The city lights blur together as we drive, a kaleidoscope of neon and shadow.
"Almost there," Irina says, her voice soft in the darkness of the car.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. My nerves have been building since we left the house, churning my stomach into a mess of knots. The suit she's dressed me in fits perfectly, like it was tailored just for me. Dark navy with subtle pinstripes, crisp white shirt, silk tie that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe back home. I look like someone important, someone with choices.
The dashboard clock reads 7:43 PM as we pull into a hotel parking lot. The building towers above us, all gleaming glass and modern angles, the kind of place I'd never be able to afford on my community college budget.
"Are you okay?" Irina asks, turning off the engine and studying my face in the dim light.
"Fine," I lie, tugging at my collar for the hundredth time. It feels too tight, but I know it's just the shock collar.
"It's normal to be nervous," she says, reaching over to straighten my tie. Her fingers linger against my chest.
Before I can respond, headlights sweep across us as a sleek black Mercedes pulls into the space beside us. The car gleams under the parking lot lights, looking like it just rolled off a showroom floor.
"That's her," Irina says, her eyes fixed on the luxury vehicle.
My heart hammers against my ribs as she reaches up to my neck. Her fingers work deftly at the shock collar's clasp. I feel the cool air against my bare skin as she removes it.
"Selena specifically requested you not wear this tonight," she explains, tucking the collar into her purse.
"What if I…" The words slip out before I can stop them.
Irina's expression hardens immediately. "They'll shoot you before you make it across the parking lot," she cuts me off, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "And reimburse me your value."
I swallow hard. "Well, alrighty then."
The Mercedes door opens, and Selena emerges like some corporate empress, silver-streaked hair pulled into that perfect bun, wearing a suit. She walks around to my side of the car with deliberate steps.
I'm surprised when she opens my door herself rather than waiting for me to do it. The gesture seems almost kind, though I know better than to mistake it for actual kindness.
My fingers fumble with the seat belt clasp, suddenly clumsy with anxiety. The click when it releases sounds impossibly loud in the quiet car.
"We discussed the rules thoroughly on the phone," Irina says, leaning across the console to address Selena. There's tension in her voice that I haven't heard before.
Selena smiles, all perfect teeth and zero warmth. "Don't worry," she says, extending her hand toward me. "I'm going to take very good care of your toy."
I step out of the car on legs that feel like they might buckle at any moment. The night air is warm and heavy with humidity, clinging to my skin beneath the expensive suit.
"Matthew," Selena says, my name rolling off her tongue like she's sampling an exotic delicacy. "How lovely to see you again. You clean up quite nicely."
"Thank you," I manage, the words coming out steadier than I expected.
Selena's hand lands on the small of my back, the touch light but unmistakably controlling. "We'll meet here tomorrow morning," she says to Irina, her tone making it sound more like a command than a suggestion.
Irina nods stiffly from the driver's seat. "Yeah." The single word carries a weight of tension. Her knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and she doesn't look at me as she starts the engine.
The car pulls away with more acceleration than necessary, tires squealing slightly against the asphalt. Something about the way she left makes my stomach twist even tighter. I've never seen Irina annoyed like that before.
"Come," Selena says, guiding me toward the hotel's revolving doors. Her hand never leaves my back, steering me like I'm a shopping cart.
The lobby gleams with marble and crystal, the kind of wealth that makes you feel like you should apologize for breathing on things. Selena walks through it like she owns the place, nodding at the staff who practically bow as we pass.
"I've made dinner reservations," she explains as we cross the lobby. "I find conversations flow more naturally over good food."
The restaurant is on the top floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city. A hostess with perfect posture greets Selena by name and leads us through the dimly lit space to a secluded booth in the corner.
"Our most private table, as requested," the hostess says with a practiced smile.
The booth is curved, upholstered in dark leather, and partially enclosed by decorative screens that block us from the rest of the diners. It feels like entering a cave, a very expensive, well-appointed cave.
Selena slides in first, then pats the space beside her. "Sit next to me, Matthew. It's easier to talk that way."
I hesitate for just a second before complying. The leather seat creaks softly as I settle in, leaving what I hope is a respectful distance between us. Selena immediately closes the gap, her thigh pressing against mine.
"Now," she says, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur as she opens the leather-bound menu, "let's order something delicious while you tell me how you're enjoying your new... employment situation."
She hands me the menu, and I stare blankly at the elegant script swimming before my eyes. Everything looks impossibly fancy and foreign, words I can barely pronounce let alone understand.
"Is something wrong?" Selena asks, leaning closer. "Do you not know the language?"
