Pricey

by Fabiola Joseph

Genres: African American Urban; African American Women's Fiction; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

There are more than thirty million slaves in the world today. Eighty percent are female, and half are children. This is Billie and Carmine's story.

Deceived into leaving Haiti and Cuba by Mr. and Mrs. Vega, Billie and Carmine are confronted with a harsh reality once on American soil. The teens realize they are sex workers for the Pricey Pussy Empire, and the couple who lured them to the US actually run their own division for the underground flesh-for-sale operation. Billie and Carmine will suffer through human indecency, cruel punishment, and sexual assault in hopes of breaking the chains of captivity.

When Billie is sold by the bitter wife of the man who slips into her bed at night, the twosome is faced with a huge dilemma. Will Billie be swept away in the dark of night by her new buyer, or will Carmine step in and help her with a plan that will win their freedom? But, what is freedom to the souls who continue to play in traffic?

Choices must be made, and those decisions may deal the priciest blows to their young lives. There is an expensive price tag attached to vengeance, and once it is theirs, they may just end up paying with their souls.

What does it take to survive in the world of human trafficking? A warrior's heart, a hunger for blood and revenge, and pure insanity. Witness the evolution of Billie Blue Blondie and Carmine Pallazolo.

Release date: August 30, 2016

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

There was that sound again, and it was making me crazy: “Get up you lazy bitch. Get up, Billie!”

The thin sheet was pulled off of me as I struggled to sit up. I was so tired. It seemed as if I had just gone to bed, yet there I was, getting up to start another dreadful day. Sitting up, I looked at Carmine. He always got up with me, no matter what. I guess you could say that we looked out for each other. Although our background stories were different, we were still living the same nightmare.

“Get up you stupid little bitch.”

The slap across my face cleared the sleepiness from my body, and rocked me to my feet.

“I want you in that kitchen until I wake up.”

Glancing at the dusty clock on the wall, I thought that my eyes were playing tricks on me. “It’s only four in the morning. I don’t have to get your breakfast ready for another three hours.”

Instead of hitting me in the face again, Mrs. Vega pulled me close to her by my hair, and hit me twice in the head. Although she slapped me once before, she knew that she had to be careful. If her husband saw a bruise on me, the cruel hands of fate would turn the tables on her, and she would be the one on the receiving end of his violence.

“I don’t give a shit what time it is. I want you in that kitchen and on your feet until I come down for my breakfast.”

That time, I didn’t answer. I had been through this before. Telling her that I had only had two hours of sleep would mean nothing to her. Mrs. Vega hated me, always had, and always would from what I could tell. She was just that type of woman.

Just the sight of Carmine reminded me of how ruthless Mrs. Vega could be. He was her nephew, yet she treated him like shit. She locked him in the basement with us, fed him scraps, and worked him as if he was a slave. Carmine was named after the Italian man his mother wished was his father. She even gave Carmine the man’s last name. He came to live with his aunt after she promised his mother a better life for him. His journey to this hell hole was a long one. His boat trip from Cuba was rough, and it didn’t match my entry into this country from Haiti. Late at night we would often sit up and talk about our past, as if reliving it would somehow give us an escape from the reality of our pitiful existence.

His mother was a whore in Cuba, but had managed to have two kids with just one man, Carmine Pallazolo. He had been his mother’s regular customer for years, and they had two children together. Carmine’s mother made a promise to Mr. Pallazolo years ago. She promised him that she would only have unprotected sex with him, and him only. So from then on, Mr. Pallazolo treated Carmelita, Carmine’s mother, almost as a girlfriend. Sure, she continued being a whore, but Mr. Pallazolo treated her differently. He took care of all her bills, and took care of his children very well. He only allowed them to attend the finest schools. Pallazolo even got Carmelita to stop the sexual services she provided, but that wouldn’t last too long. Carmelita harbored the scary thought that, one day, when Mr. Pallazolo was done with her, she would be left with nothing. So to ensure her family’s future, she continued to sell her body, just not at the rate she was doing it before.

