Savage Redemption (The Caraksay Brotherhood #10)

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

R osie

“What’s going on, Rosie?”

I look up from my magazine, tearing myself away from the finer points of selecting just the right wedding venue. Oakwell Hall seems nice…

My stepmum, Eva, closes the door quietly behind her and approaches the sofa where I have several magazines scattered across the upholstery. She sweeps a few aside and parks herself next to me. “Well?”

“Give me a clue,” I hedge.

“I spoke to Mattie Henderson.”

“Who?”

“Professor Matilda Henderson-Bridges. Head of Faculty in the Department of Musical Arts. The same Professor Henderson who interviewed you last week. She offered you a place, from next year.”

“It’s not for me,” I begin. “I need to?—”

“Of course it’s for you. Manchester is one of the best faculties in the country, a Russell Group college. And they’re prepared to defer your entry for a year, two years if need be.”

“I know, but?—”

“I pulled in favours, Rosie. A lot of favours.”

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it. I do.”

“But?”

“You know the ‘but’.”

“No, I don’t. Manchester is within a day’s commute. You could attend on a day basis and still live here. They’ll even stretch it over four or five years. You could do your degree part-time if you want.”

“Eva, you’ve been brilliant. Dad, too. But I just can’t. You know why.”

“If you need more time, then take it. Take as long as you like, I’ll square it with Mattie.”

As a university professor herself of some renown, Eva is in a position to exert influence. The academic world adores her, and I’m lucky to have her in my corner. I don’t doubt she can swing it for me, but it’s impossible. I can’t just slip back into ‘normal’ life, pretend nothing’s changed.

Everything has changed. There’s no going back, not now, not in a year’s time, not ever.

I get to my feet. “I need to?—”

“Your dad’s with her. She’s fine.”

I shake my head. “She needs me.”

“Of course she does, and you’re here for her. You’ll always be here for her, and so will I. So will your dad.”

I pause on my way to the door. “Does my dad know? About Manchester?”

Eva shakes her head. “I wanted to talk to you first. He’ll ask, though, and I’m not lying to him.”

“He’ll be livid.”

“No. He’ll care, and he’ll be concerned. He wants the best for you. As I do. We want you to have your life back, whatever it takes.”

I open my mouth, but no words come out. There are no words. I can never get anything back. My life will never be the same again.

Eva gets to her feet and reaches me in three strides. She takes both my hands in hers. “It was two years, sweetheart. Two awful years, stolen from you, but that’s in the past. I can only begin to imagine the horrors and I don’t expect you to just forget it. No one does but remember what the therapist said. We need to look to the future, grab it, make it what you want. If that’s not university and a degree in music, then so be it.”

“I don’t know what I want.” Not exactly true. We talked, once, a lifetime ago it seems now, about university. “I thought that was the next step for me, the natural course of things before maybe getting a place in a proper orchestra. But nothing is the same anymore.”

“Okay. I get that. But uni isn’t a bad stop gap, while you weigh up your options.”

What options? The only thing I want to do, the only thing that excites any sort of passion in me, is music. Playing the violin. Not studying it, not reading about it or learning all about the wondrous works of the world’s most gifted composers. I’m a doer, not a thinker.

I want to play.

I know she’s right about university as a good interim measure, but it’s just too much for me right now. Too much to process. I’m incapable making any sort of decision. I just want to… be.

A sound from upstairs brings me to my feet again. “I need to go.”

“I know but?—”

“Later. We’ll talk later.” I bolt for the door.

There are always consequences. How many times when I was a kid did my dad tell me that? “Take responsibility,” he’d say. “Think it through.”

That’s where I went wrong. I didn’t think it through that day two years ago when I sneaked off to catch a train to London. My plan was to spend a year or so busking in Covent Garden, live in a shared house with my friends, enjoy myself for a change before settling down at uni. I never bargained on getting abducted by sex traffickers, shipped to the US, sold to a succession of monsters, one after the other, each one worse, more brutal than the last.

I was raped. Repeatedly. Beaten, abused, I still don’t really know how I survived. I became numb, a plaything for evil men. My life could have been snuffed out at any moment, and my family would never know what happened to me. And I wasn’t the only one. Dozens more women were in the hold of that ship, crossing the Atlantic, sharing my living nightmare. One after another we were paraded, naked or as near as made no difference, before a horde of baying animals. I fetched the princely sum of ten thousand dollars, which apparently gave the first of my monsters absolute rights over my body. I even lost my name. No one was interested in who I was, or who I’d been. They made up any name they wanted for me, ‘girl’ if I was lucky, more often ‘bitch’ or ‘whore’.

