Mafia and Scars (Marchiano Mafia #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Dear Reader, this book features neurodivergence and autism. Autism is a huge part of my life, and I refer to it in this book by the terms that I, my family, and our health professionals use on a daily basis.

Some people may think some of the autism-related events depicted in this book are unlikely.

In fact, all of the story’s autism-related behaviors are based on real-life experiences.

Autism is a spectrum condition and affects each individual in a different and unique way.

And this means it’s extremely rare for two individuals with autism to behave identically in the same situation.

In particular, I want to say that every person with autism is an extremely special person, and their differences make the world a much richer and better place. Your well-being matters very much, so please reach out to a loved one or professional if you need support.

And one last thing: please note that this is NOT a dark romance, although some darker elements are present in parts of the story. Please check the earlier content note for more details. Love Isa xxx

VIKTOR

AGE 12

The air in Moscow is cold and stagnant as I stare out at the crowds of people who pass by without so much as a glance.

Their coats pulled up to their ears, heads down.

No one bats an eye at the kid loitering in an alley, a ratty coat with a few holes and dirt smudged on his face. That means taking a moment to care.

But they never care.

Pulling my collar up, I watch the street for a few more minutes. The tough fabric scratches against the back of my neck. My breath fogs in front of me as it fades into the air as soon as it leaves my lips.

I wait.

Watch.

The bakery is just up the street. Packed like it always is. Bodies press against the counter, the line winding around the corner in a sea of hungry people. Everyone wanting to get their morning shot of something.

I take a step forward, my shoes scuffing against the wet sidewalk.

The soles are worn and taped up, but I’ll find another pair some other time.

My stomach clenches in on itself with hunger.

I hate this life. I hate having to hang around in the bitter cold, my whole body frozen like a block of ice, wondering if I’ll get any food today—desperately hoping for it.

I stop, my head tilting as I catch sight of another boy across the street.

He lingers near the bakery’s entrance, a new face and appearance standing out from all the others with their monotoned coats and hats.

The images before me are like some black and white reel that seems to be the eternal movie I watch throughout my life.

His clothing looks rich and expensive, but the end of his collar and sleeves are frayed a little more than anywhere else. His hand trembles as he fidgets.

I press back past the oncoming stream of pedestrians and watch him. His eyes are glued to the line, darting back and forth, like he’s trying to figure out something. A gap in the line? His next move?

Then he makes it.

He’s quick.

Reaching out, he’s snatching a roll of bread from the rack before anyone can react.

I freeze.

This is my spot!

The owner rushes out and yells at him. But the boy is swift on his feet and sprints away before he can be caught.

This other boy stealing my spot pisses me off so much.

I’m the one who steals from this bakery, not some kid who can’t even manage to keep his hand steady!

I follow him, even managing to slip a loaf from the display inside my coat as I pass because the owner is too busy berating one of his assistants for not stopping the kid.

But the owner’s going to be watching much more closely after today, meaning that kid has ruined my spot now.

And meaning I’ll have to start all over again and find a new place to steal from.

I hurry in the same direction as the boy, turning a corner as I track him.

“Get your own spot!” I hiss, crossing the street to come closer to the boy. My voice is cold, cutting through the noise around us.

He startles, turning to look at me as he awkwardly shoves the rest of the small roll into his mouth like he’s terrified I’m going to try and take it off him before he can even swallow it. His eyes are wide, and the tremble in his hand grows a little more.

I glare.

He’s starving. It’s the way his body shakes and the way he’s shoving that roll into his mouth like it’s the last thing standing between him and death itself. And I know that look…because I’ve been there myself.

I sigh.

Pulling the loaf from inside my coat, I break it in two. I hold out the bigger half to him. “Go on. Take it,” I growl.

His eyes dart to the bread, then to me, like it’s a trick—and I’m going to pounce on him in the next second. Like he expects a fight. After a long moment, he reaches out and takes it, his shaking fingers brushing against mine.

I jerk my hand back. It’s instinctive. Involuntary. Because touching—any touching—makes my skin hurt like someone has just set it alight.

