He can smell the food the moment he wakes up. It's toast, eggs, bacon that's cooking, mixing with the scent of coffee. He can feel his mouth water as he comes to more and more, his stomach twisting up inside of him at the recognition of it all. It's been at least three days since he's had a full meal in front of him, maybe four since he's been able to get something that lasted for more than an hour on him.

There's just a problem with him being here, scenting all that food: he shouldn't be here. The closet he's curled up in, it was full of coats and shoes, and he'd only come to sleep here because the streets weren't safe enough the other night. Technically he had a room: the smallest one, shoved in the back. It's just that whenever he looks at it, he feels if he steps inside of it, the lock might turn and he'll be trapped inside there.

So the closet is safer. The scents of his parents are on him and while they aren't safe, they're at least comforting enough to get him to sleep most nights.

There's a gurgle, a giggle and his mother's voice floats through, "We're almost done, baby. Almost there."

That's the signal he needs to shift, turn around in the closet. His hand reaches up to grip the cold knob in his fingers, trying to maneuver himself among the shoes and the coats as quietly as he can. Carefully, he turns it, pushing the door open to see.

His mother's long black hair is in a half braid, and she's bouncing his little brother. He's all of five now (if he remembers correctly), and he's yammering as his mother gets the bacon and eggs out of the pan and onto a bigger plate. There's a fierce rumble in his stomach as he sees it, and his teeth ache at the sight.

They've been doing that a lot lately, aching. He doesn't know why they do, but they ache badly at the scent of the food, and he watches carefully as his mother moves around, putting the food on plates, arranging them, his brother (already so big), still on her hip the whole time.

He has to time this carefully.

The sound of a phone shatters the quiet and his mother turns quickly. She hurries over to the other end of the kitchen, and as soon as he hears her pick up the phone, he takes his chance, shoving open the door, darting to the kitchen table.

All he does is move: grabbing the plate of food, instead of just the bacon, too hungry to do the usual snatch and grab. He moves as fast as he can to the window, where the fire escape is and that's when he hears his mother shriek out, "Dallas! Put that down!"

He all but dumps the food into the pockets of his jeans, and the rest is crammed messily into his mouth. His brother starts to cry and he feels something hit his shoulder right as he gets the window open. It makes his shoulder hurt, but he wrenches the window open and scrambles onto the fire escape.

Another shoe whizzes past his head and he turns around long enough to look at his mother: at her blazing eyes, her dark hair, the snarl on her face.

Then he's climbing down the fire escape as fast as he can, and as soon as he hits the ground, he's running as fast as his legs can carry him. His mother screams at him from the window, but it's soon drowned out by the other sounds of New York City.

He runs for three blocks until he stops to finish chewing and swallowing the food he shoved into his mouth and to go for the food in his pocket. If people look at him, they don't care, and why would they? Dallas knows what he looks like to them: hair too long, a grubby face, in old clothes and barely holding up shoes. The only thing of relative value on him is the St. Christopher that hangs from his neck, and its the only thing he'd fight someone over.

Not that he has to. Hastily, he wipes his mouth with his hand, swallowing thickly. There's nothing to swallow it all down with except his own saliva and he knows that he won't be picking up any drink for awhile now.

He's got to navigate the morning, find the one person here who he likes. At some point, he'll have something.

As early morning as it is, there are people everywhere on the streets when he starts walking towards the diner he knows his cousin will be at. Even though his cousin is barely doing better than him, he still goes to school sometimes. Not because he's made to, but because he likes it for reasons he doesn't understand.

He doesn't, though. Dallas hasn't been to school since he turned ten months ago and Christmas break came. No one was going to come calling for him, his parents didn't care so why did he? He was smart enough that he could read signs, that he could do math. That was all he needed as far as he was concerned.

The morning is spent mostly on the street, pickpocketing here and there from people bigger than him, stealing change from the phone booths where he could, watching people where he could.

Most people don't spare him a second glance. To everyone else, he's just a street kid with a dirty face and probably wanting to beg money from them. To others, well...

Dallas rubs his hands on his jeans, heading to the diner where he knows that his cousin is waiting for him. It's almost noon, and his cousin rarely actually goes to his afternoon classes. It isn't that far, and when he enters, the soda jerk hardly gives him any attention when he slips in. Even if Dallas isn't liked, even if he isn't favored, he knows better.

