can understand. Why can’t you just leave the mob now, Luca?”
His face twists in anguish. “Because…there’s a contract.”
“You signed a contract?” My voice sounds thin and shrill.
“It’s not a physical thing. It’s built on promises and offers. Plans…and obligations. And relationships.”
Relationships with other people—not with me. Tears spill down my cheeks as something in my chest twists. I wipe my eyes. “I know that. I’m not being fair. I just feel like you’ll never pick me.”
His mouth tugs downward as I start to lose hold of myself.
“Rosa…fuck. You’re being just fine.”
“I just hate that I can’t be with you! And I was so upset…seeing this video. I saw a video. And you were on it.” More tears fall. I breathe deeply. “You were at the place where you and I went—where I told you.” I’m holding my baby bump, feeling like my life is crashing down around me—for so many reasons. “The FBI had it, and I was so scared and upset. For me and for…” I shake my head, unable to say “the baby” without sobbing.
“I talked to them today.”
I wipe my face and brave a look up at him.
He nods, looking blank-faced. “I know someone there. Max knows someone,” he clarifies. “He helped set up a talk.”
I swallow back a sob. “What did they say?”
“I’m not in trouble.”
“You’re not?”
For a second, he looks exasperated…or maybe hurt. Then he just looks solemn. “What do you think I was doing? Selling people?” His voice tells me that’s ridiculous. That he’s offended that I’d wonder. I watch as he inhales deeply, blows the breath out. Then he reaches in the pocket of his dark denim coat.
He unfolds a piece of paper, holds it out. I take it. Then I frown down at it, trying to understand.
“Paperwork for a 401c3?” My stomach flips. “The Rose Garden.” I look up at him. “What is this?”
I can see him biting on the inside of his cheek. He inhales slowly. “It’s this…thing I do.”
“What kind of thing?”
He takes another deep breath, and then he’s holding my gaze. “It’s a rescue for human trafficking victims. Almost like a rehab. They work with florists and gift shops once they’re…ready. We have contacts in that industry. Some of them stay with the organization, helping other ones recover. We also have some contacts with area colleges. So they get help with tuition.”
I blink back tears.
“The big catch here,” he says slowly, “is that…I’m in the process. I’m the buyer. I get them from Aren.”
I can feel my mouth drop open. “You buy them? From Aren, like Aren who runs the Armenians?”
He nods, flexing his jaw.
“But why? There are arms of the government that do this.”
“Yeah, and sometimes that works. But lots of times, it turns out they don’t get enough of them, and it’s too slow, or there might be one sting but there are dozens—thousands—more people that slip through the cracks. And who gives a shit, because whose job is it really? Whose job is it to cut through red tape and get shit done?”
My heart quickens, even as my voice is steady. “Yes, but if you buy them, aren’t you showing the real bad guys that there’s demand on the back end?”
He exhales, rubbing his hair like he does when he’s upset. “No. Because Aren was doing this before me. For fucking years, Elise, for something like nine years. He would get these women—kids, too!—almost always out of South America at first. Then more from Europe and Africa sometimes. And he would sell them right here in Manhattan.”
“Whose job is it to stop that stuff, the US Marshals? Or the AG? Both? I think it’s both.”
He shakes his head. “You think they’re fucking with the Armenian mob? This isn’t some pervert businessman looking for a woman to play housekeeper. This is a big business, making millions for Aren every year. I found out that every month, he was selling ten or twelve people out of this fucking warehouse, and…I don’t know why.” His voice roughens. “More than anything I’ve ever been around—any kind of fucked-up shit—it made me crazy. So I told him I would buy them all. That I had contacts in other parts of the country. You know, like I’d resell them. Dirty business doesn’t want to do business with someone straight.
“He wanted my contacts, but I wouldn’t—because they didn’t exist. For almost a year, he kept asking me who they were, who I would turn around and sell these ‘assets’ to. He didn’t really