LOGINAs a young child, I was prone to psychotic attacks and occasional moments of disassociation. My severe mental fits were the reason my parents had shipped me off, and with good reason–I was a danger to myself and everyone around me. Usually the trigger was emotional, moments when I was pushed too far or overwhelmed with too many other sensations. When these moments happened, sometimes I’d withdraw inward, rocking back and forth, my consciousness shifting to see my behavior in a detached way, as if floating above myself unable to stop. Other times, it would be outwardly destructive, tearing apart a room in seconds as I raged, mentally aware but physically unable to stop. This time, sitting tied and helpless in a chair as Debrassy bragged about his involvement in the gruesome deaths of my grandparents, my last shred of sanity snapped. One moment I was aware, screaming threats as I thrashed against the hard chair and my tight bindings, and the next moment, I was across the room standing
A slap, followed by the bag being pulled off of my head stunned me awake, my head throbbing in agony. I had been taken from my house by more than one person I realized as I struggled to discern the shapes and colors moving before me, their rough hands pushing me harder into the chair as they zip tied my wrists and ankles. When my vision cleared, I discovered I was sitting in the middle of an empty conference room facing a row of windows with a view of the night sky over Manhattan. My captors were busying themselves behind me, and I would have turned my head to look, except that even moving my head a fraction of an inch made me so suddenly nauseous I thought I’d vomit. Whoever punched me gave me a concussion. Between that and whatever the hell else they did to me while I was knocked out, I needed medical attention, not another layer of bindings to keep me in place.“Where are the hard drives, Hunter?” a familiar voice asked, his sneakers squeaking along the smooth surface of the ding
That was the night I discovered that my grandfather was in fact more of a “creative entrepreneur” himself. During that meeting I’d learn about the history of the “Westside Thorns.” Its roots stretch all the way back to the late 1700s during the various events leading the the American Revolution. An armed militia of elite families based in Westside Manhattan began patrolling the streets to keep the people safe from British officers who often abused the rules of hospitality. “We keep our people safe, we always have,” he explained. “During the civil war and before, we helped enslaved Americans find and keep their freedom, many taking places among our ranks, and later as the streets grew tougher, we used our might to protect our people from human trafficking, drugs, and other dangers.”He also explained how their recruitment process worked. Many of their leaders have come from the original elite families, including the Grants. “I was recruited the other way–I was rescued from a forced i
[Hunter]Mr. Rose exhaled slowly. "Maybe you should start at the beginning." He smiled. "I already know some of it, maybe you can fill in the rest." I looked over at my friends. Ace looked guilty but Katelyn looked resigned, as if keeping a secret from her father was impossible. "Sorry to throw you under the bus, Hunter, but dad saw that I had hacked into the CTV feed," Katelyn shrugged. "Again." I gaped slightly at her declaration wondering how often she broke into the city's cameras. Mr. Rose laughed. "I only noticed because I was doing my own reconnaissance." He smiled proudly at his daughter. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have noticed. It was expertly done."Katelyn blushed under her father's praise. "I'm sorry, Sir!" I apologized immediately. "Katie only did that for me. I didn't ask her too but..." Raising a hand, to silence me, I closed my mouth. "Be at ease, Hunter. I already know that my daughter is at least half as stubborn as her old man," he laughs, "and if she did something
[Hunter]“Hey, so don’t be nervous,” Ace grinned warmly as he clasped a hand on my shoulder, greeting me at the elevator after Reggie dropped me off at the front door. “My dad can be a bit intense, but he’s actually really nice. He’s strict, yeah, but he’s fair. He only punishes you if it’s deserved.” His words did nothing to ease my fears. If anyone deserved punishment it was me. I not only committed a crime, but I involved his children as accessories after the fact. “Does he ever use the men in your house to punish?” I ask nervously, voicing a concern that weighed on me from my first visit. Ace gave me a wide eyed stare, before turning his head and laughing. “Oh my god, Hunter. My dad is a mobster, but he isn’t going to kill my friend.” The way he said “mobster” at first made me think he was joking. But as the elevator descended, Ace told me a bit more about his family, finally clarifying a few details that never sat right when I considered their family’s secrecy, wealth, and he
Other than a few awkward stares, and the notes of condolence from some teachers and staff, my first day back at school since my grandparents death was weirdly normal.My grandparents, David and Eleanora Grant, were a big part of New York's elite, and were locally famous for their contributions to the arts and a wide range of city improvement projects. Our family name was on half of the hospital buildings, orphanages, and museums in town. We were an old money family who had lived in New York since before the American Revolution.But they were not like modern celebrities who flash their wealth and influence as a public flex. They were old-time classy, and so their death didn't draw the national attention you might see for a more well known name. Because of who they were in our social circle, almost every family in our school knew that they had passed, but the det







