MAFIA FAMILY \||\YOU'RE THE MAFIA PRINCESS\||\

Third person POV

8 years ago

It's a lively night as the D'Angelo family welcomes a little star into their lives, the little star was nested in the crook of Riccardos arm as his wife takes the baby for her nap time the baby coos and gurgles...

that was the last the baby their precious little star was seen it was like it had disappeared poof gone not even a month in the world and the child had been taken by its mother most would say kidnapped, stolen

Present Day ({{user}} POV)

"YOU BRAT" yelled form the bottom of the staircase an average day or so I thought, everything hurt more than usual, my word didn't form as I tumbled down the stairs to see my mother and my father?. well, they were sat so intimately while my mother rants start to pour out of her mouth "useless", "freak" and worst of all "you insolent child I wish I never birthed you". jokes on her though because I wished it as well her word mean nothing to me, I hear them all the time I was numb.

I scurry back to my room as my leg throbs and my head spins feeling like it's about to tear off my body. I hurry to get changed for school oh shitt, I'm bleeding again I ran out of bandages yesterday I can't go back to the pharmacy again they'll get suspicious on why i need so much what do I do i panic internally

I get the best idea of my life well not really i pause because i need a break from trying to make bandages and how icky blood felt I wrap my leg but a didn't get changed and leave in time and my mother banged on my door screaming for me to open the door

(Trigger warning violence)

my mother opens the door I notice father and his friends behind her as she violently grabs me and yells "HUH BRAT YOU THOUGHT YOU CAN JUST STAY HOME NO GET CHANGED NO ITS TOO LATE"

smack

she smacked me across the face then chucked me to my father's friends who got handsy with me touching groping I was shaking it made them laugh, I don't know what I did to deserve this kind of treatment, I wanted to scream but before I do I get chucked around a bit more.

(grapeing I didn't want to put in detail so understand by chucking around I mean grape)

i was left there, I felt dirty, I tried to wash it off, but couldn't I needed to get it off my min goes silent one thought go to school then escape this hell, I put on my clothes I grab a bag packing it with the only thing I needed a small worn-down teddy, I run out the house down the street then taking a left a the big green tree

ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh how I hate 1st period, it was science so boring my teacher doesn't understand that i do not like sitting next to the class clown, I drown out the lesson i put my head on the table.

(Third person POV)

The mother, her boyfriend who {{user}}knew as her father, were caught smuggling illegal substances and kidnapping other children slightly older than {{user}}, selling them on illegal terms and as slaves on top of it. The police came to the finding as they received a tip from an unknown number, continuing with an investigation, teaming up with social services.

({{user}}POV)

I blink lazily at the board, my head still resting on my arms. The words on the screen blur together, something about chemical reactions or whatever. I don't care. My leg still hurts. My face still stings. My stomach still feels like it's twisting into knots. Everything just feels wrong.

The class clown beside me whispers something about my "grumpy" face, nudging my arm with his elbow. I flinch hard. Too hard. My chair scrapes against the floor as I pull myself away from him, my heart hammering in my chest.

He looks at me weird. Everyone always does. I swallow hard and keep my eyes down, gripping my hands together under the desk. I just have to make it through the day. Just the day. Then I can leave. "{{user}}?" I snap my head up, my teacher staring at me expectantly. Oh. Oh no. I wasn't listening.

"Huh?"

The class giggles. My ears burn. I hate it. I hate them. I hate how loud they are. It's too much. Too much noise. Too much staring. I shrink down in my seat, nails digging into my palms.

The teacher sighs, shaking her head. "See me after class."

Great. Just great.

(Third Person POV)

Outside the school, two police cars pulled up, their sirens off but the red and blue lights flashing against the pavement. Officers stepped out, their expressions unreadable, their radios buzzing with quiet chatter. A woman from social services trailed behind them, clutching a folder tight to her chest.

Inside, the principal's phone buzzed. He frowned, glancing at the unknown number flashing on the screen before answering. Within seconds, his expression hardened. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the polished wood floor.

"Understood," he said, before hanging up.

{{user}} had no idea her world was about to change forever.

The police entered the classroom just as the bell rang, their eyes scanning the room before settling on her.

"{{user}} D'Angelo?" one of them asked gently.

Her stomach twisted. Why were the police here? Why were they saying her name?

"You need to come with us," the officer continued, his voice calm but firm.

The classroom fell silent. Every pair of eyes was on her, but she couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

A soft hand rested on her shoulder—it was the social worker. "You're safe now, sweetheart."

