Chapter 2

"Son of a bitch. That is just fucking pathetic!" Rocco kicked a metal drum across the floor, and the sound of it crashing against the concrete ricocheted off the factory walls like thunder.

"I've been pulling jobs like this for years, and I have never seen parents that cold. You sure they're even related to you?"

He turned on his heel and grabbed a fistful of my hair, jerking my head back so hard that I was forced to look up at him.

My scalp burned as if it were being torn from my skull, but somewhere along the way, I had stopped feeling much of anything.

"If a phone call won't get their attention, then let's try something a little more convincing." His eyes were flat and dangerous as he pulled a folding knife from his belt and, without another word, drove it deep into my thigh.

I heard the blade slice through flesh before the pain fully registered, and then a warm rush of blood came pouring down my leg in thick, steady streams.

A scream ripped out of my throat, raw and guttural, as my entire body seized up in violent spasms. Within seconds, my threadbare T-shirt had gone damp with a cold sweat that seemed to seep straight out of my bones.

"Keep your mouth shut and take it!" Rocco growled, slapping the bloodied flat of the blade against my cheek and leaving wet, glistening streaks across my skin. "We're calling them on video now. Let's see them try to tell me that pool of blood on the floor isn't real."

My fingers trembled uncontrollably as I tapped on the familiar profile picture and tried again.

The video call rang for what felt like an eternity, and just as I was certain it would time out, the screen flickered to life.

There she was, my mother, Evelyn Grant, her face perfectly made up and immaculately maintained.

She was wearing a stunning haute couture evening gown that shimmered under the light, a heavy strand of oversized pearls draped around her neck, and holding a glass of red wine while seated beneath a magnificent crystal chandelier.

The moment she caught sight of my face on the screen, bloodied, battered, utterly wrecked, her expression hardened into a sharp frown, and the look of pure disgust in her eyes practically radiated through the phone.

"Emily, what kind of nonsense are you pulling now?" She leaned back as though my wretched appearance might somehow contaminate her, recoiling with visible distaste.

"Where did you get that ketchup? Smearing it all over your face like that. Don't you have any idea how disgusting that looks?"

"Mom... it really hurts..." I could see the background behind her now: an impossibly lavish villa, priceless paintings hanging on the walls, and an ornate Persian rug spread across the floor.

So this was the home that supposedly couldn't afford to put food on the table?

This was the same woman who told me we lived in a leaky shack and who would haggle with street vendors for half an hour just to save a few cents on vegetables?

"Hurts? What hurts is how desperate you are for money." Evelyn let out a cold, mocking laugh. "You'd sink this low. Pull some pathetic little stunt like this, just to squeeze cash out of us?

"Look at yourself. You're a complete mess. You don't look anything like the rest of this family. It's just embarrassing."

Just then, the camera shifted slightly, swinging away from her face.

My father, Richard Grant, came into view. He was wearing a perfectly tailored suit and holding my twin brother Adam's hand with an expression of warm, doting affection as he guided him toward the floor-to-ceiling window.

He said, "Adam, come take a look. This is your coming-of-age present from me."

The camera shifted, and through the screen I could see the villa's courtyard, where a brand-new sports car sat in full display, its glaring red finish almost aggressively bright.

The car's sleek, streamlined body caught the sunlight and seemed to glow with the unmistakable sheen of obscene wealth.

"Whoa! A Ferrari! And it's the limited edition!" Adam shrieked with excitement, bolting out the door like a wild animal and throwing himself across the hood to cover it with frantic kisses. "Thank you, Dad! Thank you, Mom! How much did this thing set you back?"

Richard let out a hearty, unguarded laugh. "Long as my boy's happy, what's 1.6 million? Hell, make it 16 million. I'd still write the check."

The words struck me like a thunderbolt, splitting through my skull and leaving nothing but numb devastation in their wake.

The kidnappers had demanded exactly 1.6 million for my life.

In my parents' eyes, my entire existence was worth less than a toy for my brother.

No, that wasn't even accurate. It wasn't that my life was worth less. It simply wasn't in the same category at all. It wasn't even worth comparing.

"Dad..." I stared at the man on the screen, the confident, beaming man I had called my father for twenty-two years, and forced the words out.

"If you've got 1.6 million to buy Adam a car, then why can't you use that same money to save me? Am I really your daughter? Your own flesh and blood?"

Richard seemed to notice only then that the video call was still connected. He turned his head toward the camera and looked at me with eyes so cold and distant that I might as well have been a stranger on the street.

"Just hang up already," he said flatly, not even bothering to offer an explanation. "There's no point in letting her bad luck put a damper on Adam's big day. Today's supposed to be a celebration, so let's not spoil it with anything ugly."

"You heard him. He said get lost." My mother rolled her eyes at the camera with theatrical disdain. "Emily, if you're going to put on some pathetic little show, at least commit to it.

"If you've actually got the nerve, go die somewhere out there and don't bother coming back. We won't miss you at the dinner table, and we sure as hell won't miss having a money-grubbing little parasite like you hanging around."

The video cut off without warning, and the screen went black, dark enough to throw back my own reflection: face bloodied, features mangled, expression twisted into something beyond despair.

The chill of knowing that I had been abandoned by everyone who was supposed to love me cut deeper than the gash in my thigh ever could.

I had spent my whole life believing we were poor. I wore Adam's hand-me-downs, even the ones clearly meant for a boy, because there was never anything else. I skipped every single school gathering because I couldn't scrape together the few dollars to split the bill.

I refused to go to the doctor whenever I got sick, choosing instead to just grit my teeth and wait it out.

I buried myself in my studies, won every scholarship I could, and worked three jobs at once, all because I thought I was helping to keep the family afloat.

I told myself that was called being responsible. But the truth was, it was called being a fool.

All those years, they had fed me that carefully crafted lie about our poverty, and I had swallowed every word of it like an idiot. I had patted myself on the back for my own sacrifice while they sat back and enjoyed the show at my expense.