"I mean, no, I don't speak Spanish," I mumble, flipping the menu over. "But the English is right below it, so that's not the problem."
"Then what's bothering you?" She says as her nail taps against the menu impatiently.
I swallow hard, and decide to just explain it to her. "Well, I don't know if I should order to try to whore max or get what I actually want?"
Selena's eyebrows shoot up. "Whore... max?"
"Yeah," I continue, feeling my face heat up. "Like, should I order food that I think would make me look sexiest for you? You paid for me, right? So I have to try. But then I'm thinking, oh fuck, what if I get a sexy meal but then it makes me sick while we bang, which is what I'm really here for." I sigh heavily, running a hand through my hair. "This is more thought than I usually put into stuff."
As I ramble on, Selena's eyes grow wider and wider, her composure cracking for perhaps the first time since I've met her. She looks genuinely stunned, her mouth slightly open as she processes my word vomit.
"Matthew," she finally says, setting her menu down with deliberate care. "That's insane."
I feel my face burning hotter than the sun. "Sorry, I just… I don't know the protocol here."
To my surprise, Selena laughs then quickly composes herself.
"There is no 'sexy food' protocol," she says, amusement still dancing in her eyes. "Order whatever you want. This isn't a test."
"I guess I'll have the spaghetti then," I say, scanning the menu again. "Seems like a good middle ground."
"A middle ground?" Selena's perfectly sculpted eyebrows rise slightly. "Is that what you want?"
"Yeah, I think so." I nod, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "It's a good choice."
She tilts her head, studying me like I'm some peculiar artifact in a museum. Her brow furrows slightly as she mutters something under her breath in Spanish that sounds like "Qué extraño" and "No entiendo este chico."
"What I mean is," I explain, leaning in slightly and lowering my voice, "I like spaghetti, but also... if I accidentally have to slurp a noodle a little..." I mime the action, my cheeks burning with embarrassment, "you know, you get to see the goods. Like a preview of what's coming later."
I instantly regret everything about this explanation. My hands are sweating now, and I can feel my face turning the same shade as the marinara sauce I'll soon be eating.
Another laugh escapes her, genuine and unrestrained. Something she never did back at the warehouse.
"You are absolutely nothing like I expected," she says, dabbing at the corner of her eye with her napkin. "Nothing."
The waiter approaches, saving me from having to respond. He's tall and thin with a carefully maintained mustache and an expression of professional detachment.
"Are you ready to order?" he asks, pen poised over his notepad.
"The gentleman will have the spaghetti," Selena says, her voice still warm with amusement. "And I'll have the sea bass."
The waiter nods and collects our menus. "And for wine?"
"A bottle of the Brunello," Selena answers without hesitation. The waiter bows slightly and retreats, leaving us alone again.
As the waiter walks away, I lean in close to Selena, keeping my voice low.
"I'm not allowed to drink," I whisper, fidgeting with my napkin.
She shakes her head, confusion crossing her features. "What?"
"I'm only nineteen," I explain, feeling awkward and out of place in this fancy restaurant with my expensive suit and my illegal status.
Selena stares at me, looking completely baffled. She places her hand over mine on the table.
"Matthew," she says slowly, as if speaking to a child, "I run the cartel here."
I think about this for a long moment, letting the implications sink in. Her words hang between us as I stare at her, taking in the elegant silver streaks in her hair, the confident set of her shoulders, the way the restaurant staff practically bowed when we walked in.
"I'm not sure that would really matter for this crime."
"Matthew, for the love of God," she sighs, exasperation clear in her tone, "I pay the police off here."
There's something in her expression that looks almost like pity as she studies my face. The realization of just how naive I must seem to her makes me want to sink into the leather booth and disappear.
"What was your life like before this?" she asks, her voice softening unexpectedly.
I shrug, trying to appear casual despite the uncomfortable tightness in my chest. "Oh well, I was living with my aunt in Boston. And you know, it was a small place, but it was fun."
The waiter returns with the wine, presenting the bottle to Selena with a flourish before uncorking it. She nods her approval after the customary taste, and he pours a generous amount into both our glasses and then leaves the bottle at the table.
Selena pushes my glass closer to me. "You're too nervous," she observes, her eyes never leaving mine. "Please drink."
I hesitate for a second before picking up the glass. The wine is deep red, almost black in the dim lighting. I take a small sip, surprised by how smooth it is.
"It's good," I admit, taking another, larger sip.
"Of course it is," Selena replies with a hint of amusement. "I wouldn't waste my time with inferior products." The way she says it makes me wonder if she's talking about the wine or about me.