Safe. The word didn't make sense. She didn't feel safe.

She was led out of the school, past whispering students and curious teachers, straight to the waiting police cars.

Once inside, the car doors shut with a quiet click, sealing her inside. The social worker, a kind-faced woman with warm eyes, sat beside her, speaking softly. "We're taking you to the station, {{user}}. Everything's going to be okay."

{{user}}just stared ahead, her mind too scrambled to process anything. The station? Why? What did they want from her? ({{user}}POV)

The ride to the station was silent except for the faint hum of the engine and the occasional murmur from the police radio. My hands curled into fists in my lap, nails digging into my palms, but I barely felt the sting. My head was spinning. None of this made sense. Why were they taking me? What did they know?

The social worker—her name was Ms. Carter, I think—kept giving me these soft, careful glances, like I was a scared animal about to bolt. Maybe I was. Maybe I should.

We pulled up to the station, the flashing lights casting eerie shadows across the pavement. My stomach turned. I wanted to be anywhere but here.

"Come on, sweetheart," Ms. Carter said, her voice gentle but firm. "You're safe now."

That word again. Safe. I still didn't believe it.

I followed her inside, my legs stiff, my heart hammering so loud I swore the officers nearby could hear it. Everything smelled like stale coffee and something metallic, like rust. It made me want to gag.

A female officer guided me to a small room with a desk and two chairs. A bottle of water sat unopened on the table. The officer gestured for me to sit.

"We just need to ask you a few questions, {{user}}," she said, her tone careful, like she didn't want to scare me.

Too late for that.

I nodded stiffly, staring at my hands. My sleeves were too short. The bruises on my wrists peeked out. I yanked the fabric down.

Ms. Carter sat beside me, her presence strangely comforting. "You're not in trouble, {{user}}. We just need to understand what's been happening."

I swallowed hard."Happening?"

The officer—Detective Hughes, according to her badge—exchanged a glance with Ms. Carter before speaking. "Your mother and her boyfriend have been arrested. We've been investigating them for a while now. Drug trafficking, human trafficking... it's bad, {{user}}."

My stomach dropped. I felt like I might throw up. I knew they were bad people, but this?

"We got a tip," Detective Hughes continued, her voice softer now. "Someone reported what was going on in the house. Someone who wanted to help you."

A tip? My head spun. Who? Who cared enough to do that?

I realized then that I was shaking. My hands, my legs—everything was trembling. I clenched my fists tighter. "What... what happens now?"

Ms. Carter offered a small smile, but there was sadness in her eyes. "You don't have to go back, {{user}}. We're going to find you somewhere safe."

There was that word again. Safe. I wanted to believe it. I really did.

But a small, broken part of me whispered that safe didn't exist.

(Third Person POV)

Hours passed. {{user}} sat in that room, answering questions, signing papers, nodding when she was supposed to. It all felt like a blur. Like she was watching someone else live her life.

Eventually, Ms. Carter led her outside, where the night air felt too cold, too sharp. A car waited by the curb—a social services vehicle.

"This will take you to a temporary home," Ms. Carter said. "Just for now, until we find something more permanent."

Temporary. Another word {{user}} hated.

She hesitated before stepping into the car, glancing back at the station. This was it. The start of something new.

But whether that was a good thing... she still didn't know.

As the car pulled away, she didn't look back.

The drive was quiet, the streetlights casting fleeting shadows across {{user}} face as she gazed out the window. Everything outside felt unreal, like she was floating between two worlds—the nightmare she was escaping and the unknown that lay ahead.

Ms. Carter cleared her throat. "The home you're going to... it's a good place. A foster family. They've taken in kids before."

{{user}}didn't respond. She just kept watching the city blur past.

"You'll have your own room,"* Ms. Carter continued, trying to fill the silence.* "They have a daughter about your age. Maybe you two can—"

"I don't want to make friends," {{user}}interrupted, her voice hoarse.

Ms. Carter sighed, but didn't push."That's okay. One step at a time."

The car slowed as they turned onto a quiet street lined with cozy-looking houses. The kind of place {{user}} had only ever seen in movies.

She swallowed hard, her grip tightening on the small, worn-down teddy bear in her lap.

She didn't know what waited for her behind that door. But for the first time in a long time...

She let herself hope.

({{user}}POV)

The house looked normal. Too normal. A two-story home with pale blue paint, a neatly trimmed lawn, and a porch light that flickered slightly in the dark. It was the kind of house people in movies called "home." But standing in front of it, my stomach twisted.

