? Pride ?
Alex was having the time of his life at the shop. The grumbling old man, Mr. Harris, had grown almost fond of him these last few days—not that he’d ever admit it outright.
“Kid,” Harris said one afternoon as they restocked the front counter, “You finally removed the bandages. You still won’t tell me what those bruises were about last week?”
Alex avoided his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck. “No... too embarrassing to tell. Sorry, boss.”
“Well,” Harris said, leaning on the cane he didn’t need but liked to carry anyway, “if you don’t tell me, no lunch break.”
Alex frowned. “That’s not fair.”
“Call it a motivational push, or blackmailing.”
Alex sighed in defeat. “Alright—I lost a fight.”
“Ah,” Harris said, unimpressed. “That all?”
Alex muttered, “It was a girl.”
Harris blinked.
Then burst out laughing, his whole chest heaving.
“Hey!” Alex protested, blushing. “You should’ve seen her! She’s a freaking storm! Don’t underestimate her just because she’s a girl!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Harris wheezed. “Looks like you’re not half as good at fighting as you are at charming customers.”
“I swear I’m good! I hate fighting, but I’m not weak! Back in the village, I barely ever lost. But this one… she was different. And hey—she said I won, actually!”
Harris grinned over the rim of his spectacles. “And did you?”
Alex hesitated. “Umm... no?”
"PFFTTTTT!"
That sent Harris into another round of laughter, loud enough to rattle the windowpanes.
Just then, the door creaked open, and in stepped the same lady from Alex’s first week on the job—the kindly one who always wore green gloves and smelled faintly of lavender. Her face lit up the moment she saw him.
“Well, if it isn’t the sunshine boy,” she said.
Alex greeted her, slipping into the role like second nature. “Welcome back, ma’am. May I help you ?”
She smiled, a little startled by how warm that made her feel. “Gracious, you talk like no one else around here.”
Harris, leaning on the counter with a raised brow, chuckled. “Come on, ma’am—not even the noble sector?”
She gave a half-laugh, shaking her head. “Oh, they’ve got the tongue, but not the eyes. Not the soul. They say it like they mean it, but they don’t. This boy here? He’s real.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m not from here, but I’m used to welcoming customers as I used to help some neighbors with their shops back in my home.”
She turned to Harris. “You do know what a treasure you’ve got behind this counter, don’t you?”
Harris, arms crossed but clearly pleased, said, “I’m gluing him to it. He’s not going anywhere.”
Alex looked down, blinking fast. The words landed harder than he expected. For a second, he couldn’t speak. He just smiled, swallowed the lump in his throat, and went back to work.
Later that evening
“Good night, boss,” Alex called as he stepped out into the evening air, shoulders light, heart lighter still. “Thank you again for today.”
“See you tomorrow, kid,” Harris said.
The door swung shut, and silence settled over the shop once more. The old man leaned back on his stool, arms folded, squinting at the dust in the afternoon sunbeam.
“Damn,” he muttered to himself. “The shop’s so dead without him.”
He stood slowly, rubbing at a sore spot in his lower back.
“That kid doesn’t just bring in customers… he brings something else to this dead place. Don't know what to name it...”
He eyed the drawer beneath the counter.
“Come to think of it… I’ve stopped checking the count for a while now,” Harris muttered as he stood behind the counter, flicking dust off the ledger. “Is that how much I trust him? Guess so.”
He chuckled once, dry and fond.
“Still, no harm in checking.”
He pulled out the day’s notes and receipts, began his usual count. Coins clinked in neat piles. The notes matched, mostly. But then—he paused.
A gap.
He frowned, ran through it again. And again.
“Short by… six copper?” he murmured.
He scanned the page. Once. Then again. A third time—slower now, fingers trembling slightly at the edge.
His eyes narrowed.
“Did I… miscount a sale?” he murmured.
The words felt foreign in his mouth. He almost didn’t believe them himself. His gaze drifted across the shop, toward the door, toward the place where Alex had been standing just minutes ago.
No. That couldn’t be right.
But the numbers… they didn’t lie.
Not usually.
Morning came heavy.
