Chapter 3: The Gutter

"It's not my fault," Dahlia told herself over and over as she rode the elevator up to the main floor. "There was nothing I could do. She was as good as dead already."

But she had heard her shouts, and she had heard her cries, and still she turned aside. She could hear her even now, her screams so loud and full of agony that God himself probably could have heard her.

So let Him help her, Dahlia decided. If God exists, then He will save her—not me. I'll have no part in it.

Once the doors opened, Dahlia stepped out and quickly made her way toward the exit, and she was still so tightly wound that when she came upon a man she did not know, she jumped back and let out a frightful shriek.

"Excuse me, miss," said the young man in a voice so kind. "I didn't mean to startle you. Are you all right?"

Dahlia nodded her head, but she kept her distance. As he spoke, she couldn't take her eyes off his beautiful hands. They were clean and perfectly kept, so unlike her own, which were caked with dirt and covered with painful sores. She wondered what his hands felt like, if they were as soft as they appeared.

"Has something happened?" the man asked. "Shall I take you to the hospital? To the police?"

"No!" Dahlia shouted suddenly, catching the man off guard, and then she ran out the door before he could stop her.

"Wait!" the man called, but she was already gone. "What's her problem?" he wondered aloud as he scratched the top of his head, and then he looked around, wondering where she had come from.

"A poor girl, no doubt, the scum of the streets. By keeping these doors unlocked, we invite them all in ... But there was such fear in her eyes. What made her so afraid? What has she seen?"

Already, he could feel a headache coming on, forcing him to rub his temple. "Oh, I've had enough of this day. Too much work, not enough play."

He exited the city hall and descended the stairs alone, his tall figure casting a great shadow on the staircase. When the night's chill came upon him, he lifted the collar of his jacket in one smooth motion.

A good drink is what I need, he thought. Something to warm my bones and numb my mind for the night.

But his drink would have to wait, for there was a car parked at the bottom of the stairs, its passenger impatiently awaiting his company. His work was never done.

Inside the car sat Michele Distefano with a bottle of red wine that he'd already started to enjoy. A very rude gesture, but he needed something to satisfy him during the long wait. Before drinking, he swirled the liquid around in his glass, admiring the wine's clarity and color. When the passenger door finally opened, Michele looked up at the young man and asked, "Do you prefer red or white wine?"

The man was slightly taken aback by his question. "I suppose it depends on the occasion."

"And for this occasion?"

"I'm afraid I'll need something a bit stronger than wine tonight," the younger man answered honestly as he took his seat, but still he was offered a glass of his own, and he drank it without protest, gulping down the entire thing in one shot.

"That is no way to drink a wine as fine as this," Michele scolded in a fatherly tone. "You must savor every last drop. Honestly, Nicolas, where did you learn your manners?"

Nicolas smirked. "From my father."

"And what a man he must be!" Chuckling, Michele poured him another glass. "With respect this time, my boy. Now, what news do you have for me?"

Going silent, Nicolas's brown eyes fell to the wine in his glass, its color as red as blood. "Adrianna is gone."

"Gone?" Michele pulled his glass away too fast, spilling wine onto his chin. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said. Her apartment is empty, and she won't answer her phone. Do you think she was found out?"

Michele dabbed his wet chin with his handkerchief. "No, I don't think so. If she had been found out, we would know about it. But this is troubling news. We'll need someone to replace her."

"I agree."

Suddenly, Michele was no longer thirsty, and what a shame it was for such a lovely wine to go to waste. "Who was that girl who came running out of the city hall just moments ago? Their new candidate?"

Nicolas thought back to the shaken young woman who had fled so suddenly. "I highly doubt that," he replied. "She's just some street urchin who probably snuck in to escape the cold. Really, she doesn't fit the type."

"Nevertheless, I want you to bring me whatever information you can. I want to know who she is, where she came from, and what she is doing in my city. If she is their new candidate, I need to meet her."

"I will do all I can. Now, is there anything else you need from me tonight?"

"No, that will be all."

Nicolas set down his wine glass and exited the vehicle. "Have a good night, sir."

"Nicolas," Michele said, catching the man's attention just before he closed the door, "your mother was unhappy that you missed dinner again tonight."

"Right. I'll make it up to her, I promise."

"You'd better. Have a good night."

Nicolas closed the door and watched the car drive away. "Good night, Father." The night's chill hit him again, making him shiver. "And now for a drink."

With his hands shoved into his coat pockets, Nicolas strolled down the street, heading in the general direction of his favorite bar, but his legs were not deliberate in their steps; they were just wandering around, not because of the wine but because his mind was unfocused, weighed down by troubling thoughts—thoughts of Adrianna.

She begged me to get her out of there, he remembered, picturing her tear-filled eyes. She said she was afraid. They were going to kill her, she cried, and she came to me, and I did nothing for her.

As he neared the bar—how he'd managed to get there, even he couldn't say—an old man stumbled into him, smelling of sweat and booze, his speech slurred as he begged for Nicolas's spare change. "Even the smallest coin counts, sir."