Something felt wrong.

Ms. Carter gave me a reassuring smile, mistaking my hesitation for nerves. "Come on, {{user}}. This is your new home for now."

I didn't correct her. I knew better than to believe in "home."

She knocked on the door, and within seconds, it swung open to reveal a woman with graying blonde hair, an apron tied around her waist, and a practiced smile on her face. She looked like the kind of lady who baked cookies for the neighbours and waved at passing cars.

But her eyes... they were cold.

"You must be {{user}}!" *Her voice was too cheery, forced. *"Come in, dear. We've been expecting you."

I hesitated. Something in my gut screamed at me to turn and run. But where would I go?

So, I stepped inside.

The inside of the house smelled like bleach and something else. Something rotting, just beneath the surface. I wrinkled my nose but said nothing as I clutched my bag tighter.

"This is Mr. Morrison," the woman introduced, gesturing to a tall, broad-shouldered man standing in the dimly lit hallway. He didn't smile. Just nodded, his eyes running over me like he was sizing me up.

"You'll call us Mama and Papa Morrison," the woman added. "All the kids do."

"O-okay," I mumbled, but the words tasted bitter.

"Good girl." Her smile stretched wider. "You'll be sharing a room with Amy. She's just a year younger than you. I'm sure you'll get along splendidly."

She led me up a creaky staircase, down a long hallway, and stopped in front of a wooden door. She knocked once, then opened it without waiting for an answer.

Inside, a girl sat cross-legged on the bottom bunk of a bunk bed, her dark eyes staring up at me. She was small—too small for her age—her pale skin covered in faint bruises. Her mousy brown hair was uneven, like it had been hacked off in chunks.

"Amy, this is {{user}}," Mama Morrison said sweetly, her voice dripping with something that made my skin crawl. "Be a dear and help her settle in."

Amy just nodded, her expression unreadable.

The door shut behind me.

And the lock clicked.

The first night, I barely slept. Every sound in the house made my heart pound. The walls were thin—I could hear the other kids shifting in their beds, hear Papa Morrison's heavy footsteps pacing downstairs, hear the muffled sobs coming from somewhere down the hall.

Amy didn't talk much. Just watched me with those hollow eyes. But I saw the way she flinched when the door opened in the morning. Saw the way her hands trembled when she buttoned her shirt.

I knew that fear. I had lived in it my whole life.

Days passed, and the truth of the house became clearer.

The Morrisons were careful in front of the social workers. Smiling, gentle, perfect foster parents. But once the doors closed, the smiles vanished. The kindness rotted.

Food was a privilege, not a guarantee. If you spoke out of turn, if you broke a rule—even ones they made up on the spot—you didn't eat. If you cried, you were locked in the basement. If you fought back...

I learned quickly not to fight back.

But Amy—she was different. She had been there longer, had suffered more. And yet, she still had this tiny, flickering spark inside of her. A defiance that hadn't been beaten out of her yet.

I think that's why they hated her most.

One night, I woke up to the sound of whispers. Amy was crouched on the floor near my bed, her breath coming fast and uneven. She clutched something in her hands—a torn piece of notebook paper.

"We have to leave," she whispered, her eyes darting to the door. "Tonight."

My blood turned cold. "Amy—"

"No. Listen." She shoved the paper into my hands. It was a list. Names. Dozens of them, written in shaky handwriting. Most were crossed out.

"The other kids who lived here," she explained, voice barely above a breath. "They're gone, {{user}}. They never get adopted. They just disappear."

I stared at the paper, my hands trembling."What do you mean, gone?"

Amy didn't get to answer.

The door burst open, and Mama Morrison's shadow loomed in the doorway.

The next morning, Amy's bed was empty.

I knew.

I knew the way you know when a storm is coming. When the air is too still, too quiet.

I asked about her at breakfast. No one met my eyes.

"Amy ran away," Mama Morrison said simply, sipping her tea. "Ungrateful girl."

But I knew better.

Amy was never coming back.

That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the truth crushing my chest.

Amy had been right. Kids didn't leave this place. They vanished.

And I was next. I gripped the torn paper she had given me, the names of all the missing kids burning into my mind.

Amy had tried to escape. She had tried to save me, too.

She hadn't made it.

But I would. ({{user}} POV)

The cold night air bit at my skin as I ran. My legs ached, my lungs burned, but I didn't stop. I couldn't. The Morrisons were behind me—somewhere, lurking in the shadows, waiting to drag me back. I wouldn't let them.

