16-year-old Arabella Ashford is a sweet and quiet young soul who lives with her mother and step-father in Los Angeles, The City Of Angels. Despite her selflessness towards her family, they do nothing but hurt her, both physically and mentally.
Ever...
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After realising that I am still staring at him, I clear my throat and softly mutter, "Hi."
The man, whose name I still don't know, nods and turns back to Mr. Ford. I release a sigh of relief, not feeling his intense gaze on me. He was literally scanning me from head to toe.
"The paperworks are done, Mr. D'Angelo. You can take Arabella with you now and after a week, Mrs. Campbell will go to Italy to check up on her." The nervous police officer said, his voice trembling slightly as he continuously rubbed his hands. I can't blame him. This man looks too scary.
"I believe that is not necessary, Mr. Ford." My brother stated, his voice smooth and clear. It feels so weird to say that. Just yesterday I knew I was an only child and now I have siblings. I just hope they will hurt me less than mom and dad.
"But sir it is a part of the proto-"
"Mrs. Campbell will not pay a visit in my house, end of discussion." He stated firmly, looking straight at Mr. Ford as he frantically nodded his head up and down. "Right, of course, Mr. D'Angelo."
Why didn't he want my social worker to check up on me? Does that mean they will hurt me so much that even people can't see me? My heart beat increased painfully fast as I clenched my fist, my nails digging in my palm. This is a nightmare.
"Here is your bag, sweetie." Cordelia whispered before handing me the bag which contained all my belongings. I didn't have much except for a few pair of shirts, sweatshirts and sweatpants. I was wearing the only pair of shoe I owned and my phone was clutched in my hand tightly.
My eldest brother slowly approached me, his eyes directly on mine as he placed his hand on my lower back and stated, "Let's go, Arabella."
I stiffened feeling his hand on my back and tried not to flinch while nodding my head in response. I wondered why he called me amore. Maybe it is some sort of curse word? My parents usually used to call me a bitch all the time.
Cordelia waved at me as we left the station, noticing the gloomy weather outside. It was sad and gloomy, just like my mood.
I sighed in relief when my brother dropped his hand from my lower back and pulled out his phone, calling someone.
"Porta la macchina." He ordered before cutting the call. Which language is he talking in? Probably Italian since he came from Italy.
(Bring the car.)
A black Mercedes pulled up infront of us as a middle aged man came out from the driver's seat and bowed his head at us and took my bag from me. How rich is he if he has a freaking driver for himself?