The sun was out, but the light felt thin. Brittle. Like it could crack if touched.
Alex stepped in with a smile that lit the room. “Good morning!”
But Harris didn’t smile back.
“Boss?” Alex asked, slowing down. “What’s wrong?”
The old man didn’t answer for a moment. He just looked at him. The way a man looks at a stranger he suddenly doesn’t recognize.
“Kid,” Harris said. “I’m not gonna be mad. Just tell me.”
“Tell you what?” Alex blinked.
“Last chance.” His voice grew quiet. “Did you steal?”
Alex flinched—not in fear, but from something deeper. He stood still.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he said.
Harris rubbed the back of his neck. “Listen, if you admit it, I won't be mad. You can even keep the coins and the job. I didn’t give you a proper tip yesterday, maybe you—”
“I said no.”
Harris grunted and turned, pulling out the ledger and a slip of paper.
“Then explain this,” he said. “Yesterday’s drawer didn’t match. Look.”
Alex leaned in. He didn’t even read it fully before his hand moved to the margin.
“Wait,” he said, calmly. “Can you check this part here?”
Harris followed his finger. There it was—light pencil, easily missed. Two customer names, abbreviated. Next to them: “Pay tmrrw” and a scribbled check mark.
It took a moment to click. One was the carpenter’s apprentice who had come in breathless with a broken clasp, said he’d pay after his shift. The other, a neighbor, who had taken candles but promised to return with coin.
Harris had forgotten. The receipts were verbal—small-town habit. And Alex, as always, had noted it quietly, honestly.
“Ah,” Harris said softly. “Guess I missed it.”
He let out a breath. “So you didn’t steal. Thank God.”
He clapped the book shut, trying to sound cheerful. “Alright then! Back to work, brat!”
But Alex didn’t move.
“You gonna stand there forever?” Harris asked.
“You didn’t apologize,” Alex said quietly.
The old man blinked.
“Kid, I’m your boss. And I’m older than you.”
“You accused me of being a thief.”
“I called you a pickpocket on your first day too.”
“You didn’t know me then,” Alex said. His voice wasn’t raised. But there was something brittle beneath it. “You’ve known me for three weeks now. And you still didn’t ask me first. You just assumed.”
“Stop being melodramatic. Unload the boxes, will you?”
Alex did. But the weight he carried wasn’t just wooden crates anymore.
Later, as Alex helped a customer with practiced politeness, Harris watched him, something gnawing at his chest.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“What’s with the gloom?” he barked. “What happened to you now?”
Alex didn’t answer. He simply wrapped the parcel and handed it over with a stiff nod.
“You know what?” Harris said, stepping out from behind the counter.
Alex looked up.
“You’re done here. You're fired.”
Harris dropped a small pouch of coins into his hand. “Here. For this morning.”
Alex stared, lips parted, eyes wide and dead.
“If you think I’ll apologize just ’cause you walk around acting sad, you’ve got a long way to go,” Harris said.
But his hand trembled slightly as he said it.
He was hoping—desperately hoping—that Alex would cave, laugh it off, drop the pride and let it go.
But the boy didn’t. “So you were just keeping me around to attract customers,”
He didn’t take the pouch. He left it sitting on the counter as he turned, lips pressed thin, eyes gleaming but unspilled. "Good luck to you too."
He stormed out of the shop.
Not weeping. Not shouting.
Just gone.
Harris stood frozen. His mouth opened, then shut. He almost called out—
But pride is a cruel thing.
It holds the tongue when the heart is breaking.
The job Alex had worked so hard to earn, so desperately wanted to keep, was lost.
All because of a mistake… and again... pride.
Just like that.
Alex walked the streets in silence, arms folded tight. The sun was still out — it was too early to be off work. Too early to be wandering again.
His thoughts gnawed at him.
“I liked him… I really did. I thought I finally had something. A steady job. Something normal.”
“But of course not. Everyone here uses everyone. It’s not just Dominick. Even Dante… he’s looking out for me, I know that. But the way he’s so comfortable with what we do… I can’t fully trust him, can I?”
