ELIANO #2
Bush bursts out laughing.
"Are you out of your mind? You really think I went to the manager about you? I just waited behind the truck for a bit. We don’t hire people off the books here. This is a major hardware chain. But…" he grins, "I could give you some cash in exchange for a nice blowjob."
"You bastard! You said I’d get paid for helping in the warehouse—"
"And you still can help the warehouse… worker with a few minutes of pleasure."
A violent wave of rage surges through me. I am already lifting my hand, ready to knock this asshole out, when it hits me that I have to stay low key. There are cameras everywhere. I do not need the cops on my back or any extra trouble.
So that’s it. The bastard straight up played me and got himself a free laborer.
Swearing at him in Sicilian, "Minchia! Chi porcu schifusu!" (Fuck, that filthy pig!) I storm out of the warehouse, furious, exhausted, and starving.
I reach the neighboring lot and sit down on the curb of a nearby parking area. Still fuming, I eat the rest of the food I bought yesterday. The work burned through everything I had in my stomach, and I am painfully hungry.
Yeah, no point pretending otherwise. I do not know life on the outside, and I got played by this jerk. Watching TV shows isn’t a good source of knowledge.
My entire life, I lived with Anzo, except for one short period that changed a lot for me, because it showed me a different family dynamic.
When I was sixteen, I was sent to my great-uncle Alberto because I was at risk for Musth, an unstable state teen alphas can develop without the steadying presence of an adult alpha. Anzo was a beta, so I ended up with Alberto.
That year is the one I remember as the best. Alberto and his husband, Darien, were amazing, kind, and caring. I received more love from them than from anyone else, especially since I barely remember my parents anyway.
Still, even that year was sheltered in a closed estate with staff and private tutors. No social life, no friends my age, no real contact with the outside world.
So here I am now, completely green, and it sinks in, leaving me low.
Yet something about that asshole Bush’s words sticks with me.
Maybe I could try finding a job that at least partially relies on looks, because that is one thing I do have. I had to live through being called a ‘pretty boy’ enough; it is time to put it to use.
Could my looks help if I worked at a bar? But I don’t know anything about that. I’d never be able to handle a register without proper training.
Maybe handing out flyers?
That actually sounds decent. Looks can somewhat help there, experience is usually not required, and you can make money for a few hours. It sounds perfect. The only problem is how I would even find a job like that.
For the next few hours, I wander around the city. Every now and then, I step into shops where I see stacks of promotional flyers on the counter and ask the owners if they need someone to distribute them. Everyone turns me down, saying they already outsource those services.
Eventually, frustration starts to settle in.
I feel sweaty and dirty. It is my second day without a shower, or really the third, if I count the fact that my last day at the fortress was spent locked in a damn cage by a furious Anzo who was fed up with my blog, where I tore into the Ferros however and whenever I felt like it.
Annoyed, I head to the beach.
I undress in a spot where no one is around, since I hate when people stare at my scarred back, and walk into the water to rinse off at least a little.
Unfortunately, it is saltwater. When I come back out and pull my not-so-fresh clothes back on, I feel somewhat cleaner, but my skin itches from the salt.
The next thing I do is head to a car wash by a nearby gas station.
This time, I take a more drastic approach.
The last dollar in my pocket buys me exactly one minute of water spray.
I kick off my sneakers, stand against the wall, and soak myself from head to toe, clothes and all.
I rub some liquid soap, stolen from the gas station restroom, under my arms and at my groin, then work it into the fabric to wash my T-shirt at the same time.
I rinse everything off, fitting it all into that single minute.
Water dripping off me, I walk over to a nearby patch of grass and spread out my pants and T-shirt to dry under the harsh sun.
Luckily, it is September, and the sun is still strong, though the weather forecast on one of the TV screens inside the gas station shows a change coming the next day.
After an hour of lying in the sun, my clothes are completely dry. There is a faint scent of cheap dispenser soap around me, but I look almost decent.
I decide to resume the job search, but Saturday evening isn’t the best time for it. After a while, I give up and head back to my sleeping spot, the wooden crate near that big company.