Amy had died trying to escape. I wouldn't let her sacrifice be in vain.

My worn-out sneakers slapped against the wet pavement, splashing through puddles as I turned a sharp corner into an alleyway. My heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the city noise. I pressed myself against the brick wall, sucking in sharp breaths, trying to make myself small, invisible.

I needed to think. But my brain wasn't cooperating. Everything felt too loud, too bright, too much. The neon lights from the signs above flickered in and out of focus, the hum of distant traffic became a deafening roar. My fingers twitched. My breaths came fast, uneven. My chest tightened.

It was happening. Again.

A meltdown.

I squeezed my eyes shut, rocking slightly as I dug my nails into my palms, grounding myself in the sting. But it wasn't enough. The walls of the alley pressed in around me, the scent of garbage overwhelming my senses. My skin felt wrong. The world was too sharp, too harsh. I wanted to crawl out of my own body.

I whimpered, curling into myself, hands covering my ears as I tried to block out everything.

Then, footsteps.

Heavy. Measured. Dangerous.

I should've been scared, but my brain wasn't working right. Everything was blurring together, my thoughts spinning too fast for me to hold onto any of them.

A shadow loomed over me.

"Hey, kid."

The voice was deep, rough—like gravel scraping against steel. It cut through the chaos in my head, sharp and precise. My whole body flinched at the sound, but I didn't respond. Couldn't.

The man crouched in front of me. I barely registered him through the haze of sensory overload, but he was big. Strong. His presence filled the alley, suffocating, commanding. I tried to focus, to make sense of what was happening, but my brain wasn't letting me.

"Shit," the man muttered under his breath. He must've realized something was wrong because his tone changed—less threatening, more... hesitant. "Are you hurt?"

I still couldn't speak. The words got stuck in my throat, tangled up with the static in my head. My breath hitched, my vision swam.

"Okay, kid, breathe."

He was talking again, his voice oddly steady. Not soft—nothing about him was soft—but not cruel either. Just firm. Certain.

"Look at me."

I couldn't. I was shaking too hard, my hands clenching and unclenching like they had a mind of their own.

A long sigh. Then, a shift in the air as the man moved. Not closer—he stayed crouched, keeping some distance. But his voice dropped lower, more measured.

"Close your eyes," he said. "Focus on breathing. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Got it?"

I didn't respond, but somehow, my body followed the command. In for four. Hold. Out for four.

The static didn't disappear, but it dulled, just a little. Just enough for me to blink up at him.

For the first time, I really saw him.

He had dark, sharp eyes that seemed to pierce straight through me. A strong jaw, a scar cutting across his cheek. He wasn't dressed like a normal guy—his black button-up was half undone, a gun holster visible beneath his coat. He looked like something out of a movie.

Dangerous.

And yet, he hadn't hurt me.

He tilted his head slightly, studying me with a mix of irritation and... something else. Not concern, exactly. More like curiosity. Like he was trying to figure out what the hell I was doing in a filthy alleyway, shaking like a leaf.

"You got a name, kid?" he asked after a beat.

I swallowed hard. My voice barely worked when I whispered, "{{user}}."

Something in his expression shifted for a split second—gone before I could place it. He nodded once. "Riccardo."

Riccardo.

The name didn't mean anything to me. Not yet.

But something told me I was going to remember it.

He sighed again, running a hand through his dark hair. "Alright, {{user}}. You got somewhere to go?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. The truth was, I had nowhere. No one.

Riccardo clicked his tongue, like my silence annoyed him. But he didn't push. Instead, he stood, stretching his arms before shoving his hands into his coat pockets. "Guess that's my problem now."

I blinked up at him, confused.

He rolled his eyes."I can't just leave you here, kid. You'll get yourself killed." He muttered something under his breath, something in Italian I didn't understand. Then he jerked his head toward the street. "C'mon."

I hesitated. I didn't trust people. People hurt. People lied. But...

I glanced around the alley. The walls closed in again. The scent of garbage, the distant sounds of the city—it all pressed down on me.

Riccardo was dangerous. But at least he was something solid. Something real.

I pushed myself to my feet, my legs wobbling. He didn't offer to help. Just waited, watching.

When I finally nodded, he gave another long-suffering sigh. "Let's go, then."

I had no idea where he was taking me. Or who he really was.

But as I followed him into the night, one thought echoed in my mind.

