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After his admission, Wolfe's demeanor changed. His heart rate settled, and his oxygen levels rose. He's still in quite a bit of discomfort—for fuck's sake, his eyelids are on the floor—but he believes he has the upper hand. I do admit, he's caught me off guard, but I'm so far removed from my emotions, I don't know what lies beneath the shock. It's a good thing. Instead of listening with my heart, I'm analyzing him with my brain. I'm searching his body language and micro expressions for signs of deceit.
"I can't properly connect with my girls if another man is in their head, influencing their thoughts," Wolfe elaborates, although I haven't asked for insight into his sick mind. "The moment Alessia emerged from that shipping container, I'd chosen her. I knew I had to be the highest bidder. She was young, tan, and lanky. Her hair was matted, but tied with a cute bow. She was haggard from travel, and barely spoke a lick of English, but she was mine. I made sure of it. Alessia and I had three sessions a week. When I wasn't at the brothel, she was locked away in her bedroom. I wouldn't risk someone else tainting her."
My girls.
I don't know why, but those two words turn the acid in my stomach. And the casual, almost lazy, way he speaks about owning a child slave... It's unfathomable. From a psychological standpoint, I believe Wolfe is either telling the truth, or he's woven lies so intricately, I can't discern fact from fiction.
"A few years passed," he continues, swallowing aggressively. Apart from the obvious exposed eyeballs, it's the only cue that he's in pain. "In November, a day before Alessia's twelfth birthday, she gave birth. Her handlers thought she caught the stomach flu. They sat her on a toilet, and out slid a baby. Out plopped you—a malnourished, underdeveloped infant, born into a shit-stained porcelain bowl.
"If they'd known she was pregnant, she would've been forced to have an abortion. It was far too late for that, so the handlers made arrangements to have you auctioned on the dark web. Within a day, an oil tycoon in the Middle East had won the bid. He wanted an American newborn for God knows what—sex slave, mercenary, personal servant, human sacrifice..."
Wolfe shudders, as if this is where he draws the line. "The handlers hadn't even informed me of your birth. It wasn't until I demanded to see Alessia that she broke down, and begged me to save you. I swore I would. Bastard or not, I wouldn't condemn a child of mine to a life of servitude, but I also couldn't bring you home. I was a state representative. I'd just had a marriage arranged by mine and my betrothed's parents. I couldn't stand my wife, but I also couldn't slip an illegitimate child beneath her nose without community uproar."
I flick my thumbnail on the cauterizer's grip, growing impatient with his monologue, yet incapable of interrupting. I will let him complete his speech, and file it away for further examination.
