ELIANO
There are five of us on the day we finally escape.
Only one way out of Anzo’s fortress exists: an underground tunnel carved into the rock beneath it.
Ragnar frees us from the cages we’ve been trapped in for two days; my brother Mauro, along with Anzo’s sex slaves, Summer and Sun. We move forward, driven by the sheer need to be anywhere but in my uncle’s hellish domain.
Even now, the smell of freedom is inseparably tied, in my mind, to the forest and the fresh ocean air that hits me the moment I emerge from that tunnel.
We reach a dirt road cutting through the trees, and all I can think about is getting as far and as fast as possible from this nightmare.
Somehow, against all odds, my miracle actually happened.
The day of my uncle’s downfall finally came.
Capo Anzo Ferro made a fatal mistake; the FBI arrested him… but the man who will replace him is Rocco, my sociopathic brother and an even worse version of my uncle. That alone is reason enough to run fast, taking advantage of the chaos that erupts.
For Rocco, honor is absolute, and an oath sworn to the family can never be broken.
My escape, and Mauro’s escape along with it, amount to a death sentence, which means a life spent in hiding for as long as Rocco is alive.
Our bank accounts are useless for now, and showing up at the homes of friends is out of the question, since that would only put targets on their backs. Mafia retaliation is never selective, and it never stops with just one person.
So I am starting from absolute zero, twenty years old, with the only real career I have ever had being underground fights, plus two years spent pursuing an online law major, which I hated.
Well, I also have my secret anti-Ferro journalism blog, which was the reason Anzo wanted to kill me right before the FBI came for him.
But that life becomes the past the moment I step onto the shoulder of a forest road and spot an approaching bus, one of those that carries beachgoers back and forth between the city and the coast.
There are no dramatic goodbyes between us. We all know this is where our paths split, preferably forever, and the truth of it hangs in the air with no need to say it aloud. I wish them luck, especially Mauro, but I know that traveling together would only increase the risk for all of us.
I have no phone and no credit card, just a single fifty dollar bill folded into my pocket, and it has to be enough for now. I get on the bus and buy a ticket without caring where it is headed, because my only priority is simple enough: I need to disappear.
The clothes help.
A T-shirt and sweatpants are anonymous enough, but my curly black violet hair, falling almost to my shoulders, is a dead giveaway. It has always been the most recognizable thing about me, and it cannot stay.
I need a barber.
Without a phone, there is no way to look one up, so I have to rely on more conventional methods. Eventually, the bus rolls into a busier part of the city, not the center, but a side district with more foot traffic, and I get off to take a look around.
An older beta steps off with me, and I ask if there is a barber nearby. He pretends not to hear me and speeds up, walking away as if I do not exist. Fair enough. Alphas do not always inspire kindness, and I have learned not to take it personally. I keep walking.
After nearly an hour, I finally spot a small barbershop tucked next to a modest shopping center.
The omega inside, probably the owner, gives me a solid haircut, shorter on the sides and longer on top, and the change is drastic enough to astonish me.
I stare at my reflection for a moment. I’ve worn my curls long all my whole life, and now the person looking back from the mirror barely feels familiar.
In four months, I’ll be twenty-one, and I might as well start looking the part.
With those unruly curls and youthful features, people used to call me a pretty boy, but I’m done with that.
The shorter cut makes me look more masculine, sharpens my jawline, and finally adds a year or two to my appearance.
When I walk out, I am thirty dollars poorer, with about eighteen left to my name, which means I need to find a job fast and then get out of this city even faster. Staying within ten miles of the Ferro fortress is not a valid plan for survival.
The problem is that I have never lived outside the walls of my uncle’s stronghold, and I have never held a job that did not involve fighting.
My real passion, writing investigative articles for blogs and newspapers, always happened online, so nothing taught me how to exist… on the street.
Growing up as the capo’s nephew and adopted son left me almost handicapped.
With a fully staffed kitchen, I never learned to cook.
With gardeners, I never mowed a lawn. With butlers, I never cleaned my own room, washed a car, or went shopping.
And every time I got behind the wheel, there were always at least two armed men sitting beside me.
The truth, stripped of excuses, is that I do not have many useful life skills.
