Page 1 of Savage Mafia King

1

Elena

The city hums with life around me, a mix of grit and charm, old memories fused with the constant pulse of change. It’s been years since I was Marie’s age, yet in many ways, this place hasn’t changed at all. The bagel shops still line every corner, the air thick with the warm scent of dough and sesame, while mom-and-pop pizzerias stand as stubborn relics of the past, where everyone knows your name. But lurking behind the comforting familiarity is the ever-present shadow of the mafia, their power woven deep into the city’s bones, like a dark thread in a quilt we can’t escape.

Father keeps us safe. He’s our shield against the dangers I dare not dwell on. I care for Marie, and he protects us—it’s been that way since our mother passed when Marie was just a baby. I push away the grief that gnaws at the edges of my heart. This is our family now, just Father, Marie, and me. It has to be enough.

As I walk towards the bus stop, where Marie’s junior high bus will soon drop her off, the neighborhood unfolds before me in sharp contrasts—every corner a patchwork of danger andnormalcy. The deli looms in the distance, the one we avoid, with its thick air of secrets and violence. It’s a reminder of the world we live in, the one I’ve had to grow up in far too fast. I shudder as I pass the diner, glancing through the window just long enough to see the men inside. They look as hard as the city itself—thick beards and even thicker bellies, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that could cut through steel. Their mouths never smile, only scowl, and I can’t shake the feeling that one of them was watching me.

I pull my coat tighter around me, trying to shake the chill crawling up my spine. Father isn’t here, and without him, the city feels a little too close, a little too dangerous.

The bus grinds to a stop, hissing like a tired dragon. Marie steps out among the others, her small frame swallowed by the crowd. Her hair hangs loose and messy, as if the weight of the day pulled it down. She looks exhausted, barely glancing up at me as she mumbles, “Hey, Elena.”

We fall into step, side by side, the silence between us heavy but familiar. I can feel something’s off with her, something beyond the typical weariness of school, but I don’t press her. Not yet. She’ll talk when she’s ready. She always does. As we near the bagel shop, she slows, her gaze lingering on the window filled with warm pastries and cookies.

“Can we stop in?” she asks, her voice small, as if the world has been too loud today. “I want a black-and-white cookie.”

“Of course,” I reply, my voice softening at the sight of her faint smile. Those dimples—those little indentations that have always made her look like the innocent kid I want to protect from everything—appear briefly. For a moment, it feels like home, the kind of home I want to believe in.

Inside, the warmth wraps around us, the shop’s familiar faces greeting us with friendly nods. It’s the kind of place that makes you forget, if only for a moment, the weight of the world outside. We order our cookies, and as we sit down, I unwrap mine slowly, watching her.

“What’s bothering you, Marie?” I ask gently, my words coaxing. She takes a small bite, chewing thoughtfully, as if each morsel could somehow make the day disappear.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” she mutters, her eyes downcast.

I reach across the table, my fingers brushing hers. “Come on, little sis. You can tell me. You always can.”

She sighs, her cookie suddenly abandoned on the table. “It’s Katie.”

My heart tightens. “Katie Petrov?” I ask, my voice already edged with worry.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, and then, after a pause, “She took my scrunchie and said I have greasy Italian hair.”

The world narrows for a moment, my breath caught in my throat. “That little—”

“Elena, it’s fine,” she interrupts, her voice strained but steady. “She’s going to prep school next year, anyway.”

I want to scream, to storm into the halls of her school and demand justice for my little sister. But I swallow it down. “You don’t deserve that, Marie. No one deserves that. I’m telling Father.”

“No!” she pleads, her eyes wide with panic. “Don’t. Please, don’t. He’s got enough to worry about.”

I relent, even though every protective bone in my body protests. “Fine. Let’s just go home.”

Her voice is soft, uncertain. “Are you mad?”

“At you? Never.” I force a smile, but the unease has already settled deep in my chest.

When we walk through the door of our house, the silence presses against me like a warning. Father isn’t in the kitchen, his usual spot, and a thread of unease pulls tight in my stomach. He was supposed to be here. Something is wrong. Marie sits down at the table, pulling out her homework, but I can’t sit still. My legs move on their own, taking me to his study.

I smell it before I see it.

The coppery, metallic tang of blood hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. I brace myself, a thousand thoughts crashing through my mind, but nothing prepares me for what I see when I open the door.

Father is slumped in his chair, but he’s not there anymore. His face—what’s left of it—is unrecognizable, pieces hanging grotesquely where his head used to be whole. The room spins. I can’t breathe. I want to scream, but I can’t. I have to hold it in for Marie. She can’t see this.

I slam the door shut and run to the upstairs bathroom, the bile rising in my throat until I can’t hold it back. The nausea overtakes me, violent and unforgiving. When it passes, I wipe my mouth and force myself to move. I don’t have time to fall apart. We need to leave. Now.

I grab our backpacks, my hands shaking as I shove in clothes, snacks, anything that might help us survive. My mind spins insurvival mode, sharp and urgent. Father kept cash somewhere, but I don’t know the code to the safe. I tear through his drawers, my fingers numb, until I find the bills stashed away with a gun.

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