Page 1 of Mafia and Scars

CHAPTER ONE

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Dear Reader, this book features neurodivergence and autism. Autism is a huge part of my life, and I refer to it in this book by the terms that I, my family, and our health professionals use on a daily basis.

Some people may think some of the autism-related events depicted in this book are unlikely. In fact, all of the story’s autism-related behaviors are based on real-life experiences. Autism is a spectrum condition and affects each individual in a different and unique way. And this means it’s extremely rare for two individuals with autism to behave identically in the same situation.

The terms I use may differ from the terms commonly used in the country where you are based, or you may be used to different terminology due to the version of diagnostic criteria (such as DSM-5) in use when diagnosis was made. In this book, please be aware that characters may use ableist language or hold ableist beliefs, or they may have internalized ableist thoughts. These are solely part of the storyline and used to convey what some people with autism may go through, but they are not the views of the author. A number of additional sensitivity readers were used during editing.

In particular, I want to say that every person with autism is an extremely special person, and their differences make the world a much richer and betterplace. Your well-being matters very much, so please reach out to a loved one or professional if you need support.

And one last thing: please note that this is NOT a dark romance, although some darker elements are present in parts of the story. Please check the earlier content note for more details. Love Isa xxx

VIKTOR

AGE 12

The air in Moscow is cold and stagnant as I stare out at the crowds of people who pass by without so much as a glance. Their coats pulled up to their ears, heads down. No one bats an eye at the kid loitering in an alley, a ratty coat with a few holes and dirt smudged on his face. That means taking a moment to care.

But they never care.

Pulling my collar up, I watch the street for a few more minutes. The tough fabric scratches against the back of my neck. My breath fogs in front of me as it fades into the air as soon as it leaves my lips.

I wait.

Watch.

The bakery is just up the street. Packed like it always is. Bodies press against the counter, the line winding around the corner in a sea of hungry people. Everyone wanting to get their morning shot of something.

I take a step forward, my shoes scuffing against the wet sidewalk. The soles are worn and taped up, but I’ll find another pair some other time. My stomach clenches in on itself with hunger. I hate this life. I hate having to hang around in the bitter cold, my whole body frozen like a block of ice, wondering if I’ll get any food today—desperately hoping for it.

I stop, my head tilting as I catch sight of another boy across the street. He lingers near the bakery’s entrance, a new face and appearance standing out from all the others with their monotoned coats and hats. The images before me are like some black and white reel that seems to be the eternal movie I watch throughout my life.

His clothing looks rich and expensive, but the end of his collar and sleeves are frayed a little more than anywhere else. His hand trembles as he fidgets.

I press back past the oncoming stream of pedestrians and watch him. His eyes are glued to the line, darting back and forth, like he’s trying to figure out something. A gap in the line? His next move?

Then he makes it.

He’s quick.

Reaching out, he’s snatching a roll of bread from the rack before anyone can react.

I freeze.

This is my spot!

The owner rushes out and yells at him. But the boy is swift on his feet and sprints away before he can be caught.

This other boy stealing my spot pisses me off so much. I’m the one who steals from this bakery, not some kid who can’t even manage to keep his hand steady! I follow him, even managing to slip a loaf from the display inside my coat as I pass because the owner is too busy berating one of his assistants for not stopping the kid. But the owner’s going to be watching much more closely after today, meaning that kid has ruined my spot now. And meaning I’ll have to start all over again and find a new place to steal from.

I hurry in the same direction as the boy, turning a corner as I track him.

“Get your own spot!” I hiss, crossing the street to come closer to the boy. My voice is cold, cutting through the noise around us.

He startles, turning to look at me as he awkwardly shoves the rest of the small roll into his mouth like he’s terrified I’m going to try and take it off him before he can even swallow it. His eyes are wide, and the tremble in his hand grows a little more.

I glare.

He’s starving. It’s the way his body shakes and the way he’s shoving that roll into his mouth like it’s the last thing standing between him and death itself. And I know that look…because I’ve been there myself.