I gave up trying; it was easier to hide behind their vile labels and pretend it was all happening to someone else.

When my ‘master’ tired of me, he sold me on to another equally vile streak of shite. Again and again, I was passed around a procession of malicious, violent psychopaths who saw me as less than worthless.

I ended up as the ‘property’ of a biker group in New York, a punchbag for their leader and a toy for the rest as they saw fit. Things improved when Salvatore was killed in a motorway pile- up and another ‘president’ took over. He was nicer, civilised, even. The beatings stopped, I no longer slept in an unheated shed. For a few months life was more or less bearable, but it didn’t last. Adam Ricci was murdered, another leader took over, and it turned out he was more interested in young boys. I was superfluous, up for sale again.

The only saving grace was that I found myself shipped back to Europe, this time in a container on a cargo ship. We were landed in Cadiz, me and a couple of dozen others. My new owners were the Domingo brothers, Mafia lords based in Spain. They were every bit as bad as the bikers, violent and intentionally sadistic. They liked to share, and if I’d thought being raped by one man was hellish, I found I had a lot to learn when it came to two.

Things changed when armed men burst into our bedroom on Tenerife and murdered Alejandro Domingo right in front of me. A bullet in his brain, I thought I was next. But their leader sent me downstairs, and I was left unharmed. For want of any better solution, I took refuge in one of the Domingos’ safe houses until I was discovered there by Adan San Antonio who was now head of the family, filling the void left by his cousins. I became his ‘property’, and he took me with him back to Madrid.

Adan was okay. Right from the outset he made it clear that buying and selling women was not something he approved of or indulged in. He was essentially a businessman, and while he was happy to have me around, he would never force me to do anything I didn’t want to. Unlike the Domingos, he preferred not to live surrounded by a houseful of servants, so my role was to do the cooking and cleaning in the main. His apartment was pleasant enough, a rooftop penthouse in Madrid. I had my own room, but I was free to share his bed, or not.

He even asked me my name, and I told him. But it became changed to the Spanish version, Rosa. It was close enough, I let it go

Adan was handsome. In other circumstances… well, who knows? He was generous. He gave me money to buy household supplies, and I was allowed to come and go as I pleased. I enjoyed strolling through the markets of Madrid and I suppose I could have made a run for it, if I’d had enough cash for an airfare. Or a passport.

I didn’t, though. Despite Adan’s easy-going ways, I was too scared of what he might do if riled. Men like him could turn in an instant. I couldn’t risk him becoming displeased or dissatisfied. I knew all too well how that would go.

I clambered into his bed and resigned myself to the inevitable.

I had a surprise coming. Adan was generous in bed, as well as with money. He saw me as a lover, not a fuck toy. He asked me what I liked, but I couldn’t answer. I ‘liked’ none of it — the violence, the beatings, the pain and humiliation. It just was what it was, and I endured.

Except, that wouldn’t do for Adan San Antonio. When I didn’t answer his questions, he experimented. Tried things out. He was inventive, imaginative, and very, very patient. I think he saw me as some sort of project, something to be fixed. And, as far as that could be possible, he succeeded. He confused me, but I was content with him. I began to wonder if this was what it was like to feel safe, valued.

And I liked him. Genuinely liked him. I enjoyed his company, and never more than on the memorable night he asked me if I wanted to come with him to the Teatro Real . It was a performance of Madame Butterfly , and I was entranced. I’m a violinist, opera’s not really my thing, but it was music, classical music, my passion, and I’d been starved of that for so long. I think I cried.

I learned something of pleasure at his hands., I learned to say ‘no’ and be heard. I was competent at the domestic chores and life was okay. Not good, exactly, I was still a prisoner. But it was bearable, and I knew how quickly that could change in a world where violence was the currency.

Adan was powerful. He ruled his family interests with a rod of iron but somehow, he remained decent. He was respected as much as feared. It made a refreshing change.

So, when he asked if I wanted to accompany him back to Tenerife to deal with a problem which has arisen there, I jumped at the chance. Better that than take my chances in Madrid, alone.