“The only different one... was the weird girl that plays the violin, Noor.”
He slowed at the thought of the violinist girl, the strange child with calm eyes and a terrifying mind.
“She helped me. Just… helped. No orders. No debt. Just kindness.”
He let out a slow breath. His steps dragged.
“Even that girl from last week—the one from the Wolves. We fought but she got my charm back…”
He reached the apartment door.
“I have enough money for today… tomorrow… and the day after. I’ll look for work later. Not now.”
He turned the knob.
“I earned a break today.”
Alex closed the door behind him and stepped into the quiet of the apartment, expecting the usual silence of the early afternoon. To his surprise, a figure moved by the hallway—tall, dark-clad, unmistakable.
Dominick.
The man paused, one gloved hand on the front doorknob, coat collar turned up. His pale eyes behind his glasses narrowed slightly, more curious than hostile.
“Alex?” he said, voice low and toneless, lifting a single eyebrow. “You’re early.”
Alex stiffened. “I... got fired.”
Dominick tilted his head, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “Why?”
Alex hesitated, unsure whether to speak. But Dominick didn’t wait for an answer.
“Come to the office,” he said, already turning, voice cool as ever but—was that a trace of interest? “Let’s talk there.”
Alex followed. The apartment’s office was dim and sparsely furnished, a room of iron edges and old shadows. Dominick took his seat behind the desk, gesturing silently for Alex to sit opposite him.
“Well?” he said once the chair legs scraped against the floor.
Alex sat straighter. “My boss miscounted. Accused me of stealing.”
Dominick leaned forward slightly. “So you quit?”
Alex shook his head. “No. I asked him to apologize... but he wouldn’t.”
A flicker of something close to a smile touched the corners of Dominick’s mouth. He nodded once, slowly. “Good job keeping your pride. I respect that.”
The boy didn't know what to think of that. Pride helped in his firing.
Dominick lit a cigarette with a flick of the wrist, exhaling a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.
“And then they’ll wonder,” he said bitterly, “why this city is full of thieves, muggers, criminals.”
He watched the smoke rise for a moment, then glanced back at Alex. “How do you find the city so far? It’s been, what—three weeks?”
Alex fidgeted. “It’s... so big. And the people are very different. Very diverse.”
Dominick chuckled without warmth. “But most of them are cruel. Right?”
Alex nodded slowly.
“That’s the city for you.”
He tapped ash into a tray, then leaned back. “I spoke to the Dons about you. From your last job. They were pleased.”
Alex tensed. He thought of Mr. Harris’s lined face, the warmth of the shop, the bitter parting. He remembered the weight in the old man’s voice when he mentioned Dominick’s name: The Undertaker. He remembered the quiet menace of that world—the one he’d wanted nothing to do with.
Still, he managed a quiet, “Alright.”
Dominick gave a nod and leaned forward, drawing a folded sheet from a drawer. He spread it across the desk—a hand-sketched blueprint, clean and detailed.
“You’ve got a job tomorrow night,” he said. “You and Dante.”
The boy's stomach sank. The last job had shaken him more than he admitted. This one came on the heels of his firing—Mr. Harris’s suspicion still burned like a wound. The boy just lost the one thing that kept him to feel less guilty. He swallowed hard.
“What’s this?” he asked, gesturing to the paper.
“An abandoned industrial zone. I sketched it myself.” There was a hint of pride in Dominick’s voice. “A deal’s going down. Us and the Veracci family.”
“That’s a new one.” Alex muttered.
Dominick leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight.
“The five families run Portenzo City,” he began, voice even. “The Marcettis, the Veraccis, and the trio alliance—my bosses. Three inseparable Dons.”
He adjusted his glasses.
“The Marcettis were the proud locals once. Old blood, oldest money. They used to be the most powerful and resorted to bullying their way through. Now they’re half the men they used to be—brutes who mistake noise for strength. They ruled like Romans, and fell the same way.”
He drew a slow breath, the tip of the pen tapping once against the paper.
“The Veraccis… they came up from the working quarters. Dockhands, masons, tailors who learned fast and kept their heads down. Peaceful men, but sharp. They look after their own, which is why they’re still standing.”
