Broken (Book one, Broken Trilogy)

Chapter One

Prologue

Deceit

Deception

Dishonest

Distortion

Fiction

Myth

Tale

Fib

...any way you say it, it means the same thing...lies.

CHAPTER ONE

Savannah

I don't know how long I've been here—four months, possibly five. Time passes in strange ways when you have no means to mark it. At first, I counted time by the meals I received, but after a while they became fewer and less dependable. I know for sure I've been here one full season. The men went from wearing long sleeve shirts to Tshirts.

My prison is a small room with a rusty bed that squeaks any time I shift position. A tiny wooden table with a stool takes up one corner, and a toilet and sink hide behind a ratty curtain in the other. No windows, no TV, nothing to read but an old copy of Wiseguy by Nicolas Pileggi. I wasn't one for reading crime novels in the past, but I can recite every single word by heart now.

I hear the familiar sound of the key retracting the lock and my stomach sinks. I pull at my ratty sweater, wrapping it around my midsection a little tighter—like that is going to help protect me from them.

I hear his boots scuff on the hardwood, and sweat breaks out along the back of my neck. Shit, it's him. My skin crawls when I see his sausage-like fingers holding a tray of food for me. His hairy stomach pushes out below his T-shirt and bulges over the top of his jeans. As soon as he spots me he gives me his lopsided smile.

"Hola, chica, how are you today?" His voice is raspy and his accent thick, but I understand every word. His body language is enough in itself. "I ask you a question," he barks at me.

"Fine," I say through the lump in my throat.

He stands holding the tray above me. Finally I raise my eyes to meet his and he smirks, showing me how much he enjoys having this power over me.

I've had enough encounters with this man to know that he won't leave without wanting something in return. Luckily up till now it's never been anything sexual—just more head games. That doesn't mean he's never insinuated it. I feel my body tremble, shaky fingers pulling at the hem of my cotton nightgown that is sitting mid-thigh. I don't need to give him any ideas. His gaze drops to my legs and he licks his lips.

"Beg," he orders, drawing out the word.

My mouth goes dry. He loves this part. I am an animal to him. He calls me his perra, which means dog in Spanish. I feel my temper rise as I try to tell myself to stop, but I can't help it. I am past caring anymore.

I give him the sweetest smile I can muster. "Screw you." I'd never spoken more than I absolutely had to since I got here; suffice it to say he is blown away by my choice of words. Normally I do what I'm told while secretly fantasizing the many ways I'd like to kill this man. I try to behave, never wanting to relive my first few days here. The incredible pain after they beat me to a bloody pulp when I didn't do what was asked made me wise up quickly.

My present adrenaline high is short lived, however, as I watch his eyes narrow and his jaw tighten. He suddenly tosses the tray across the room, shattering the dishes against the wall.

"No food for you, lengua de mierda!" he hisses, taking a step toward me. I cover my ears, tucking my knees up to my chest. This man is large enough to pick me up in one hand and toss me across the room, meeting the tray's fate. He grabs a handful of my hair and drags me across the room, my knees bouncing along the floor like a rag doll. I barely register the pain—I am more aware that this six foot, three hundred seventy-five pound man is hovering over me, enraged. Why did I have to get smart? The only thing I have going for me is they haven't killed me yet. Maybe I am being held for ransom. It's no secret my father has a lot of money and everyone knows his name—he is running for a second term as Mayor of New York City.