At least I wasn't alone.

Third person POV

8 years ago

It's a lively night as the D'Angelo family welcomes a little star into their lives, the little star was nested in the crook of Riccardos arm as his wife takes the baby for her nap time the baby coos and gurgles...

that was the last the baby their precious little star was seen it was like it had disappeared poof gone not even a month in the world and the child had been taken by its mother most would say kidnapped, stolen

Present Day ({{user}} POV)

"YOU BRAT" yelled form the bottom of the staircase an average day or so I thought, everything hurt more than usual, my word didn't form as I tumbled down the stairs to see my mother and my father?. well, they were sat so intimately while my mother rants start to pour out of her mouth "useless", "freak" and worst of all "you insolent child I wish I never birthed you". jokes on her though because I wished it as well her word mean nothing to me, I hear them all the time I was numb.

I scurry back to my room as my leg throbs and my head spins feeling like it's about to tear off my body. I hurry to get changed for school oh shitt, I'm bleeding again I ran out of bandages yesterday I can't go back to the pharmacy again they'll get suspicious on why i need so much what do I do i panic internally

I get the best idea of my life well not really i pause because i need a break from trying to make bandages and how icky blood felt I wrap my leg but a didn't get changed and leave in time and my mother banged on my door screaming for me to open the door

(Trigger warning violence)

my mother opens the door I notice father and his friends behind her as she violently grabs me and yells "HUH BRAT YOU THOUGHT YOU CAN JUST STAY HOME NO GET CHANGED NO ITS TOO LATE"

smack

she smacked me across the face then chucked me to my father's friends who got handsy with me touching groping I was shaking it made them laugh, I don't know what I did to deserve this kind of treatment, I wanted to scream but before I do I get chucked around a bit more.

(grapeing I didn't want to put in detail so understand by chucking around I mean grape)

i was left there, I felt dirty, I tried to wash it off, but couldn't I needed to get it off my min goes silent one thought go to school then escape this hell, I put on my clothes I grab a bag packing it with the only thing I needed a small worn-down teddy, I run out the house down the street then taking a left a the big green tree

ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh how I hate 1st period, it was science so boring my teacher doesn't understand that i do not like sitting next to the class clown, I drown out the lesson i put my head on the table.

(Third person POV)

The mother, her boyfriend who {{user}}knew as her father, were caught smuggling illegal substances and kidnapping other children slightly older than {{user}}, selling them on illegal terms and as slaves on top of it. The police came to the finding as they received a tip from an unknown number, continuing with an investigation, teaming up with social services.

({{user}}POV)

I blink lazily at the board, my head still resting on my arms. The words on the screen blur together, something about chemical reactions or whatever. I don't care. My leg still hurts. My face still stings. My stomach still feels like it's twisting into knots. Everything just feels wrong.

The class clown beside me whispers something about my "grumpy" face, nudging my arm with his elbow. I flinch hard. Too hard. My chair scrapes against the floor as I pull myself away from him, my heart hammering in my chest.

He looks at me weird. Everyone always does. I swallow hard and keep my eyes down, gripping my hands together under the desk. I just have to make it through the day. Just the day. Then I can leave. "{{user}}?" I snap my head up, my teacher staring at me expectantly. Oh. Oh no. I wasn't listening.

"Huh?"

The class giggles. My ears burn. I hate it. I hate them. I hate how loud they are. It's too much. Too much noise. Too much staring. I shrink down in my seat, nails digging into my palms.

The teacher sighs, shaking her head. "See me after class."

Great. Just great.

(Third Person POV)

Outside the school, two police cars pulled up, their sirens off but the red and blue lights flashing against the pavement. Officers stepped out, their expressions unreadable, their radios buzzing with quiet chatter. A woman from social services trailed behind them, clutching a folder tight to her chest.

Inside, the principal's phone buzzed. He frowned, glancing at the unknown number flashing on the screen before answering. Within seconds, his expression hardened. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the polished wood floor.

"Understood," he said, before hanging up.

{{user}} had no idea her world was about to change forever.

The police entered the classroom just as the bell rang, their eyes scanning the room before settling on her.

"{{user}} D'Angelo?" one of them asked gently.

Her stomach twisted. Why were the police here? Why were they saying her name?

"You need to come with us," the officer continued, his voice calm but firm.

The classroom fell silent. Every pair of eyes was on her, but she couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

A soft hand rested on her shoulder—it was the social worker. "You're safe now, sweetheart."

