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 learnedto 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 amafia princeraised 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."