Every time I step into a place where I could theoretically find work, even a one-day job that would earn me enough for food and a bus ticket, doubt crashes over me.
Some people might call the way I was raised a form of privilege, but fuck that kind of privilege.
I was beaten, whipped, electroshocked, and punished for the smallest sign of defiance.
I would trade all of it in a heartbeat just to live like a normal kid, instead of being a mafia prince raised in nothing but violence from early childhood.
From the moment my dad’s arms held me for the last time, minutes before Anzo shot him in the head.
By the time evening comes with no job on the horizon, one painfully simple truth finally catches up with me.
I am starving, and I am almost shocked by how much it hurts. I’m used to damn solid meals, and here I am, with hours passing, walking my ass off while my stomach’s screaming for food… twisting up painfully and making noises.
After a moment of deliberation, I spend my last dollars on cheap, high-calorie food that will keep me alive for one day, no more, and that becomes the goal I set for myself.
Tomorrow, I will find a job!
It is warm outside, at least, and behind a row of commercial buildings I find a corner near a pile of old wooden crates. One of them has a piece of styrofoam inside, and it is surprisingly comfortable to lie on, so I crawl in and settle there for the night.
It takes a moment to accept it, but this really happened.
I am homeless, but also… free.
Libirtati granni, libirtati finalmente…(Freedom at last, real freedom…)
As I lie there, staring through the open side of the crate at the stars above me, I realize that I do not feel the least miserable.
This is what I wanted.
I left the mafia!
Tomorrow, there is no training, no fight, and no Mike Tartona waiting for me in the cage.
And no electroshocks.
I slipped out of that life within the sick world Anzo meticulously built for my brothers after he murdered our parents and raised us like his fucking loyal dogs.
With me, the loyalty part failed.
◆◆◆
Morning wakes me with a pleasant chill. The sky is slightly gray, and hunger grips me again.
Damn, it really is relentless. I greedily eat half of the supplies I bought yesterday and lie in the crate for a little while longer.
Finally, the sound of cars arriving and employees coming to work for the company that owns the area drives me out.
I leave the property and head into the city with a firm decision that this time I will find… something. A job, an opportunity, a bowl of food.
Two hours later, I stop by a hardware store and approach one of the workers, asking if they need help in the warehouse. He shakes his head and says they are fully staffed.
As I am about to walk away, one of the other workers standing nearby stops me with a wave of his hand. He is a heavily built, stocky alpha with a big belly and a face that looks like it has seen far too much booze.
"Wait," he says. "I’ll talk to the manager. We’ve got a big delivery today and we’re drowning. Maybe you could help out for a few hours."
"Sure, that would be amazing," I reply, grinning.
He holds out his hand.
"Bush."
"El… Elwin." I almost let my real name slip.
The stocky alpha disappears for a moment, then comes back.
"All right, you can stay. Come on, let’s unload the boxes together."
Okay. I am honestly surprised. It went shockingly fast. I walk with him toward the semi truck, where all kinds of product packages are being unloaded with a forklift.
Bush handles the forklift, obviously, but then it is time to sort everything onto the warehouse shelves, and that is where I help.
I spend close to two hours working with this guy. The job is pretty hard, but with my physical conditioning I manage just fine. What I do notice, though, are Bush’s very attentive looks, the way his eyes keep tracking me.
At some point, we end up alone behind a large container, and suddenly Bush speaks.
"You know, it’s interesting that a guy like you is looking for warehouse work. With your face and body, you could make a lot more money somewhere else," he says, narrowing his eyes slightly.
I swallow, because I immediately suspect what he is implying, but just to be sure, I ask, "What exactly do you mean?"
"That depends on how open you’d be to some additional services," he says, and suddenly I feel his hand drop onto my bicep, as if he is about to pull me into some kind of side hug. I yank myself out of his grip instantly.
"What the fuck—"
"Hey! Don’t be so sensitive. I’m serious. You’re really pretty. And those abs of yours, I saw the washboard you’re rocking when you were stacking boxes on the higher shelves. I know people who like fit guys like you."
"I’m not interested," I growl, taking a step back. This is getting bad, fast. "Actually, I’d like to get paid for those two hours of work now," I add, gritting my teeth.