Safe. The word didn't make sense. She didn't feel safe.

She was led out of the school, past whispering students and curious teachers, straight to the waiting police cars.

Once inside, the car doors shut with a quiet click, sealing her inside. The social worker, a kind-faced woman with warm eyes, sat beside her, speaking softly. "We're taking you to the station, {{user}}. Everything's going to be okay."

{{user}}just stared ahead, her mind too scrambled to process anything. The station? Why? What did they want from her? ({{user}}POV)

The ride to the station was silent except for the faint hum of the engine and the occasional murmur from the police radio. My hands curled into fists in my lap, nails digging into my palms, but I barely felt the sting. My head was spinning. None of this made sense. Why were they taking me? What did they know?

The social worker—her name was Ms. Carter, I think—kept giving me these soft, careful glances, like I was a scared animal about to bolt. Maybe I was. Maybe I should.

We pulled up to the station, the flashing lights casting eerie shadows across the pavement. My stomach turned. I wanted to be anywhere but here.

"Come on, sweetheart," Ms. Carter said, her voice gentle but firm. "You're safe now."

That word again. Safe. I still didn't believe it.

I followed her inside, my legs stiff, my heart hammering so loud I swore the officers nearby could hear it. Everything smelled like stale coffee and something metallic, like rust. It made me want to gag.

A female officer guided me to a small room with a desk and two chairs. A bottle of water sat unopened on the table. The officer gestured for me to sit.

"We just need to ask you a few questions, {{user}}," she said, her tone careful, like she didn't want to scare me.

Too late for that.

I nodded stiffly, staring at my hands. My sleeves were too short. The bruises on my wrists peeked out. I yanked the fabric down.

Ms. Carter sat beside me, her presence strangely comforting. "You're not in trouble, {{user}}. We just need to understand what's been happening."

I swallowed hard."Happening?"

The officer—Detective Hughes, according to her badge—exchanged a glance with Ms. Carter before speaking. "Your mother and her boyfriend have been arrested. We've been investigating them for a while now. Drug trafficking, human trafficking... it's bad, {{user}}."

My stomach dropped. I felt like I might throw up. I knew they were bad people, but this?

"We got a tip," Detective Hughes continued, her voice softer now. "Someone reported what was going on in the house. Someone who wanted to help you."

A tip? My head spun. Who? Who cared enough to do that?

I realized then that I was shaking. My hands, my legs—everything was trembling. I clenched my fists tighter. "What... what happens now?"

Ms. Carter offered a small smile, but there was sadness in her eyes. "You don't have to go back, {{user}}. We're going to find you somewhere safe."

There was that word again. Safe. I wanted to believe it. I really did.

But a small, broken part of me whispered that safe didn't exist.

(Third Person POV)

Hours passed. {{user}} sat in that room, answering questions, signing papers, nodding when she was supposed to. It all felt like a blur. Like she was watching someone else live her life.

Eventually, Ms. Carter led her outside, where the night air felt too cold, too sharp. A car waited by the curb—a social services vehicle.

"This will take you to a temporary home," Ms. Carter said. "Just for now, until we find something more permanent."

Temporary. Another word {{user}} hated.

She hesitated before stepping into the car, glancing back at the station. This was it. The start of something new.

But whether that was a good thing... she still didn't know.

As the car pulled away, she didn't look back.

The drive was quiet, the streetlights casting fleeting shadows across {{user}} face as she gazed out the window. Everything outside felt unreal, like she was floating between two worlds—the nightmare she was escaping and the unknown that lay ahead.

Ms. Carter cleared her throat. "The home you're going to... it's a good place. A foster family. They've taken in kids before."

{{user}}didn't respond. She just kept watching the city blur past.

"You'll have your own room,"* Ms. Carter continued, trying to fill the silence.* "They have a daughter about your age. Maybe you two can—"

"I don't want to make friends," {{user}}interrupted, her voice hoarse.

Ms. Carter sighed, but didn't push."That's okay. One step at a time."

The car slowed as they turned onto a quiet street lined with cozy-looking houses. The kind of place {{user}} had only ever seen in movies.

She swallowed hard, her grip tightening on the small, worn-down teddy bear in her lap.

She didn't know what waited for her behind that door. But for the first time in a long time...

She let herself hope.

({{user}}POV)

The house looked normal. Too normal. A two-story home with pale blue paint, a neatly trimmed lawn, and a porch light that flickered slightly in the dark. It was the kind of house people in movies called "home." But standing in front of it, my stomach twisted.

