Chapter 2

No cell service. No internet. Not even cable TV. The only thing to do at night is watch DVDs on an old TV from the nineties. Same six discs. Over and over.

My job is simple. Serve whoever runs the compound.

Except nobody runs it.

I'm just dumped up there and used as free labor.

I'm up before sunrise every day. Scrub the whole house. Wash. Cook. Prune the garden.

Every two weeks, Ma Lucchetti sends her butler to inspect. If he finds one thing wrong, he docks my "pay." The contract promises me three grand a month. I never see a cent.

First winter, I hand-wash every curtain in the house. My hands stay in ice water for hours. My knuckles crack open. Blood in the suds.

The butler tosses me a tube of ointment.

"Ma Lucchetti says if you can't handle it, you can walk. Same deal, though. You walk, your Nana's story hits the papers."

I don't walk.

The following spring, I try to climb the wall. Too high. I fall. I snap my shin. I lie in the grass for half an hour, biting my sleeve so I don't scream. The guards find me and drag me back. Seven days in the cellar.

One meal a day. Cold oatmeal. Stale bread.

I lie in the dark, feeling the bruises bloom on my leg, and I think: "If I die down here, will Dante finally remember me?"

Then I get it.

He doesn't even remember I exist. How the hell would he mourn me?

By the third summer, I stop fighting.

I plant tomatoes in the garden. Raise a few chickens. Fix up the basement so it doesn't feel like a grave. And one night, I finally put on the one DVD I never touched.

It's a documentary. about the Sinclair Syndicate.

On screen, the founder of the Sinclair Syndicate walks into a charity gala. Black tuxedo. Warm smile. A man who could burn a city down and still get invited to the mayor's dinner.

I stare at the screen. Something inside me shifts.

The Sinclair Syndicate.

That's my biological father's syndicate.

My mother told me before she died. His last name was Sinclair. He used to run the entire East Coast. He never knew I existed. He never would.

But I know him.

I watch that documentary twenty times. I memorize every name. Every face. Every business front.

Once a week, Ma Lucchetti lets me call my grandmother. "Just to check in," she says. Really, so Nana doesn't file a missing person's report.

I use that call.

My grandmother knows a lawyer back home — the best family attorney in the county.

I tell her, "Nana, I need you to pass a note to him. Please. Don't ask questions."

The note is one sentence:

"I'm Nikolai Sinclair's daughter. I need help."

Three months later, the lawyer tracks down the new head of the Sinclair Syndicate—my half-brother, Roman. He just took over the family business. He's not buying that some random girl is his sister.

I send a DNA sample.

The day the results come back, Roman calls me. His voice cracks.

"Where the hell are you? I'm coming to get you."

"Wait," I say. "I still have eight months on the contract."

"What contract?"

"A slave contract."

Silence on his end. Then, very quiet: "Say that again."

---

When the three years are finally over.

Ma Lucchetti's butler shows up right on schedule. He hands me a check.

"Ma Lucchetti says this is your compensation. Two hundred grand. As of today, you have no connection to the Lucchetti family."

I take the check.

I rip it in half.

"Tell Ma Lucchetti," I say, smiling, "I'll come collect what I'm owed myself."

He blinks. Doesn't answer. Turns and walks away.

I pack my bag. Not much to pack. I came here with the clothes on my back and one photograph. I'm leaving with one extra thing — a beat-up leather diary.

Dante's. From when he was eighteen. I stole it from his room before they shipped me out. I wanted something to hold onto.

Now?

Now it's just a joke.

---