The breaking of Carmelita’s promise to Mr. Pallazolo would have gone undetected if not for the birth of Carmine. His mother was a fair-skinned Cuban, and her two children before Carmine, twin girls, were birthed with white skin. Mr. Pallazolo’s olive-colored skin dominated any melanin trait that may have lingered in the whore’s bloodstream. The twins, Carletta and Marletta, were called muchachas de la nieve, meaning “snow girls,” by the villagers because of their fair skin.

When Carmine was born the color of tar, his mother told him, her whole world changed. Mr. Pallazolo stopped coming around and she had to switch to turning tricks on a full-time basis. Carmelita told her son that she loved him, but there were times she just couldn’t look at him. She begged Mr. Pallazolo to come back and see her from time to time, but he refused unless Carmine was no longer in the house. So, his mother called her sister, Mrs. Vega. She told her sister what happened and begged her sister to help. Mrs. Vega told Carmelita that her son would be better off in America, where he would go to the finest schools and, maybe someday, become a doctor. She fed her sister lies, and filled Carmelita’s heart with dreams for her son that would never materialize.

Whenever Carmine would tell me about that boat trip to America, I would watch his face. His eyes would narrow as if the sound of his own words put him back on that little banana boat. As he spoke of the woman whose child would not stop crying, his whole body would shake. Carmine told me that the woman tried everything she could to quiet the sick child, but nothing would work. Finally, the man with the gun walked over to the lady and yanked the six-month-old child out of her hands. The woman jumped up and tussled with the man as much as she could but, soon, he would have the upper hand. The armed man held the woman down, then called Carmine over and gave him strict instructions: “Throw that baby off of the boat, or I’ll throw the both of you off.”

Carmine told me that he just stood there. He was all of eight years old and too young to understand the cruelty that the world housed, but old enough to know that he didn’t want to get thrown off the boat.

“Do you hear me, little boy? Throw that damn baby off of this boat, or you will never make it to your aunt.”

Carmine always seemed to get distant at this part. It was as if he had to step outside of himself not only when he picked up the baby, but also as he told me the story.

There he was, a sweet little boy at the tender age of eight, and he was forced to take a life. He told me that he had never heard such a sound. The mother’s chilling call for help while her baby was in danger would forever be engraved in his mind. Rocking back and forth, Carmine relived his past through storytelling. He told me that he went numb as he picked the baby up by the arm. Carmine explained that he tried to make himself believe that the baby was just a rag doll, but the mother’s shouting wouldn’t let him escape.

“Please. Please, don’t hurt my baby,” she cried.

“Drop the fucking thing,” the man ordered and watched as Carmine held the baby above the water. “You have one fucking second, or I’ll let her go, and throw you over with the fucking brat.”

Carmine closed his eyes and let the baby slide out of his hand. The man walked over to him after letting the mother go, and he patted him on the back. “This should teach you that life isn’t really worth shit. One minute you’re here, the next, splash, you’re gone.”

“But it was just a baby,” Carmine said with tears in his eyes.

“A baby, a man, a woman; who gives a shit? Life is life and death is death. You killed to save your own, which is all that should matter to you.”

Later that night as everyone tried to sleep, Carmine watched the baby’s mother walk to the edge of the boat and look back at him. She looked him dead in his eyes, pointed, and wished him misery.

“They told me I would never have children but, by the grace of God, I did. Now you have taken from me what God has blessed me with. You have killed my miracle. For that, I pray that God makes you pay. And if He can’t do it, may the devil hear my cries. May your life be filled with so much misery that you’ll have no other choice but to take your own life, just as you have taken the life of my child. Do you hear me, Lucifer? I offer you this little black bastard. I offer you his soul,” the mother howled to the dark sky.

With her words lingering in the night air, she jumped off the boat. Carmine was frozen with fear. With a gust of wind almost overturning the small boat, Carmine would often tell me, he could almost feel the devil’s hand tugging at his feet.

Noticing Carmine’s reaction to the mother’s strong words, the man in charge laughed and said, “Thank God she jumped. My load is much lighter now.”

