“Hera! I—”
“No, Hallie. I’m sorry. You need to deal with this on your own. I have to catch up on sleep. I have a shift in two hours.”
With that, she hung up, leaving me in a darkened sea of satin sheets and misery.
Then.
The first rule was to never develop feelings.
Not for the toys.
Not for the food that was served.
Certainly not for people.
When Mr. Moruzzi adopted us, it all looked so promising. He had a big house and a wife who was a therapist, and had a nice, airy room with a lot of plants and framed inspirational quotes by notable people.
When I was dropped there, many months ago—I couldn’t count because I was still too young—I’d thought it would be a game-changer. I was going to have a warm room, with toys, and clothes, and food.
And for the first month, that’s exactly what happened. I wasn’t the only kid. There was Tom, too. He was three years older than me. And Lawrence—or Law, to his friends. He was two years older than me.
Their lives seemed different from mine. They weren’t there when I got home from school. They came in the evenings, looking dirty and beaten up. Mr. Moruzzi would let them eat a huge plate of whatever Mrs. Moruzzi made that day—mainly pasta or lasagna or pizza. Then the kids would go to bed. I didn’t know if I should envy or pity Tom and Law for their lives. They seemed much closer to Mr. Moruzzi than I was—but I soon learned it came with a hefty price.
A month after I got there, Mr. Moruzzi came to sit on the edge of my bed. It was nighttime. I was already half-asleep.
“Tomorrow, after you finish school, Tom’ll wait for you. He’ll teach you how to do the work.”
“Work?” I asked groggily.
Six-year-olds weren’t supposed to work. Even I knew that.
“You’ll see. The Moruzzi family has a business. A very profitable one.”
Mafia, Tom would explain to me later on. Mr. Moruzzi was the ringleader of a small Italian mafia that had a century-long beef with the Russians.
“Disappoint me, and you won’t get your toys, your meals, your nice, comfy bed. Tell CPS—and you’ll be back in the system, where nothing good ever happens.”
The next day, Tom waited for me after my first class.
“I’m Tom.”
“Ransom.” I didn’t shake the hand he offered me, though. It seemed weird. We were supposed to be foster brothers or whatever.
“Cool name.”
I didn’t answer that.
“Did they pick that out for you, or did your parents call you that?”
“Don’t have any parents,” I answered dryly, my stomach clenching painfully. “You here to talk or to teach me?” I wanted to get it over with.
Tom smirked, pleased. “Ever pickpocketed?”
“No?” I wasn’t even sure what it meant.
“Well, you’re about to learn from the best.”
I downed an entire bottle of water before raising my head from the pillow, slam-dunking the bottle into the trashcan on the other side of my brothel-themed bedroom. I’d noticed that Brat sneaked into my room to sift through my trash, but I’d soon realized it was more to do with her recycling obsession than to try to get intel about me.
Last night’s encounter had gone fine. Better than fine. Good. With my brand of kink, anything short of disaster was a godsend. But it didn’t take the edge off. I was still feeling restless. Uncertain. I knew I was treating Brat like crap, but I didn’t know how else to rein her in.
I’d lied to her. Said I didn’t have a conscience. Truth was, I wasn’t feeling too hot about how I’d treated this kid. But what other option did I have? The only way I knew how to play was to cheat the game.
And breaking her spirit was the easiest, fastest way to get to my goal and deliver the goods to President Thorne.
She’s just a kid, and you’re treating her inhumanely.
But she pushed back every step of the way, making it impossible to give her breathing room.
Anyway, I was now paying for drinking my weight in whiskey last night at a random hole in the wall. My hangover was hell. At least Max told me she’d behaved throughout the evening.
Scraping my miserable ass off the bed, I hopped into the shower, brushed my teeth for ten minutes （when Brat had said I smelled of cherry lipstick, I almost vomited in her pretty little face）， then hit the kitchen for some coffee, eggs, and bacon.
Brat was probably still admiring her perfect pout in her bedroom mirror. If yesterday proved one thing, it was that the Thorne Princess wasn’t aiming high for herself. Those friends of hers had the combined IQ of a pickle. And she knew it.
Not that Brat had a Stephen Hawkins-level brilliant mind, but at least a decent education and cut-glass vowels made sure she didn’t sound as dumb as a brick.
I scowled out the kitchen window, calculating how many shifts I could transfer to Max without making him Hallie Thorne’s primary nanny, when an armored, bright green Lamborghini pulled to a screeching stop in front of the entryway, knocking over an exotic plant in the driveway.
The driver flung the door open. I put my coffee cup down by the kitchen sink. What in the ever-loving shit was happening?
“What’s going on?” Brat echoed my thoughts, tornadoing down the stairs in a pink kimono dress. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her nipples were straining against the thin fabric. My dick nodded her good morning. The rest of me wanted to file a restraining order against it. Stupidity was an unfortunate side effect of desire. Yet the interesting part was that my body responded to her at all. Normally, physical traits didn’t do anything for me. I was more turned on by situations. The more salacious—the better.
“Who’s the asshole in the Lamborghini?” she demanded.
The doorbell chimed on cue. Rather than answering her, I opened the front door.
Tom stood on the other side, wearing a checked suit and his good guy smile. A smile only I and one other person in the world knew was disingenuous.
Behind him, I spotted Lisa and the kids in the car, all waving at me. I scowled, as if he’d dumped a bag of flaming shit between us on the threshold.
“What are you doing here, Whitfield?”
“Why, howdy, partner!” Tom clapped my shoulder cheerily, winking at Brat, who stood behind me.
“Wifey and I were in the neighborhood and I thought I’d pop in and check on how y’all are doing before I start my new post in Chicago.”
He lived five states away. The ‘in the neighborhood’ excuse was as believable as a Vegas stripper’s tits. He obviously wanted to check and ensure my new client was still in a favorable mental state. Side note: the world would be a slightly better place if men would stop calling their spouses wifey.
“Are you the Whitfield in Lockwood and Whitfield?” Princess Thorne inquired behind my back.
“Yes, ma’am. And you must be Hallie!”
“The one and only.” Brat shouldered past me, prancing about in her ridiculous robe to shake his hand. Tom took her palm in his and squeezed firmly. I waited for them to get it over with so I could slam the door in his face.
“You know your car was voted Most Polluting by most car magazines last year? Your Lamborghini burns a gallon of gasoline for every eighteen miles traveled. And it can’t be family-friendly.”