Something felt wrong.

Ms. Carter gave me a reassuring smile, mistaking my hesitation for nerves. "Come on, {{user}}. This is your new home for now."

I didn't correct her. I knew better than to believe in "home."

She knocked on the door, and within seconds, it swung open to reveal a woman with graying blonde hair, an apron tied around her waist, and a practiced smile on her face. She looked like the kind of lady who baked cookies for the neighbours and waved at passing cars.

But her eyes... they were cold.

"You must be {{user}}!" *Her voice was too cheery, forced. *"Come in, dear. We've been expecting you."

I hesitated. Something in my gut screamed at me to turn and run. But where would I go?

So, I stepped inside.

The inside of the house smelled like bleach and something else. Something rotting, just beneath the surface. I wrinkled my nose but said nothing as I clutched my bag tighter.

"This is Mr. Morrison," the woman introduced, gesturing to a tall, broad-shouldered man standing in the dimly lit hallway. He didn't smile. Just nodded, his eyes running over me like he was sizing me up.

"You'll call us Mama and Papa Morrison," the woman added. "All the kids do."

"O-okay," I mumbled, but the words tasted bitter.

"Good girl." Her smile stretched wider. "You'll be sharing a room with Amy. She's just a year younger than you. I'm sure you'll get along splendidly."

She led me up a creaky staircase, down a long hallway, and stopped in front of a wooden door. She knocked once, then opened it without waiting for an answer.

Inside, a girl sat cross-legged on the bottom bunk of a bunk bed, her dark eyes staring up at me. She was small—too small for her age—her pale skin covered in faint bruises. Her mousy brown hair was uneven, like it had been hacked off in chunks.

"Amy, this is {{user}}," Mama Morrison said sweetly, her voice dripping with something that made my skin crawl. "Be a dear and help her settle in."

Amy just nodded, her expression unreadable.

The door shut behind me.

And the lock clicked.

The first night, I barely slept. Every sound in the house made my heart pound. The walls were thin—I could hear the other kids shifting in their beds, hear Papa Morrison's heavy footsteps pacing downstairs, hear the muffled sobs coming from somewhere down the hall.

Amy didn't talk much. Just watched me with those hollow eyes. But I saw the way she flinched when the door opened in the morning. Saw the way her hands trembled when she buttoned her shirt.

I knew that fear. I had lived in it my whole life.

Days passed, and the truth of the house became clearer.

The Morrisons were careful in front of the social workers. Smiling, gentle, perfect foster parents. But once the doors closed, the smiles vanished. The kindness rotted.

Food was a privilege, not a guarantee. If you spoke out of turn, if you broke a rule—even ones they made up on the spot—you didn't eat. If you cried, you were locked in the basement. If you fought back...

I learned quickly not to fight back.

But Amy—she was different. She had been there longer, had suffered more. And yet, she still had this tiny, flickering spark inside of her. A defiance that hadn't been beaten out of her yet.

I think that's why they hated her most.

One night, I woke up to the sound of whispers. Amy was crouched on the floor near my bed, her breath coming fast and uneven. She clutched something in her hands—a torn piece of notebook paper.

"We have to leave," she whispered, her eyes darting to the door. "Tonight."

My blood turned cold. "Amy—"

"No. Listen." She shoved the paper into my hands. It was a list. Names. Dozens of them, written in shaky handwriting. Most were crossed out.

"The other kids who lived here," she explained, voice barely above a breath. "They're gone, {{user}}. They never get adopted. They just disappear."

I stared at the paper, my hands trembling."What do you mean, gone?"

Amy didn't get to answer.

The door burst open, and Mama Morrison's shadow loomed in the doorway.

The next morning, Amy's bed was empty.

I knew.

I knew the way you know when a storm is coming. When the air is too still, too quiet.

I asked about her at breakfast. No one met my eyes.

"Amy ran away," Mama Morrison said simply, sipping her tea. "Ungrateful girl."

But I knew better.

Amy was never coming back.

That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the truth crushing my chest.

Amy had been right. Kids didn't leave this place. They vanished.

And I was next. I gripped the torn paper she had given me, the names of all the missing kids burning into my mind.

Amy had tried to escape. She had tried to save me, too.

She hadn't made it.

But I would. ({{user}} POV)

The cold night air bit at my skin as I ran. My legs ached, my lungs burned, but I didn't stop. I couldn't. The Morrisons were behind me—somewhere, lurking in the shadows, waiting to drag me back. I wouldn't let them.

