"Alpha Slayer" Convicted of Killing Four Alphas, Receives Controversial Sentence
Salt E., dubbed "Alpha Slayer" during his high-profile trial, was sentenced yesterday to life in prison for the fatal shooting of four men he claimed were responsible for his brother’s death.
In a surprising turn, the 22-year-old beta was granted the possibility of serving his sentence under two rehabilitation programs, one of them being Beta Activation.
The families of the victims, as well as the prosecution, voiced strong opposition to the decision, arguing that participation in the program amounts to a substitute for a normal life and fails to reflect the gravity of the crime…
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.