That boat trip seemed to be haunting Carmine. Something in his eyes told me that he believed in the curse the woman wished on him. He believed that because of the curse, he was locked in the basement with the rest of us. The only thing that separated Carmine from the girls was that his body wasn’t being sold to the men, but to the lonely women who came looking for a good fuck. Mrs. Vega never did send him to school. She kept him in the house and made him do odd jobs like changing the sheets after the clients left, and escorting them to the room when they first arrived. The only time he got to dress up and feel human was when he was working as her only male whore. He slept in the basement with us. That in itself was punishment enough.

The basement was a hellish place. Our mattresses rested on cement floors. The walls were a gray color, and I wasn’t sure if it was paint or filth. Chains hung from the walls and would often be used to shackle us in place. When Mr. Vega was home, the chains would only be used on the person who stepped out of line. But while he was gone, Mrs. Vega took pleasure in “chaining the dogs,” as she would say, referring to us.

The smell wasn’t always too pleasant either. If a girl was sick and threw up or had an accident on herself, we would have to sit with the odor until Carmine had time to come clean it up. After that, he was forced to report it to Mrs. Vega and she would punish the girl by shackling her in place and beating her, always making sure to not leave visible marks.

There was a time when the one bathroom we shared got clogged up. Carmine reported it to his aunt but, since her husband wasn’t home, she felt no real urgency to get it fixed. Day after day, we were forced to use the toilet and let the shit and urine build up. The stench was unbearable in the basement, but Mrs. Vega didn’t care. We lived like pigs for a whole week before she had the toilet fixed, and that was only because Mr. Vega was due home the next day.

Carmine told me that when he first came to her home she made him strip. The minute she saw his penis she told him that, even at the young age of eight, he was too well hung to go to school. It was rare, but when women came to the house, Carmine would be gone for hours, sometimes days, and I always hated those times most of all. I was always afraid that Mrs. Vega would sell him off but, according to Carmine, Mrs. Vega told him he was too valuable. She told him that with his age and a dick like his, they would always have to come to her. So she kept him around. I guess that was why the other girls treated me so poorly. I had yet to be sold, and they all said that it was because Mr. Vega was in love with me. Whenever he was around, life wasn’t as bad as it was when he went on trips for three and four days at a time.

When he was home, Mrs. Vega didn’t mess with me much. I didn’t have to do any housework or put up with her bullshit. I was able to shower and wear clean clothes. I would eat at the table with them, which allowed me to sneak Carmine big plates of food. I even got to sleep in one of the bedrooms upstairs, but that was the only part I halfway enjoyed.

Mr. Vega would come into the room and sleep with me. He would run his fingers through my hair, and tell me how beautiful I was. He would tell me that I could never celebrate my birthday because he wanted me to remain fifteen forever. Although Mr. Vega never penetrated me, he would do almost everything else.

He would spend hours licking my body from head to toe, and then he would take his time “pleasing” me orally. I had gotten used to returning the favor because he would ejaculate the minute my mouth touched his rod. He would then rub between my legs while whispering how much he loved me in my ear until he fell asleep.

He and Mrs. Vega would argue about me. Not because her husband spent his nights with me, but because she felt that it was time to sell me. Many men asked about me. Their customers paid top dollar for young girls, some coming from as far as Iran and Africa. Businessmen, kings, princes, and your average rich men frequented the Vega home in search of young, tender things. These powerful men would pay top dollar for a beautiful virgin like me. His wife spoke about it until she was almost blue in the face. Yet, her husband just couldn’t sell me to the highest bidder. He once told me a bid went as high as five million.

“I am going back to bed. Get your ass in that shower and put these on,” she said roughly, handing me one of the cute pink dresses and shoes Mr. Vega bought for me.

It had been three days since I was allowed to bathe and wear clean clothes. I think she did this as a way of putting me back in my place. The only bright side was that the clean garb meant that her husband would be coming home and her abuse would cease for a few days.

“After you’re dressed, get your whore ass in that kitchen and stand in your corner until it’s time to start breakfast.”