The waitress comes over quick enough, eyebrows raised. "What do you want, kid?"

"Water," its the first word he's said all day, voice scraping at the bottom of his throat. It's coming out rougher, deeper than usual.

She nods, and right as she moves to get it, the door jingles and in comes his cousin in a fast, quick stride. He's tall, wiry, and when he slides into the booth, he's already talking a mile a minute. "Jesus Christ, you look like shit. You even wipe your mouth after you eat this morning? Not even my mom would like that." He tosses a napkin at Dallas that he takes, running it over his mouth as his cousin keeps going. "You're lucky I found that Grenada kid — we can eat plenty for lunch stead of just—"

Dallas reaches into his pocket, drops the money he's stolen without a word.

"Ace!" One of the other waitresses, a younger girl calls out, and his cousin turns around, a grin on his face. "You want your usual?" She's pretty, always nice to them despite the fact that she didn't have to.

"Sure," Ace smiles more broadly. He's got the same dark brown hair as Dallas, a sure sign of them being cousins, pushing some of it out of his eyes as he turns his attention back to Dallas. "You want your usual, too? Burgers, fries, water?" When Dallas nods, he turns back, "Give my cousin the normal one, too!"

"Sure, sure," the waitress nods, getting to work. Something about her always reminds Dallas of Odessa when she's in a good mood. But she doesn't really keep his attention, not when Ace is there.

Of all his family, what little he had, Ace has always been his favorite. They were about the same age, and Ace is confident, chatty in a way Dallas isn't. He appreciates it as the waitress comes out with the food, setting it in front of them. Some waitresses have complained before about them being so young; others haven't cared. This one falls into the second category, not caring as they dig into the food themselves, shoveling it into their mouths greedily.

Ace talks between bites, swallowing roughly, "You hear anything from your father?" Dallas shakes his head, dipping his fries into the ketchup. Ace frowns; Dallas isn't sure what he's entirely he's looking for at that moment.

They both knew that Dallas' father was a man who came and went he wanted. That getting him to address Dallas was difficult when it wasn't a blow coming out of nowhere to strike him, that he only allowed Dallas to linger for so long before they had some sort of animosity between them.

That doesn't stop Ace from asking, voice low and a bit squeaky, "You think they're adding anyone to the books this year?"

The books, of course, meaning the made men. There were only so many in the Organization as his father put it. Not that Dallas cared about calling it something that it wasn't, really. He knows what they really are, what the money in the closets, what the bags full of weapons stowed away that disappeared over night meant.

They were what the streets called them: the mafia, the mob.

And there were only so many made men. He knows that they didn't take kids as young as ten years old on them. But they had eyes out from the moment they were born, to become made when they were older. Legends persisted of those who started young, were taken under the wing of older men until they were able to become made as soon as room was available.

They were bigger than the gangs that Dallas liked to watch at night, to follow. They were stronger, richer, and they weren't exactly a normal pack but something bigger. Stronger. Even if his family, the first pack he should have, didn't care about him, a bigger pack could. If he could have that...

"Dunno," he says, reaching for the water. "Don't tell me."

Ace knows what he means; Dallas has only ever had so many words in him, and only so many people could get them out of him. He huffs, leaning over more. "There's a rumor they're opening them up early cause a couple of rats got found."

Now that is something different. Dallas gives a grunt, and Ace speeds on, "Might be happening in the summer — something's going on with a bunch of rats and people getting out." He almost bounces in excitement. "Maybe something'll come up we can do. Get noticed."

The spark of excitement is a little infectious, Dallas grinning in response. Ace grins back — then throws another napkin at Dallas to wipe his mouth off with. They pay the waitress for the meal, scampering out into the streets soon enough.

Dallas mostly follows Ace throughout the day; it's easier to let Ace do the talking, Dal to do the watching. New York City is never without some kind of action, whether it be the working girls (mostly made up of omegas, some alphas) on one block; seeing a shopkeeper chase a kid out of another as they pass; skirting around some of the bigger kids who are in gangs that Dallas can scent before Ace can, dragging him around a corner, keeping a finger to his mouth; sneaking into theaters to watch some movies, stealing where they can.

It's not a very out of ordinary day.