The man, a desperate, old drunkard, was one of the rats that scurried about at night and stalked all the bars, hoping for somebody to indulge in his addiction.

"Please, sir," the man said, blowing his rancid breath right in Nicolas's face. "I needa drink. Just one." As he spoke, his hands were inching toward Nicolas's coat pockets.

Gritting his teeth, Nicolas roughly shoved the old man aside, making him stagger back and fall to the ground. "Piss off!" he spat. "Go back to the Gutter where you came from!"

The man didn't move, and he didn't speak, but Nicolas was still so angry that he delivered a swift kick to the man's ribs. The old man cried out. And Nicolas kicked him again and again until he was silent. Then he readjusted his coat, smoothed out his hair, and entered the bar, where he would stay until closing time and lose all memory of the incident.

Spitting up blood, the old man struggled to get to his feet while incoming patrons just walked right by him. He cursed all the people who passed, but he expected no less.

This city is going to hell, he thought, and they can all go down with it!

He laughed at his own cruel judgments, a loud, manic laugh that caught the attention of a young couple passing by. The woman recoiled, her eyes full of fear. Her lover protectively tightened his arm around her.

"Don't listen to him," the young man said. "He's just a crazy drunk."

The old man chuckled at that. Yeah, that's what I am, just the old, crazy drunk. Quick, hide your children and your wives!

Finally, he found his footing, but after taking a few steps forward, he was on the ground again. For the life of him, he couldn't remember how he'd gotten there.

"Ugh, I need to stop drinking."

After pulling himself up for the second time, the old man sluggishly made his way down the desolate street, being sure to stay within the street lamps' glowing path because he was afraid of the dark, deathly afraid. Bad things happened in the dark, the kinds of things that only crazy old men liked to spew on about. Demons lurked in there, he believed, and they wore the faces of angels, but nobody believed him when he told the tale.

Above him, one of the street lamps started to flicker.

They're coming! he thought, and so he started to run as fast as he could. Nervously, his eyes flickered about. To every shadowed street corner. To every dark alleyway.

Stay in the light! Stay in the light!

But the lamps were going out one after another, as if an invisible hand was snuffing them all out. Soon, there was only one light shining above him, like a beacon sent straight from the heavens. He sought shelter beneath it and prayed it would protect him from the darkness and its evils. The demons were near, watching and waiting from a place he couldn't see.

"Help!" he cried, but nobody could hear him in the dead of night, and those who could, ignored him. He even saw one woman close her window.

"Curse this city! Curse you all!"

... and then the lamp above him started to flicker and buzz.

"No," he said, his voice weak and full of despair. "Please, God, no!"

Beyond his barrier of flashing light, the old man saw a dark figure emerge from the shadows, its shape obscured by his blurred vision. Man or animal, he couldn't tell. Perhaps it was something in-between. A grotesque perversion of nature. It walked like a man almost, but its body was grossly deformed. Its powerful legs were bent at inhuman angels. Its arms hung so low they touched the ground as the beast moved along.

"It can't be!" The old man rubbed his eyes with his fists, hoping it was all an illusion. When he looked again, however, he found the creature standing just outside his barrier.

A creature of darkness can't enter the light, he remembered, overcome with relief.

But as the lamp blinked on and off, the creature's hairy, bestial feet did cross into the light. One first and then the other. Its claws rapped against the stone, sharp as daggers.

Slowly, the old man allowed his eyes to travel up the rest of its body. As soon as he saw the beast's true nature, he fearfully cast his eyes aside.

What is this foul creature made in the image of both man and beast? Such a monster is not the work of God!

With a loud pop, the street lamp exploded, leaving the old man in darkness.

"Help!" he screamed as he tried to flee. "Help me, please!"

Only once did he glance behind. The monster was running after him, bounding on all fours like an animal. Suddenly, it leapt high into the air, vaulting directly over him. The stone crumbled beneath its enormous paws when it landed.

"Ahh!"

The beast towered over him, completely eclipsing the old man's trembling form with its own.

"What are you?" he stammered.

In response, the beast gave a deep growl, releasing a thick cloud of steam that burned the old man's wrinkly face.

"God help me," he whimpered, unable to tear his gaze away from those terrifying yellow eyes.

Many heard the old man's screams—they could wake even the deepest sleeper—but nobody went out to help him. Volterra was the safest city in Italy, after all, and who really cared about some poor, crazy old man?

. . .

In the night, a lone wolf howled beneath the full moon, but Dahlia paid no attention to it as she walked down the street, eager to return home and forget this night altogether.

I should have never gone in there, she thought. What if they come after me now because of what I saw? What did I see? – Nothing, I saw nothing!

Zipping her sweater all the way up to her chin, she increased her pace to a brisk walk and proceeded deeper into the city.