Adan was the devil I knew.

I had no idea what the ‘issue’ was. I never asked. When we arrived at a dilapidated, deserted farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, I still asked no questions. I just set about cleaning it up and making it habitable. I got the stove working, spread clean bed linen on the single bed tucked away in the back room. I walked down to the market in a village a mile or so away and ordered fresh vegetables to be delivered. Adan was angry that I walked all that way and back again in the heat. He ordered one of his men to drive me in future, so I went back for bread, cheese, eggs. The cottage was quite homely by the time our ‘guests’ arrived.

I was astonished, and horrified. A woman, and a girl no more than twelve or thirteen. At first, I thought they’d been trafficked like me, destined for a similar fate. Not the case. They were hostages, a mother and her daughter, the family of some enemy. They arrived bruised, battered, terrified. I could easily relate. Adan locked them in the only bedroom and asked me to look after them. He assured me it was temporary. He meant to release them once he had whatever it was he wanted. He didn’t tell me the details. I didn’t want to know. But I’d learned to trust him after a fashion, and I believed him when he promised me the prisoners would be safe.

If he said it, it was true.

I brought food, fresh water. I kept the room clean. By then I spoke fluent Spanish, but the prisoners didn’t understand it, so I tried English and that worked. We could communicate, after a fashion. If they wondered why I spoke English like a native, they never asked. They had more on their minds, I expect.

After a day or two, Adan let the younger one go. The mother, who I’d learned was called Julia, remained with us. I spent more time with her, I enjoyed her company. I came to trust her, enough to ask her to help me. I gave her my father’s phone number, hoping I’d remembered it right and he hadn’t changed his phone in the years I’d been away. I asked her to let him know where I was, that I was alive. If she got the chance…

Afterwards, I wondered what would have happened if Adan ever found out. Would he be angry? Punish me? Or would he have let me go? Would he have phoned my dad, if I asked him?

At the time, it seemed unthinkable. I had learned not to trust, to be wary, cautious, always to expect violence and cruelty. Adan seemed different, but it wasn’t worth the risk. So, I confided in Julia in secret, and prayed she wouldn’t let me down.

In the end, it never came to that. Julia’s family came for her. They attacked the farmhouse early one morning, killed all the guards, and took Adan prisoner. They might have left me there, or killed me, but Julia pleaded for me to be rescued, too. So, I found myself on a helicopter being flown away to Christ knows where. The leader of the attackers recognised me, and I knew him. He was the man who had Mateo and Alejandro Domingo murdered, the one who spared me and sent me downstairs to escape the horrors of what was happening.

I told him my story, the first time since I was abducted. He listened, but I don’t think he entirely believed me. Not until we landed, and I was recognised by Janey. Janey and I briefly shared a house in Stirling a lifetime ago, she knew me, knew who I was, and what had happened. Well, some of it. It was enough to convince my new captors that I was telling the truth.

One of them, Julia’s husband, took the number I’d given her and phoned it. He spoke to my dad, told him where I was and that he could come and get me. He arrived the next day.

And so, I came home. Home to our gorgeous house in Yorkshire, the home I grew up in. I had my life back. Adan was dead. The horrors were behind me. My dad arranged for me to see a therapist, just to make sure, and everyone tried to encourage me to take up my old life again, to carve out a future, as though everything was normal. They meant well, still do. And really, what’s the alternative? Life goes on, whether I want it or to or not.

In more ways than I could imagine. I’d been home only a few weeks when I discovered I was pregnant. At first, I didn’t believe it. How, after all that time? Why now?

Actually, that question was relatively easy to answer. The trafficking gang forcibly injected all of us with a contraceptive. I was ill for days after. I suppose it eventually wore off. Adan never repeated the ‘treatment’.

I said nothing at first, just hoped it would go away. It didn’t, and Eva’s no fool. I was three months gone when she sat me down and confronted me. There was still time for a termination; she offered to help me sort that out if it was what I wanted. I agreed, because I thought I could keep it from my dad that way. Eva was having none of it.

“He has to know. You need him now, more than ever. He loves you, whatever you decide will be fine.”

“He’ll be angry. Disappointed. He’ll wish he never…”

“Never what?”

“Never adopted me.”

