Broken Beginnings (The Moretti Crime Family 3)

Shaking the thought away of Claire with a boyfriend, I read the report.

At first, I read nothing out of the ordinary, breakfast with her parents, lunch with her friend, Hope, a math test during third period. It’s not until the last paragraph that something catches my attention.

Those girls have been messing with Claire for a while now, but today they have taken it too far. They got physical, and I will not stand for that.

I type a quick message to Mike.

Take care of those girls. I want them transferred to a different school.

Not wanting to wait for an answer, I’m about to close out of my emails when a new one pops up.

Unknown sender: We need to talk.

I stare at the screen for a few moments before deciding to delete the email without responding. I have no idea how they even got this email, but frankly, I don’t care enough to find out.

Just as I hit delete, another email pops up. This one has no text at all. It’s simply an image that has my blood running cold.

Claire.

A million thoughts and questions run rampant in my mind as I take in the picture. It’s Claire on the back porch, wearing the same clothes that she wore in the picture Mike sent me. This one was taken from a different angle, but they clearly took it today.

How can this be possible? No one knows about her. I have kept my distance. I’ve been more than careful. I stayed away and only had Mike—someone I trust with my life—watch her.

Fuck.

I can’t let her get hurt. She’s an innocent. Hell, she’s as innocent now as the day I met her.

Walking through the living room, I stop when I reach the back door. My fingers graze the cold copper doorknob as I look through the dirty glass. I’m not sure why, but I’m shocked to find a little girl sitting outside in the grass, her eyes glued on my door.

The door creaks loudly as I open it, and the cool autumn breeze slaps me in the face. The little girl doesn’t even move or blink. She just remains sitting, staring at me with big green eyes as if she is in awe.

As I step out onto the porch, I get a better look at her and find she can’t be much older than ten. Her hair is red, bright red, the kind that would get you made fun of in school. I’m tempted to walk across the grass to see her features but realize a moment later that would probably scare her.

Still, my feet move without thought, and I stop just a few feet from her. She cranes her neck back to continue staring at me, and I notice the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheekbones. I can tell she is poor, just as most people in this neighborhood are. The purple sweater she is wearing is ripped at the cuff, and the colors on the printed butterfly on her chest are faded.

She keeps staring at me, like she can’t believe I’m standing here.

“My name’s Lucca, and what’s your name?” I pause for a fraction of a second, “Butterfly?” I point to her shirt and smile.

She looks down at the butterfly on her shirt and then back up at me. Her gaze never wavers. In fact, the intensity of her stare grows, becoming two weights that press down on my shoulders.

Even though she is a little girl, I can only imagine all that she’s been through in such a small amount of time. If she’s living here, she’s seen things, probably experienced things. There are far worse hardships in life than being poor.

“Do you speak, butterfly?” I ask, even though I should turn around and walk my ass back inside.

Her green eyes glisten like small emeralds in the afternoon sun. All she does is nod her head, no words passing her lips—annoyance tugs at me.

Why hasn’t she spoken?

Maybe because you’re a stranger, idiot?

“I just moved in next door. I saw you through the window staring at me.” I sigh and scratch at the back of my head with one of my hands. “You know, this is a dangerous neighborhood. You shouldn’t be sitting outside by yourself.”

It’s a statement, not a question.

She shrugs, unfazed by my words. Obviously, she knows the type of people that lurk around these places. So why sit here? Does she not care? Or does she think no one will hurt her because she is a girl? Either way, I don’t feel comfortable leaving her out here alone.

“Where are your parents?” Maybe if I give them a scolding and scare them a little, they won’t just let their daughter sit outside by herself.

At the mere mention of her parents, fear flashes across her face, lighting up her features like a lightning bolt zinging across the stormy night sky. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. As soon as the look appears, it’s gone, and I wonder, for a millisecond, if I imagined seeing it.