Thorne Princess(25)

That got my attention.

My mouth dropped in shock. “That’s a lie!”

He shrugged. “Your constant presence in my room raises red flags. If it’s not your intention—stop wandering in here. Either way, my conscience is clear. I never use it. Now leave.”

I did. In a flurry of tears and feverish panic, slamming my bedroom door behind me dramatically. As soon as I was alone, in the dark, I picked up my phone and called Hera. I’d been hoping to avoid it, but my parents were obviously not going to call me back and I was out of options. I couldn’t continue living under the same roof with this man. Hell, I needed to sage the whole neighborhood to get rid of his demonic vibes.

Hera picked up on the fourth ring. She sounded sleepy, in comparison to my hysterical panting and sobbing.

“Hallie?” She yawned. Her voice alone felt like a slap in my face. “Are you okay? Are you safe?”

Yes? No? How was I to even answer this question?

“Hera. I need—need—need your help!” I howled, burying my face inside my pillow. This douchehole was manipulating me, controlling every aspect of my life…he wasn’t a protector. He was an abuser.

“Are you okay?” She sounded alert now.

“Physically, I guess.” I huffed. “But mentally—”

“If this is about the bodyguard, there’s nothing I can do for you.” The concern in her voice morphed into annoyance. I heard her sit upright, the bedsprings squeaking under her slight body.

“You don’t understand!” I said desperately. “He is a nightmare, he—”

“You showed your tits to the entire world, Hallie. Do you really think what you need right now is more independence? He’s been hired to help sort things out. Let him help.”

“He is threatening me. Manipulating me. Not to mention he confiscates my belongings.”

“Yeah, well, let’s admit it, if you still act like a teenager, maybe it’s high time someone confiscated your things.” She let out another yawn.

I closed my eyes, gritting every single word out of my mouth like they were made out of glass. “Hera, Mom and Dad won’t answer me. I know they’ll listen to you. You’re their favorite.”

She loved hearing that.

“Mom and Dad don’t play favorites,” she countered primly. “I don’t think you stand a chance at getting through to them, regardless. They’re really upset. They’ve tried so hard for you. I can’t even start counting the ways you’ve broken their hearts. They are, however, asking that guy they sent to babysit you for updates, so maybe if you finally come to your senses and start behaving like a grownup, he’ll tell them to call you back.”

“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?”