"We should be involved in bigger shit by now," Ace complains as they go through a shop. It's full of candy, little snacks and food. Dallas has never cared about candy, instead making sure he can't be seen as he reaches out to grab some of the cigarettes on the shelf. This owner tends to be pretty stupid with how the store is laid out, and Dallas slips a pack into his back pocket easily as Ace goes on. "Fucking Tommy — the kid who pissed himself when he got mugged last summer — got to work for one of the Masserias. Over me!" He makes a sound of disgust as he pilfers probably too many taffies.

The owner casts an eye over them, and Dallas shifts towards the door. Ace lingers a moment more, still annoyed. "They pay him good money too. The kid who pissed himself over me." He edges out the door first and Dallas follows, feeling the cartons weighing against him. "I don't get it! Or why your Dad never lets you do shit either."

Dallas gives him a half glare as they cross the street, knowing that the answer to that was complicated. It needed more words than He just doesn't. There aren't enough words in him to articulate that his father had never cared for him; at least Ace's father had pretended to before he walked out.

For now, he settles on, "Which Masseria?"

"I don't know, he won't say," Ace grouses. He keeps up with Dallas as they go, winding their way in the streets. This is a more unfamiliar part that Dallas has never been through, but he trusts Ace as they go. "Said he's gotta keep it a secret." He runs his hands over the brick of the building they're at. Distantly, Dallas can scent the sea, and he hums as he walks with Ace. "Which sounds so cool. The money he's got, you should see it."

Dallas looks around at the warehouse, scenting rain. He knows Ace can't; the sky isn't as dark as it could be, but his nose is never wrong about rain. "Ace," he says his name firmly, and Ace glances to him. "Gonna rain."

"What?" Ace looks up at the sky, huffing. Dallas shrugs; he's not wrong. Rolling his eyes, Ace looks around — right as lightning cracks the horizon, followed by a distance rumble of thunder. Swearing, Ace casts around. Dallas does too, and almost at the same time, they see that there's a loose door to the warehouse.

It takes some nudging for them to both slip in — the door is heavy as hell but once they get inside, Dallas is astonished by how big the warehouse is. It's bigger than some apartments, and Ace is clearly astonished at how big and mostly empty it is. There are only a few things in there: a jagged line of something covered by expansive canvas; broken alcohol bottles and long stuffed out cigarettes; what looks like the skeletal remains of an animal he isn't sure of; and little debris like newspapers and magazines.

In other words: it's a great place to sit out a storm in. The lightning streaks through the sky as they run through the warehouse. The place is enormously expansive, full of steps that go up high, lots of boards, little hiding and crawlspaces to get to.

The storm takes awhile to come in but when the rain lashes down, it's harsh. The scent fills the air so sharply for Dallas, almost dizzy with how overwhelming it is. Ace still somehow has a lot of energy, whereas Dallas feels a flush up his neck, almost sick with it. Worse is that somehow, the air is getting colder. His teeth ache in his mouth and instead of following Ace further in, he turns around, intending to just go down the steps, and find some place warm to shut his eyes, get some sleep.

He only makes it two steps when there's a groan and a snap. A yell leaves him as he's plummeted down, through the warehouse. There's a jolt of fear, terror in him and then his back is hitting something sooner than expected. The breath is forced out of him roughly with the landing, and a groan leaves him in pain.

"Dallas! Dallas!" Ace calls for him frantically, his steps echoing.

"Here!" Dallas calls out as he tries to sit up, winded from the fall. He's landed on one of the crates with tarp on it; He kicks out as he tries to sit up and for a moment, he feels fear again when the wood beneath him splinters and breaks. It doesn't go any further, though, curiously.

His feet have gone through the wood into something oddly hard and metallic when his foot kicks against it.

Confusion breaks on him, and as Ace calls out again, he doesn't answer. He gingerly moves his leg up to kick off the bits of wood. Carefully, he moves on the crate boxes, standing up shakily to peer down at what on earth could have done that?

He peers downward. A bolt of lightning pierces the air and illuminates a gun, in the crate, surrounded by what looked like to be something that wasn't quite hay. And it isn't just a single gun he sees either when the light pierces the warehouse and the crate. There has to be several in that box, all placed together neatly.

"Dallas?" Ace pants, and Dallas looks down towards the floor where Ace is looking at him, terrified. "You okay?"

"Get up here," Dallas breathes out.