Amy had died trying to escape. I wouldn't let her sacrifice be in vain.

My worn-out sneakers slapped against the wet pavement, splashing through puddles as I turned a sharp corner into an alleyway. My heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the city noise. I pressed myself against the brick wall, sucking in sharp breaths, trying to make myself small, invisible.

I needed to think. But my brain wasn't cooperating. Everything felt too loud, too bright, too much. The neon lights from the signs above flickered in and out of focus, the hum of distant traffic became a deafening roar. My fingers twitched. My breaths came fast, uneven. My chest tightened.

It was happening. Again.

A meltdown.

I squeezed my eyes shut, rocking slightly as I dug my nails into my palms, grounding myself in the sting. But it wasn't enough. The walls of the alley pressed in around me, the scent of garbage overwhelming my senses. My skin felt wrong. The world was too sharp, too harsh. I wanted to crawl out of my own body.

I whimpered, curling into myself, hands covering my ears as I tried to block out everything.

Then, footsteps.

Heavy. Measured. Dangerous.

I should've been scared, but my brain wasn't working right. Everything was blurring together, my thoughts spinning too fast for me to hold onto any of them.

A shadow loomed over me.

"Hey, kid."

The voice was deep, rough—like gravel scraping against steel. It cut through the chaos in my head, sharp and precise. My whole body flinched at the sound, but I didn't respond. Couldn't.

The man crouched in front of me. I barely registered him through the haze of sensory overload, but he was big. Strong. His presence filled the alley, suffocating, commanding. I tried to focus, to make sense of what was happening, but my brain wasn't letting me.

"Shit," the man muttered under his breath. He must've realized something was wrong because his tone changed—less threatening, more... hesitant. "Are you hurt?"

I still couldn't speak. The words got stuck in my throat, tangled up with the static in my head. My breath hitched, my vision swam.

"Okay, kid, breathe."

He was talking again, his voice oddly steady. Not soft—nothing about him was soft—but not cruel either. Just firm. Certain.

"Look at me."

I couldn't. I was shaking too hard, my hands clenching and unclenching like they had a mind of their own.

A long sigh. Then, a shift in the air as the man moved. Not closer—he stayed crouched, keeping some distance. But his voice dropped lower, more measured.

"Close your eyes," he said. "Focus on breathing. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Got it?"

I didn't respond, but somehow, my body followed the command. In for four. Hold. Out for four.

The static didn't disappear, but it dulled, just a little. Just enough for me to blink up at him.

For the first time, I really saw him.

He had dark, sharp eyes that seemed to pierce straight through me. A strong jaw, a scar cutting across his cheek. He wasn't dressed like a normal guy—his black button-up was half undone, a gun holster visible beneath his coat. He looked like something out of a movie.

Dangerous.

And yet, he hadn't hurt me.

He tilted his head slightly, studying me with a mix of irritation and... something else. Not concern, exactly. More like curiosity. Like he was trying to figure out what the hell I was doing in a filthy alleyway, shaking like a leaf.

"You got a name, kid?" he asked after a beat.

I swallowed hard. My voice barely worked when I whispered, "{{user}}."

Something in his expression shifted for a split second—gone before I could place it. He nodded once. "Riccardo."

Riccardo.

The name didn't mean anything to me. Not yet.

But something told me I was going to remember it.

He sighed again, running a hand through his dark hair. "Alright, {{user}}. You got somewhere to go?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. The truth was, I had nowhere. No one.

Riccardo clicked his tongue, like my silence annoyed him. But he didn't push. Instead, he stood, stretching his arms before shoving his hands into his coat pockets. "Guess that's my problem now."

I blinked up at him, confused.

He rolled his eyes."I can't just leave you here, kid. You'll get yourself killed." He muttered something under his breath, something in Italian I didn't understand. Then he jerked his head toward the street. "C'mon."

I hesitated. I didn't trust people. People hurt. People lied. But...

I glanced around the alley. The walls closed in again. The scent of garbage, the distant sounds of the city—it all pressed down on me.

Riccardo was dangerous. But at least he was something solid. Something real.

I pushed myself to my feet, my legs wobbling. He didn't offer to help. Just waited, watching.

When I finally nodded, he gave another long-suffering sigh. "Let's go, then."

I had no idea where he was taking me. Or who he really was.

But as I followed him into the night, one thought echoed in my mind.

At least I wasn't alone.