Dominick’s gaze lifted. “Then there’s the trio alliance—the Marviano family. My bosses. Immigrants, once despised. They clawed their way up through sweat and precision. The Marcettis never forgave them for it. Said we were trespassers, not true sons of the city. That’s been the quiet war ever since."
"The Veraccis didn't get involved. They’ve stayed quiet. Saw the Marcettis lose ground year after year and knew better than to cross us.”
He pointed at the map with the end of his cigarette. “But now? They’re scared of us a little.”
Alex traced the lines of the sketch. It was meticulous, too good to be casual. Dominick’s drawings were clean, architectural. There was something unsettling about how neat they were.
“You always have to be three or four steps ahead,” Dominick murmured. “The deal’s here—guns for gold. They’re buying. But I want to know if they are planning a setup and how they will approach the deal.”
Alex looked up. “What do you want me to do?”
Dominick tapped two spots near the perimeter of the sketch. “You and Dante each take one of these buildings. Look like a pair of strays who broke in to sleep. Harmless. I want you there hours early. Long before the deal. Watch everything. If someone comes early, tells you to leave—could be an ambush crew. If they send someone to scout—means they don’t trust us either. Look for patterns.”
“Then... I let you know?”
“I won’t be there,” Dominick said. “Vince will. You don’t know him, but Dante does.”
Alex frowned. “Then... how do I notify him without being seen? If the Veraccis see me—”
Dominick’s eyes glinted faintly as he interrupted Alex. “Dante will show you the signals. A code. Only he, Vince, and I know it.”
Alex hesitated. “Not even your own men know it?”
“Especially not them,” Dominick said, tone hardening. “I fool my enemies by fooling my friends first. I only trust Vince. Don't show yourself even to my own men. Got it?”
Alex nodded. “Alright.”
“Questions?”
Alex looked down at the sketch again, something cold creeping down his spine. “If it’s an ambush... will Vince kill the Veraccis?”
Dominick gave a faint smile—one without kindness. “That’s up to him. I trust his judgment.”
Alex said nothing. But a question stirred in him—what kind of man did Dominick trust that much? What kind of monster was he sending in his place?
He’d find out soon enough.
Meanwhile, far from the polished halls of power and shadowed deals, another world stirred beneath the city’s streets.
Mira slouched low in a rickety chair near the center, one leg lazily thrown over the other like a gunslinger at rest. Her arms were folded behind her head, elbows out, cap tilted low over her eyes, casting her face in sharp shadow. Bandages wrapped her knuckles, stained faintly from sparring or boredom—it was hard to tell which. She stared up at the ceiling as if it had offended her, unmoving, unreadable, radiating the kind of stillness that made others nervous.
On the floor beside her, Tonno sat cross-legged, peeling a bruised apple with a dull butter knife. His bulk hunched forward, a picture of simple frustration. Next to him, Lino squinted over his torn jacket, jabbing a bent needle through the fabric with mismatched thread and surprising dexterity. His tongue stuck slightly from the corner of his mouth in concentration.
“I’m hungry...” Tonno muttered, voice low and tragic.
“I’m thirsty...” Lino replied just as flatly, without glancing up.
In the corner, Pinch, small and wiry, crouched near a pile of pebbles, trying once again to stack them into a pyramid. He failed. Again.
“Tell us a joke, Lino,” Tonno groaned.
“You. Sitting there. That’s the joke.”
Tonno surged forward, grabbing Lino by the collar. His cheeks flushed crimson.
“Screw you, Lino !”
“Go buy us some food, Tonno.”
“I’m not your mommy!”
“Nah. You’re too soft for a mommy.”
From across the room, Mira spoke at last. Her voice was dry as rust and just as cutting—she still hadn’t shifted an inch.
“I’m bored...”
“You’re awfully quiet today,” Lino said, eyeing her sidelong. “Thought you were napping.”
“I’d pay for someone to throw a punch at me right now.”
“How much?”
“Not you, Lino. I’ll knock you into next week in a moment.”
Tonno let out a bark of laughter.