And I hate it. Hate that constant feeling. The one I can never get rid of.

I nod my head toward the empty side of the street where the buildings are all boarded up.

I drop down to the curb, keeping some distance between us. He follows. We sit in silence for a while, neither of us saying much as we eat our half of the loaf. It’s warm, soft, comforting. Filling.

I look at him from the corner of my blue eyes, watching carefully.

I don’t really understand why I’m sharing my food with him.

Why I’m not showing him this is my corner and that he needs to get lost. Maybe I don’t want to be the one to do that to him today.

Because I’m sure it’s happened plenty to him already.

“You always steal to eat?” I ask, breaking the silence as I dust the crumbs from my hands and look up at the sky. I think about the weather, and the sky looks gray to me even though it’s a cloudless day and the sun is shining fiercely on this freezing cold morning.

He finishes his part of the loaf well before I do and looks down at his shoes. “Yeah.” His voice is quiet like he’s ashamed, but there’s something else there. “My father threw me out. Said I gotta learn to stand on my own two feet.”

My brow raises up. “Why?”

“He said I gotta learn before I take over the business. He wants to toughen me up.”

The business? What sort of business? And toughen him up? Some father that is. I can’t really imagine what kind of a father would actually do that because I’d like to think all fathers would show some sort of kindness toward their children.

I don’t hold his gaze as he looks at me. That’s too difficult for me. Instead, I look toward the street across from us that’s thinned of people, the morning rush done and gone now. “You got somewhere to stay?” I grit out.

He shakes his head.

Don’t do it, Viktor. I don’t do people. I know that, and yet my mouth moves before I can stop it. “I’ve got a spot you can stay in for a few nights. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Shoving up, I look at him, waiting for him to join me. Then I walk down the street, not looking back to make sure he’s following. I know he will. There’s nowhere else for him to go.

Silence stretches between us. There’s not much I want to know or ask. He tells me his name. Grigory.

“There are a few of us there,” I say as we duck behind the broken fence that leads the quickest way home to the one-bedroom flat of Babulya, my grandmother.

“Others?”

“Yeah. Other boys.”

“And it’s…safe?”

“It’s a roof over our heads. Matvey, Nikolai, and I usually sleep on the floor in the kitchen.” It’s the only room big enough for us all to fit in. It’s cramped, but at least it’s warm. I push open the door to the flat. “Well, now you do too.”

“Okay.”

“This is…” Grigory starts to speak.

“Yeah.” Neither of us needs to say anything more.

I can see it all in his face. Relief that he has somewhere warm, dry, and safe to stay now.

And disbelief that someone has shown him kindness.

Because when you’re yet another homeless boy on the street, people treat you like you’re a nobody. It’s like you become worthless.

I lived on the streets once. I know what it’s like.

Now, at least, I have somewhere dry to sleep.

Us boys have vowed to take care of each other—we steal to survive, supporting ourselves and my grandmother however we can.

A pickpocket here, a hawking of jewelry there, and a few food stores along the way, as long as it’s enough so that we can eat and keep the roof over all our heads.

This is how we survive. And we survive it together.

AGE 14

I swiftly scratch out the seven in the notebook I keep in the back of my pocket. It’s worn, but it’s necessary. I replace it with a nine.

It’s how busy the thoughts are in my mind today.

And nine out of ten is high.

But the thoughts just won’t stop. Because my thoughts are out of control.

They’re like high-speed trains hurtling inside my head.

Again and again at top speed. Flying by too fast and too close to one another.

Each with their blaring horns and screeching wheels along the tracks.

And each thought nearly colliding with all the others.

My thoughts are always monochrome images in my mind. Black and white as they blur by. But never in color like the real world.

If I let them, these thoughts will overpower and debilitate me. Every day is similar to this. And all of it is utterly exhausting.

My hand drags through my dark hair, disheveling it further, and I sigh. Grigory will be here soon, and then we’re back onto the streets. Back to doing whatever we can to survive. But the hurtling out-of-control thoughts in my head never stop. And I just wish they would.

“Viktor.”