

“Please, no, Mr. Vincenzo.” I whimper, tears streaming down my cheeks.

“Call me Vince.” He touches my cheek, and I recoil. “Take it off, or I’ll rip it off you,” he says softly.

“There’s got to be another way,” I plead.

Hetsks. “Sins of the father. Sadly, you’re learning that lesson the hard way. Take it off. Last chance before I rip the dress from your body.”

My hands shaking, I pull the dress over my head and clutch the flimsy material over my chest, trying to hide.

He grabs my wrists and jerks my arms down to where I’m exposed, but his eyes don’t take in the ratty bra covering my breasts, but my black and blue stomach. “He do this to you?” Vince asks so quietly I’m not sure if I heard him right.

I nod anyway. My dad only hits me in places he thinks no one else will see.

Before I can jerk my arm free, Vince discovers my secret—row after row of old scars, and a few fresh cut marks on the inside of my wrist. “He do this too?”

I don’t answer, and he squeezes my wrist tighter. “Stop!” I cry.

“I asked you a question,piccola. He give you these, or did you do it yourself?”

“I did it myself,” I answer honestly for some reason.

He squeezes harder.