Eva was incredulous. “Where did you get that from? He adores the bones of you. There’s no world in which he’d ever regret you being in his life. Nor me.”

“I know, but Bella?—”

Bella — Isabella — is my sister. She’s nine years old, eleven years younger than me. She was born soon after my dad and Eva got together.

Eva’s incredulous. “Bella has nothing to do with this. You’re our daughter, we’ll support you whatever happens.”

“You say that, but?—”

“I say it because it’s true. We live it, we breathe it. Bella’s our daughter, too, and we love the pair of you equally.”

“But she’s yours. Yours and dad’s.”

“You’re both ours. Let us prove it.”

“Prove what?”

I spin around. My dad’s in the open doorway, a quizzical expression on his handsome features. He advances on us and slings a casual arm around Eva’s shoulders. “What do we need to prove?”

Eva looks to me and mouths ‘we love you’.

I crumble. The tension and fear of the last few weeks, the last few years, overwhelms me. My knees buckle, and my dad has to dart forward to catch me.

“What the…?” He sinks onto a sofa, taking me with him. “What’s happened? Are you ill?”

I shake my head, sobbing. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay. Whatever it is, we can fix it.” He rubs slow, soothing circles between my shoulder blades, just like he always used to when I was little. When I fell off my bike, or my pet chicken died.

Eva perches beside us, but she remains silent. She leaves it to me to tell him.

“I’m pregnant,” I wail. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it…”

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know, it’s all right.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You know? How do you know? Did Eva…?”

“No, I suspected. I heard you throwing up. And you suddenly didn’t like coffee.”

“What?”

“Not much by way of evidence, I admit. But I suspected. So, I was right?”

I can only nod. “Are you angry?”

“Disappointed that you took this long to tell me, perhaps. But not angry. And now it’s out in the open, we can decide what to do. Together.”

“D-do you want me to have a termination?”

“That’s one option, I guess. It’s not too late.”

“I could have it adopted. Like I was.”

He furrows his brow. “Not a choice I’d favour. This is entirely different. You have a family who love you, who’ll be alongside you whatever you do. If you want to terminate the pregnancy, you can do that. We’ll understand. Or if you want to keep your baby, you can do that Your choice, sweetheart.”

“I…I need to think.”

“Then do just that. Take your time. Meanwhile, can I arrange for you to see a doctor?”

“A doctor? Why?”

“To make sure you’re okay. And it might help to talk to someone else, a professional.”

I nod and sniffle. Seeing a doctor is no big deal. “All right, I can do that.”

By the time Eva and I arrive at the clinic I’ve made up my mind. It was a no-brainer really. I never wanted the termination, and when the doctor suggests it, I politely decline her offer. “I’m keeping it.”

Eva squeezes my hand by way of encouragement.

Doctor Murgatroyd unleashes her stethoscope. “I see. Right. Let’s have a look at you, then.”

The next six months or so pass in something of a blur. Mine is a trouble-free pregnancy. I enjoy rude good health throughout, eventually giving birth to an eight-and-a-half-pound baby girl.

“Ooh, she’s the very spit of your father,” croons the midwife. “Look at those dark eyes and her lovely thick hair.”

I don’t have the heart to tell her that there’s no genetic connection at all to my dad. I’m too busy gazing into Adan’s beautiful features reproduced on my equally beautiful baby girl.

I decide to call her Erin. No particular reason, I just like the name. And from the moment my dad first holds her in his arms, he’s smitten. According to Eva, he always did have a way with babies.

Eva, too, is the doting grandma, and even Bella finds time to enjoy being an auntie.

Despite my trepidation, I take to motherhood as though I was born to do this. Erin gives me purpose again, a reason to wake up each morning, to put one foot in front of the other. I was afraid she’d be a constant reminder of my previous ordeal, and maybe she is, but my memories are of a handsome, smiling face, of someone who was good to me, who seemed to care. Erin will never know her father, but I’ll tell her about him, well, as much as I can. I’ll tell her he was good and kind, and that I loved him.

And it’s true. I think I did love Adan, in a fucked-up, Stockholm Syndrome sort of a way. I’m sorry he’s dead, though I can see the relentless inevitability of it. Men like him rarely make old bones, and perhaps that’s for the best. I intend to make a decent job of raising his daughter, though. His legacy, though he’ll never know it.