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.