When she walked away, I heard laughter coming from the three girls who hated me because Mr. Vega treated me nicely.

“Hurry up, bitch. You heard her. Get your whore ass clean and in that kitchen,” the ringleader said. She was the worst of them all. Erin, a beautiful black American girl with scars across her face and all over her body, hated me from the minute she saw me. Hell, it seemed as if she hated the whole damn world. Once Carmine told me what happened to her face, I understood her rage.

The Vegas had a client from the Middle East with very specific needs. He wanted a beautiful black girl who he could cut and scar at his whim. At times, he would come into the country, have sex with Erin, and not hurt her. Then, there were the dark times that she would leave the basement and not come back for days. When she did return, she would be bandaged from head to toe.

A few weeks later, after the bandages came off, she would have a new scar, physically and mentally. It seemed as if with every new slash she acquired across her skin she would become meaner. We all knew what was going on but we never brought it up. Ignoring her was the best thing for her. The hell she was living was something that I would never understand, so I considered her attitude appropriate for her circumstances.

Carmine and I stood in the corner of the kitchen as instructed. The other girls were shackled one floor below us. Carmine and I made small talk. He kept me company until five minutes before Mrs. Vega’s normal breakfast hour.

When her husband was home, the cook made breakfast, but while he was gone, she told the maid and cook to take a load off, then made me do all of the work. Her breakfast consisted of eggs, bacon, fruit, bagels, and a variety of jams. Accompanying that was coffee, and a mimosa. While Mrs. Vega feasted on a meal fit for a queen, I sent the girls their normal breakfast: oatmeal, one slice of wheat toast with no butter, and a small box of apple juice. Mrs. Vega weighed us girls once a week. If any of us were over 130 pounds, she would make the “fat pig” skip a meal or two until the following week. I made a plate for Carmine from Mrs. Vega’s rations and sent him downstairs.

While I was serving the food, the real cook came walking into the kitchen and announced that Mr. Vega was pulling up. His wife looked at me, and instructed me to sit down at the table and put food on my plate.

I rolled my eyes at how fake she was, and I plopped down on the chair beside her. In some sick way, I was actually excited that Mr. Vega was home. Sure, things were better when he was there but, deep down inside, I knew that it was much more than that. A part of me had fallen for him. I guess I didn’t know any better. Later on, I found out about Stockholm syndrome, and chalked it up to that. It was weird though. Whenever he left, sadness would come over me. Then, when he would return, I would get butterflies and a slight happiness would set in.

Sitting at the table with my untouched food in front of me, I watched the door like a dog waiting for her owner. The moment I heard the door open, the sound of his footsteps helped widen my smile.

“Wipe that fucking smile off of your face. That is my husband,” Mrs. Vega whispered, but I paid her no mind.

“Hello, beautiful. I hope that you were okay while I was gone.” Mr. Vega bypassed his wife and greeted me first. The smell of his cologne sent chills down my spine as he stood me up and gave me a hug.

Mrs. Vega slammed her coffee mug down, causing it to shatter. Her husband turned to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Hello, Elena. How are you?”

I watched the muscles in Mrs. Vega’s jaw tighten as she gave her husband a cold glance. Then she shrugged, and said, “Fine.”

Later, I had fallen asleep on the comfortable bed when a shouting match between Mr. Vega and his wife woke me up.

“She must do it. It is time. She is in her prime and seven million dollars is record-breaking!”

“He isn’t asking to just sleep with her. He wants to take her away. He wants to buy her!”

“Who gives a shit? She’s just another whore. I’m sorry but it has already been done. He deposited his money this morning.”

“What? What do you mean it is already done?”

“I sold your little bitch, that’s what. I hate that girl and I can’t wait to see her go!”

The couple continued to argue as the blows her husband punished her with echoed through the house. I got out of the bed and tiptoed to the door.

“Marco!” Mr. Vega yelled after dealing with his wife. “Get Capello on the phone. I need to stop a sale.”

I pressed my ear to the door and tried my best to hear what would be, to me, a one-sided conversation. My. . .