“Serves you right, Lino!”
Lino muttered under his breath, pink creeping up his neck.
“Not gonna argue with that...”
Then louder, turning toward Mira:
“And why are you here anyway? Don’t you have classes at the orphanage?”
“I skipped,” Mira replied, cap still shadowing her brow. “Thought this place’d be more fun. But it’s worse.”
She shifted slightly, her heel tapping the edge of the crate supporting her boots.
“It’s been getting quieter every time we win a fight.”
“Not bad, though,” Lino mused, letting the jacket fall into his lap. “Some insurance on the way home. It feels cool.”
He mimicked the awe-struck voice of a passerby:
“‘Hey, that’s Lino of the Wolves!’”
A real grin broke across his face.
“Feels cool.”
The door creaked. Heavy steps thudded in.
Zack entered. His hair was slicked back with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what room he was walking into and how to own it.
“Hey, Zack!” Tonno called.
“Where’ve you been?” Lino added.
“Red corner,” Zack said.
Lino’s jaw dropped. “What?!”
“You’re crazy, Zack!” Tonno gasped. “These neighborhoods are already bad—but there?”
“Believe it or not... our name reached there,” Zack said with a shrug. “We’ve got a rep, even there.”
“For real?” Lino asked.
Tonno scratched his head. “Not sure if that’s something to be excited about...”
Mira didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Still lounging like a lioness behind bars—watching, but not interested in pretending to care.
“Some gang hangs around there too,” she murmured. “Our age, maybe a little older.”
“Yep,” Zack replied. “They jumped me just now.”
Tonno and Lino flinched. Pinch stopped mid-stack, frozen. But Mira? Not a twitch.
“Were they any good?” she asked, voice unreadable.
“Vicious? Yeah. Bats, the usual. But skill? Meh. Nothing special.” Zack stretched his arms out wide, rolling a shoulder. “Though they kept hyping two kids—said they’ll come back with them in the lead.”
“Names?”
“Jax and Vito.”
“Hmm. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“But... a gang from that district comin’ at us?” Tonno said. “I don’t like this, guys.”
“Get it together, big man,” Zack replied. “We’re taking the fight to them instead.”
“I'm sorry... taking what again ?” Lino asked warily.
Zack’s smirk sharpened—wolfish, twitching at the corners.
“Don’t worry. Me and Mira up front. You, Tonno, and Pinch hang back—in case they break the rules and swarm us. They agreed to a fair fight.”
Silence stretched across the room. The kind that crept in when instincts caught the scent of something serious.
Mira still hadn’t moved.
“What do you say, Mira?” Zack asked.
This time she turned. Slowly. For the first time in minutes, her eyes met his—sharp, slow-burning.
“I don’t know... everyone talks big, but they turn out to be trash.”
“The only challenge in the last two years was the kid from last week.”
She sat forward then, finally uncurling, swinging her boots off the crate. Her cap tilted back just enough to show the flicker of annoyance—or maybe anticipation—sparking beneath.
“Also I don’t like these kids. Super vicious. Unfair. Cowards. Muggers. Not the first time they attack someone with bats. No honor at all.”
“Nothing to lose,” Zack said, pacing now. “We go and teach them a lesson once and for all.”
He turned with purpose, steps heavy. Then stopped.
“We go in tomorrow. Their turf.”
His gaze locked with hers.
“Didn’t you lose last time? First time in years, right?”
“I didn’t count it as a real loss. Not in my book. But maybe it’s time to start your streak again?”
A flicker ran across Mira’s expression—jaw tightening just a shade. Then, slow and deliberate, she rose. She stepped off the crate and now sat on its edge instead, no longer lounging, no longer careless.
“They better be worth it, Zack.”
Her voice was calm. Almost... hopeful.
“I’ve been dying for a challenge.”
Zack’s grin returned—wide, sharp, full of teeth.
“Let’s do this, then.”
Lino sighed long and slow. Tonno’s jaw clenched with quiet dread.
And in the corner, Pinch finally balanced his last pebble, studied it... and, with perfect calm, flicked the whole thing down.
Thank you for reading :)
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