The historic city center was bustling with tourists and locals alike, with many swarming around the numerous bars and restaurants that catered to the young, beautiful, and affluent. Even though Dahlia didn't belong, she enjoyed looking in on this strange and exciting world that existed alongside her own and seeing the men and women dressed up and smelling so nice. It was kind of like window shopping: she knew she would never be like them, but she still liked to look and dream. Nobody could stop her from dreaming.

But they could shut her out.

For a second, just a second, Dahlia lost track of where she was going. She collided into a man her age, bumping his shoulder with hers.

"I'm sorry," she said earnestly, wearing an apologetic smile. But once she saw the hatred in the man's eyes, that smile faded. "I'm sorry."

The man's hand went to his jacket pocket, his face awash with suspicion.

"Oh, no," Dahlia tried to say, but the man muttered something in a language she couldn't understand and walked away. "I wasn't trying to ... I wasn't trying to steal from you."

All around her, she saw looks of disgust, and it made her feel horrible, like a crow among doves. No matter how many times she washed her face or combed her hair, they would never accept her. But then she thought back to what that man had said, what he had promised.

I could have anything I want, she considered. I could be just like them ...

Of course it was tempting! She hadn't stopped thinking about his offer since she'd left the city hall, but she was afraid, of what she had seen and what she hadn't seen. She knew people like him, and she knew it was best not to get involved. She wasn't about to get sucked into that life, not again.

It had started to rain by the time Dahlia finally made it back to her neighborhood. Every day she saw new people: good and bad, the scum of the streets. Runaways, thieves, prostitutes, they all flocked there, and so it became known as the "Gutter."

Years ago, a great fire claimed most of the neighborhood, so it became lost, forgotten, detached from the rest of the city. Now, it was a sanctuary for the city's undesirables. But on very dark nights even Volterra's elite could be found there, for a man could have anything in the Gutter as long as he was willing to pay for it.

Through the mud and the rain, she trudged between the decrepit buildings, and as she passed by the dusty, shattered windows, she snuck a peek into the world that was now her own.

In one house, she saw dozens of people huddled together in one room, rolling and wiggling as they tried to sleep in the cold night. In another, she saw a group of scantily dressed women using their hands and mouths to pleasure a local businessman while his colleague sat in the corner with a dirty, used syringe sticking out of the crook of his arm.

When the businessmen finished and refused to pay the pimp's set price, deeming both his products inferior, the pimp pulled out a handgun and fired two shots. Dahlia covered her ears when she heard the bangs, and she hid in the shadows while two men dragged the bodies away. One of the dead men lost his wallet, and Dahlia considered picking it up, but the risk was too great, so she hurried on.

Dahlia's house, which she shared with five other people, sat on the very edge of Volterra's red-light district. Occasionally, men mistook her for one of the workers. "You're not much to look at," they would always say, "but you'll do."

The men were much older than her, and they took her from behind because they couldn't stand to look at her haunting, expressionless face, but they paid well enough. Other men liked to do stranger things ... painful things, and Dahlia hated them the most, but they paid more than anyone else, and Dahlia needed the money.

"Where have you been?" Sophie asked as soon as Dahlia entered the house. The curvy brunette was sitting at the table and counting the bills she'd pulled from her bra. When she finished, she growled and threw all the bills onto the table. "One hundred and twenty euros? That's all my time is worth? Cheap bastards."

"Have you seen Émile?" Dahlia asked.

"I haven't seen him in months," Sophie answered as she stood up and casually strolled toward the open window, her robe left open to expose her ample breasts. "I told you, you need to stop depending on that guy, Dolly. No man is going to take care of you. You have to take care of yourself."

A man passed by the window, catching her attention instantly.

"Feeling lonely, sweetie?" she called to him as she hung over the windowsill. "Come here, I'll take care of you."

She reached out to touch his arm, but he pushed her away and spat, "Whore!"

Where is Émile? Dahlia wondered, nervously wringing her fingers while Sophie shouted obscenities at the man who'd rejected her. I need him here.

A cockroach started to crawl up her leg, so she shook it off and then stomped it into the floor.

Enraged, Sophie was about to climb out the window and chase after the rude man, but then she heard the sirens and saw the bright, flashing lights.

"Shit!" she cursed, ducking back inside. "It's the police!" She snatched her money off the table and shoved it back into her bra. "We need to go. We need to go right now!"

Outside, Dahlia saw a wave of people fleeing like ants escaping their collapsing ant hill. In a police raid, it was every man for himself, and Dahlia quickly found herself all alone in a sea of people being pushed and shoved like she was caught in violent storm. When people fell, and many did, they were viciously trampled into the dirt. Some even tripped people on purpose.

That's what happened to Dahlia.

When the threat of capture became too great, one man elbowed her in the face and threw her to the ground.

On her stomach she lay as people passed over her, kicking wet mud into her mouth and eyes. Three times she tried to get up, and three times she was knocked back down. Warm blood started dripping from her nose and trickling into her mouth, so she spit it into the mud.

Upon rising for the fourth time, she felt a firm hand grip her arm and lift her up, and then she felt the cold metal ensnare her wrists.