I spend the night feeling much less optimistic. The sky is no longer full of stars, and my thoughts turn dark too.
Hunger makes everything worse. Sleeping on an empty stomach is something I’ve never experienced before, and it’s not something I’d recommend.
Sunday morning wakes me with a biting cold. When I climb out of the crate, a strong, chilly wind hits me. A cold front must be moving in from the north.
My hunger shows no signs of letting up, and a job isn’t about to materialize right in front of me. Things are starting to feel desperate.
Earlier, I naively believed my life would magically fall into place the moment I left the fortress, even though I didn’t have any kind of backup plan. I never really thought I’d need one, that Anzo, for all his supposed brilliance, would make such a mistake.
Reluctantly, I leave the company grounds. No one is working here today, and I could technically stay longer, but I am not going to lie in a crate starving.
Walking slowly along the edge of a busy road, with my head slightly lowered, one foot after the other, my thoughts drift hazily around.
As often happens with starving people, my mind fills with vivid visions of the food I could eat in the fortress kitchen. The chef made incredible arancini and caponata, and in the evenings he often served aromatic sarde a beccafico. My mouth waters just thinking about it!
Swimming in imaginary aromas, almost opening my mouth to snatch an Involtini di pesce spada from my fantasy table, unexpectedly… I notice a flyer blown toward me by the cold wind.
Since yesterday, I had been planning to look for flyer distribution work, so I pick it up, hoping that if a leaflet is lying in the street, maybe the company needs someone to hand them out.
I read it.
"You can find the Fate’s Choice for you here! Marital contract fair-and-auction! 14-15th September."
Below that are several promotional slogans encouraging people to attend.
My mouth falls open when I notice the agency’s name.
Fate’s Choice.
Wait a minute… Is this not the same agency where Anzo organized the attack?
I let out a short laugh.
What a coincidence! I pull over to the side of the road and sit down on a concrete ramp, staring at the flyer in a daze.
Is Fate trying to tell me something?
This is the exact place of my uncle’s failure. Because of his failure, I am free.
I drift into thought, my eyes fixed on the company logo showing two hands clasped together.
What was the end for him is the beginning for me…
Anzo, my parents’ murderer.
He was the first beta capo in the Ferro family, and immensely proud of it.
He wanted to fight anything he saw as a potential threat to the beta community.
That is where his attack on Blue Lowen came from, the main architect and expert behind the Beta Activation program, designed to awaken fertility in betas.
However, what Anzo failed to grasp was the program’s entirely voluntary nature. So when the program opened, it turned out there were more than enough betas willing to sign up!
That only made Anzo angrier. He decided to make an example of the program’s creator, Blue Lowen, sending a message, a warning, that no one should dare continue or join it.
Four days ago, he attempted to assassinate Lowen and miserably failed. The attack took place at this very company, the one whose flyer I’m holding.
Fate’s Choice matchmaking agency.
I think about it all for a long time, playing with the flyer and rolling it between my fingers.
Those beta issues never concerned me before. My world was endless training sessions and sparring, preparing for the next fight, trying to survive.
As I spread the flyer out one more time, something catches my attention.
The Fate’s Choice address turns out to be surprisingly close, about a ten-minute walk from where I am standing.
Interesting.
They are holding the fair just a few days after the attack? They must be desperate. Maybe this is actually a good moment to approach them and offer help promoting their company. Surely, their reputation has taken a hit. A Ferro helping them? That’d be a twist.
I reach the location after about twelve minutes of calm walking.
The size of the place impresses me immediately.
A massive parking lot, a gigantic hall, and next to it an administrative building.
I instantly know where the bomb attack took place.
The windows are covered with huge banners of state senate candidates, clearly meant to hide damaged and shattered glass.
It is not entirely effective. Cracks are still visible at the edges.
"Congrats, Anzo," I mutter under my breath, a trace of satisfaction in my voice. "Such a mastermind, and yet you’ve played yourself."
To be fair, the satisfaction is somewhat muted. Two days ago, I would have seen this place differently, as part of my path to freedom.