She takes a thoughtful sip of her wine, studying me over the rim of her glass. "So, Boston? That's interesting. Why did my girls pick you up in South Texas then?"
I blink, almost choking on my wine. "South Texas? I've never been to Texas in my life."
Selena's expression shifts, her eyebrows drawing together in genuine confusion. She reaches across the table and gently guides my hand, raising my wine glass to my lips.
"Drink," she encourages, her voice soft but firm.
I comply, draining the glass in one long gulp. The expensive wine warms my throat as it goes down, and Selena immediately refills it, the dark liquid swirling hypnotically in the crystal.
"Matthew," she says, leaning closer, "my girls picked you up in Texas. That's where they found you. Near Laredo, to be precise."
My stomach drops. "That's impossible. I was in Massachusetts. I remember walking to the convenience store..." I trail off, suddenly uncertain of everything.
"You're telling me you have no idea how you got to Texas?" Her eyes narrow, studying me with renewed interest. "None at all?"
I sigh, realizing this must be part of the whole other worldly thing. "I have no clue."
Selena leans back, her expression unreadable as she swirls her wine. "You are a genuine mess, Matthew Warren," she says finally, but there's something almost fond in her tone.
"A genuine mess?" I scoff. "Says the woman who turned me into a soccer slave."
Selena's expression shifts instantly, her eyebrows arching so high they nearly touch her hairline. The temperature between us seems to drop twenty degrees.
"Primero," she says, her voice dangerously soft as she leans closer, "if you were a woman, I would have killed you for speaking to me with such disrespect."
My mouth goes dry. The wine suddenly tastes like acid in my stomach.
"Y segundo," she continues, "you are, without question, the worst fútbol player I have ever witnessed in my entire life."
She takes a slow, deliberate sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving mine. I want to look away but can't.
"You were so atrocious that if you had been a woman, we would have simply freed you. You wouldn't have been worth the price of the food it cost to feed you." A cold smile spreads across her face. "But because you're a man, you had just barely enough value to attract viewers willing to bet on your spectacular failures."
I swallow hard, my cheeks burning with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. "I told you I was terrible at soccer. I warned everyone."
"Yes, but we didn't realize just how terrible." She chuckles, a sound devoid of warmth.
Her lips curl into a smile that sends a chill down my spine.
"And then just when we thought you were worthless except for being a white American man, I watch your livestream with Irina." She leans forward, lowering her voice. "Now I'm kicking myself for selling you before sampling the merchandise myself."
My face heats up as her words sink in, and I suddenly feel like I'm under a microscope. Selena's eyes examine me with a new kind of intensity, like she's trying to solve a puzzle.
"Did Irina drug you to get that kind of performance?" she asks bluntly, tilting her head. "Some of my girls use something to help their men perform better."
"What? No," I sputter, almost choking on my wine. "I've never done drugs in my life."
She raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "Never? Not even marijuana?"
"Well, I mean, I tried a joint at a party once, but it just made me paranoid and hungry." I shrug, feeling like I'm somehow failing an interview. "I'm just naturally enthusiastic, I guess?"
Selena studies me for a long moment, her eyes narrowing slightly before her expression shifts to something more inviting.
"Would you like to try cocaine?" she asks casually, as if offering me dessert. "I have some excellent product. Very pure."
My eyes widen, and I nearly knock over my wine glass. "Uhh, no. Not really," I stammer, trying to sound polite while refusing drugs from a cartel boss. "I'm good with just the wine, thanks."
Selena's expression darkens instantly. "You're treating me like I'm not part of the cartel," she says, straightening her posture. Her eyes narrow dangerously, like a predator that's spotted weakness.
I take another gulp of wine, feeling a strange courage bubbling up inside me. Maybe it's the alcohol or maybe I'm just tired of pretending.
"You literally trafficked me and sold me to a Russian woman," I say, meeting her gaze directly. "I feel like I'm speaking with exactly as much respect as I'm supposed to."
The silence that follows is so thick I could cut it with the fancy steak knife sitting unused beside my plate. For a terrifying moment, I think she might actually reach for that knife and use it on me.
Instead, Selena rolls her eyes dramatically. She reaches for the wine bottle and refills my glass until it's dangerously close to overflowing.
"Just drink your wine," she says, her voice taking on a honeyed quality that doesn't match the steel in her eyes. "So you're ready when we're done eating."
There's something about the way she says "ready" that makes my skin prickle with goosebumps. Despite the tension between us, I notice an unmistakable excitement in her expression, a hungry anticipation that makes me nervous in an entirely different way than before.
I lift the wine glass to my lips and drink deeply, wondering how hard I'll have to work tonight.