Page 1 of The Billionaire's Pact

Eight years earlier

The Belfiore estate sat on the Croton Reservoir in the Lower Hudson Valley, New York. Its Georgian-styled stone mansion appeared lit, with holiday wreaths hung in uniform rows of arched windows. From the top of the hill, the view was nothing short of breathtaking—a modern castle out of a fairytale.

Night came, bringing an icy chill. Mama and I shivered on the front stone steps. I wanted to ask if we could leave, but then one of the double doors opened.

“Hurry, Adelina,” Mama whispered, pressing my back to walk faster as if the open door had a time limit. I got my first alarm when it shut and Mama sobbed—Mama never cried. She’d taught me that tears were a luxury we couldn’t afford. My small hands reached out clumsily to wipe her cheeks, but I hesitated. Blood still stained the grooves of my nails.

Lightly tapping on the housekeeper’s shoulder, who walked ahead of us, I asked for a bathroom. She looked down her nose at me and pointed to a closed door around the marble stairs. “Come straight down the hall after you’re done.”

I thanked her and then went in. The decorative towels were all lined in a perfect row on the brass bar, within reach of the marble basin. The water ran pure, and blood left my hands, but I wasn’t sinless. A flashback of Judge Colby in a heap with me standing above him, gripping the folding chair, came to mind.

He was my father, but I never called him anything other than Judge Colby. It had been my way to taunt him when he did things against the law—and there were many. I’d hoped it would appeal to a part of him that cared about something other than himself, but it never happened.

I paused at the sink and glanced into the mirror above—something I usually avoided because misery reflected more powerfully than vanity. And if I gazed too long, it would bring on feelings of pity, which would surely break me. To go on, I had to be strong. But even Mama cracked. So I looked.

Purple bruises covered my face, and my lips were cut and swollen. But they didn’t hurt much. Most of my bruising hadn’t been the punishing kind, but for self-protection. I would pick fights with bullies and stepped in front of Mama when Judge Colby tried to harm her. For most of my fourteen years, I’d managed to protect her. But even ugliness wouldn’t stop an evil man. He broke Mama, forcing her to do what he wanted, and then turned to me. Except I fought back. And now he’s in jail. Worth it.

Reaching the grand sitting room without stopping to gaze at the framed pictures and artwork was an achievement. Art was the magic dust that usually took me away, but tonight there wasn’t anywhere to go. Mama and I reached our end.

We walked in on what appeared to be the living room, a stately room with tasteful floral pattern upholstery and highly polished mahogany wood furnishings. My eyes wanted to indulge in the luxuries I’d only seen on film, but I was drawn to another scene before me, and there came my second alarm. Mama knelt before an older man, who glared down at her from a leather chair. It looked expensive, and he did, too. He was Mr. Belfiore, my grandfather. His grey hair was oiled and parted, and he had a neatly trimmed beard. His button-down shirt and pressed slacks were the opposite of our creased clothes that we’d slept in during our ten-hour bus ride and an hour walk to get here, to Mama’s childhood home.

“You’re dead, Lorelei. You can’t come back to life again.”

“Please, Father,” Mama cried. She pushed her hair back to show the large handprints on her throat. And for a second, Mr. Belfiore’s face softened, but then twisted into a scowl just as quickly. My face burned at witnessing Mama begging, but indignities had been a part of our daily life.

The tap of heels on marble had us all turning to the archway where a woman came in. She appeared tall, with black hair clipped and coiffured in curls. Her mauve wool dress had delicate, smooth drapes of tailored fabric. Mrs. Belfiore was what I’d imagined from Mama’s stories—beautiful, like a queen. She crossed her arms as her focus slid over us and zeroed in on Mama, and she tsked, “You had another child?” Her tone had more admonishment in it than surprise. They didn’t know about me?

“Yes, Mother. I did.” Mama bobbed her head, then curled her chin under. I imagined how I looked standing there under their scrutiny. A living stain in their immaculate space.

Mrs. Belfiore’s eyes narrowed. “She’s wearing a hat inside. You didn’t teach her manners?” Her mocking tone didn’t move me to act. Instead, I stared down at Mama. She gave me a nod, and I pulled off my hat, holding back the impulse to run my hand over my shaved scalp. A few sores had scabbed over but were still visible, and the pinch in Mrs. Belfiore’s expression made it clear she’d seen them. Mama reached up and touched my back, and I straightened my spine, adjusting my oversized hooded sweatshirt and flare jeans.

Mrs. Belfiore came closer and peered at me. “She’s a scarecrow in rags. Is she diseased—”

“No,” Mama interrupted her. “Her scalp’s too dry. She’s clean. I…I named her Adelina Tessa after Nana. I…I miss her. I miss you, Mother.” Mama sniffled and swiped her eyes.

I stared at Mrs. Belfiore. Her face had faint lines on her forehead and at the corners of her eyes, she looked so much like me, but with fuller cheekbones and big, wide-set, dark blue eyes. Tears filled hers, and she covered her mouth.

Comforting came as a reflex, even for me, who didn’t get it often. My arms lifted and reached for her, but she gasped and jerked back out of reach.

The sting dug into my chest, and I dropped my head and stuck my hands in my armpits. My gaze became unfocused as I realized there was nothing here for me. But Mrs. Belfiore kept on speaking to Mama.

“Is this how we raised you, Lorelei?” She shook her head and went to stand behind Mr. Belfiore’s chair. Her hand brushed his shoulder, and he reached up and touched hers.

“Where is the boy?” Mr. Belfiore asked in a hoarse voice.

“The state took Jacob ten years ago,” Mama murmured. I sniffled and brought out a cloth to dab my nose. My brother. The one I lost. Mama said Jacob had failed to thrive so the state had taken custody of him. The last time we’d seen him, he’d been dirty and bloated, perched on a broken wheelchair in an overcrowded center in New Square.

I’d squeezed a plush bear into his hands as he stared at nothing, drooling.

Mama’s shoulders shook. “I’m not here for me; I’m here for my daughter, Adelina. Please, take her. She’s smart and quiet. She can cook, clean…”

He didn’t look at her, but glared at me. “We have housekeepers. We don’t know her or need her. Why are you leaving your mother to beg?”

I cleared my throat. “Because you’re right. I’m not someone you know or care about.”

Mama took my hand tight, reminding me to be respectful. The only reason I’d come with her was to save her. My stepping in front of her hadn’t stopped the beatings. Still, I stole, begged, and worked right by her side. It had been me who’d called 911 to save us. And because of that, my prayers for her were answered. She only needs my blessing to take it. I took a deep breath and told her what she needed to hear. “It’s fine, Mama. I can make it. You need them. Look in on Jacob when you can, and I will, too.”

Mr. Belfiore stood and came to stand in front of me. “You look like a boy with that shaved head.” He picked up my hands and turned them over. “They’re rough as sandpaper, calloused,” he said as he dropped them. “A hard wind would knock you over. You’re beat up, dirty, and in rags. What will you do?” He peered at me, seeming genuinely curious.

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