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my question. “Why did you come down that night? It’s your own fault this happened!”
    Why is he so upset about it? Is it his doing that the elevator went down and I accessed this part of the club?
    “Don’t speak too articulately and let on that the drugs are leaving your system. If I find you talking to anyone, I’ll inject you,” he warns and storms off.
    “No!” I scream and clamp my hand over my mouth, afraid he’ll come back with a needle if I’m not quiet.
    There’s something in him wanting to help me, and I take full advantage of that the next few weeks.
    I’m nauseous and cold, yet still feverish, for days. My body is going through withdrawal, and at night, Santino gives me sedatives. Everything hurts, and sometimes I even ask for a shot just to make the throbbing disappear, but he drags me through withdrawal.
    For three weeks, I’m not auctioned since I’m too sick and too undesirable.
    Yet that doesn’t last. I’m not sure if Santino has protected me from Fat Sal these last few weeks, but now they’re whispering back and forth in the doorway. Sal wants to check on me, and then I overhear him saying to Santino that it’s not normal for me to be this ill for weeks.
    Sal jams him out of the way and points his finger at me. “You’re working tonight. I have a special surprise for you.”
    Panic rapidly rises. We’re quiet until we can’t hear Sal’s departing footsteps anymore.
    “I’m going back out there?” I cry softly and sit up. “I don’t know if I can handle that without drugs.”
    “We have to go now.” He pays no attention to my tears and loosens my ankle cuff.
    Santino leads me through the long corridor to the fight club. The scent of blood and sweat saturates the air.
    We reach the area and stand in line by the door behind three other girls with two other guards. My vision of the center stage is blocked by the others, but it’s quiet inside the club.
    A gong bangs, and I gasp, startled.
    Santino’s hand covers my mouth roughly. “Shut up!”
    I reach for his arm to make him let go, but then he’s pushing something inside my mouth, a pill.
    “Take it. It will numb you from the pain,” he whispers against my ear.
    Sheer dread makes me swallow it, and then I’m being rushed forward to a round mahogany table with a centerpiece of red roses. One yellow spotlight shines on the table.
    The concrete is cold against the soles of my feet. There are a dozen men all sitting around the table in casual attire, and the rest of the space is empty and desolate.
    Their hungry gazes slide unnervingly over my bare body, and then my eyes meet Sal’s, and he holds out his hand to us.
    A lump forms in my throat.
    “Here’s our meal, gentlemen. On the table.” He snaps his fingers, and the guards place all four of us on it.
    My mind is becoming fuzzy, and I start to feel lighter – the effect of the pill – but terror stays. Lying on the edge with the spotlight in my face, I close my eyes and turn my head and shriek when a hand touches my breast. My hands and legs are held in place and spread apart. I jerk my head around and see that the same is being done to the other girls.
    Sal yells over our cries, “The rules, my slaves, are no screaming and no jumping off the table.”
    Pavarotti starts to play in the background of this ceremonial display.
    All the men laugh while one pinches my nipple, and they release me. I cover my breasts with my arms, and a whip comes down on my hip. I curl up and shout from the pain of the sting, but I’m crudely spread apart again by many hands.
    Then plates of food are being placed around me.
    Tears stream down my face when I feel nasty tingles on the swell of my breasts. Girls are now moaning instead of screaming.
    “You little slut; you like that,” a rough voice says.
    I’m being touched between my legs, and I cringe from the filthy contact.
    As pain shoots through my breasts, I’m too exhausted to continue struggling. Blinking profusely through the