The Prince and The Tramp.

Chapter One.

THIRD PERSON

The young boy spotted a man across from him, and without thinking, he grabbed his small box and flung it over his shoulder. His gaze quickly swept across the road before he ran. The man sitting at a nearby table nursed a cup of coffee as if it were a newborn.

He looked so sophisticated.

The man wore a fancy suit and expensive shoes. Although the boy recognized their value, he couldn't help but notice a bit of mud stuck to the tip of one shoe. Since polishing shoes on the busy streets was his job, he couldn't pass up the opportunity to clean those high-end shoes. As he sprinted toward the man, he was blocked by two larger men who stood in his way. Slowly, he raised his head to greet their stern glares and scarred faces.

“Let him through,” the sophisticated man ordered. The two hefty men parted slightly, allowing the boy to walk between them. He cautiously approached the man, who, by this time, had placed his coffee cup on the table, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back in his chair as he watched the boy intently, as if he were a project to be studied.

“Hello, little one,” the man called, gesturing for him to come closer when he noticed the boy had suddenly stopped in his tracks.

The boy unstrapped his box and set it down, then knelt and stuttered, falling over his words, he could see that the man was powerful, it was evident. “Hello, sir. May I clean your shoes, please?”

The man's gaze fell on his shoes, and he smiled. “Would you look at that,” he said, noticing the mud stuck to one end of his shoe. “I didn't even realize I had that there,” he replied sincerely and the boy smiled despite himself.

“How much do you charge to clean shoes, son?” the man inquired. The boy slowly met his gaze and muttered. “One cent, sir.” He began to carefully unpack his tools, and the man watched as the boy meticulously handled his work equipment.

A boy that young understood the importance of preserving what provided for him—protecting his means of sustenance.

What a rare gem.

“How old are you?” the man asked, setting his feet down as the boy crawled over and began wiping the shoes with a gentleness that almost made the man laugh.

“I'm Ten Years Old, sir,” the boy replied, his towel moving smoothly over the shoe as his hands hovered with practiced ease. This was clearly not his first rodeo.

“How long have you been polishing strangers' shoes on the streets?” the man continued, engaging the boy.

“I was five when my stepmother bought me my first polish. A week later, I started polishing with rags and polish, and before I ran out of it, I had made enough money to buy my first box,” he finished, turning to the other shoe. Although that one had no dirt on it, the boy cleaned it just as carefully as he had the first.

“You are very hardworking,” the man commended.

The boy giggled and murmured a gentle, “Thank you, sir,” while he continued with his task.

The man could see how much this little craft meant to the boy and how he cherished the means that brought food to his table. Food to the table? That's right.

“You mentioned a stepmother. What about your mother?” he asked. Immediately, the boy’s hands stilled, and the man waited for him to recover. He had clearly hit a nerve.

“She’s in the hospital,” he finally said. The man breathed a sigh of relief; for a moment, he had feared that the child was an orphan.

“What happened to her?” he asked gently.

“She has a bone disease, and it’s all my fault,” the boy muttered, his voice cracking on the last word.

The man pulled his feet away from the boy’s trembling hands and knelt to the boy’s level. Gently, he placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. At first, the boy flinched away, but slowly he allowed the touch. “I am sure that is not true,” the man reassured him.

“She got sick after she had me, and slowly she lost the ability to walk. Now she’s been in the hospital every day since,” he said, wiping his face with the rag in his hands. The man rose to his feet and sat back down in his chair.

“Is that why you clean shoes—to support your mother?” he asked.

The boy chuckled, and the man smiled in return. “No, silly old man! One cent can’t cover my mother’s hospital bill. They say I’ll have to start paying when I’m older and have a better job, but I can feed myself by cleaning shoes.”

What a smart little elf. He referred to me as a silly old man. The thought made Don Ivanov chuckle before he could stop himself.

“Well, I suppose you’re right,” he said once he composed himself. “Tell me, how would you like to be my son?”

The boy paused in his task of packing up his tools, and his gaze met the man’s once more. It was fascinating to see a little boy boldly looking him in the eyes. Only his daughter Nina could meet his gaze without fear, but there was something about this boy—something in him that Lee recognized and wanted for himself.

He envisioned taking this boy in, nurturing him—a boy who would be loyal, owe him his life, and serve him without question. This was exactly what he needed, especially at this point in his life when his enemies were multiplying.

“What is your name?” he asked, and the boy smiled briefly.

“Spades.” he replied, having neatly packed his box. He rose to his feet and gestured for payment. The man snapped his fingers, and one of the larger men turned to hand Spades a wad of cash, which the boy promptly refused to accept.

“It’s one cent,” he informed the big guy, as if giving a lecture.

“I know that, Spades, but I’m offering you more,” the man said, but the boy shook his head, refusing the offer.

“I will only accept one cent—nothing more, nothing less,” he reiterated.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the big guy exclaimed, surprised by his own words. He immediately bowed his head in apology to the boss. “I’m sorry, Boss,” he quickly muttered.

“But I do not have one cent,” the man told the boy.

“I can come back for it, or you can make change. I can help you make changes, too,” he offered.

“Really?” the man asked, and the boy nodded eagerly.

“Give me the smallest bill you have, and I will make change and come back,” he said as he placed his box down. The big guy rummaged through his pockets and eventually handed the boy a five-dollar bill.

Without wasting a breath, Spades took off running.

He had successfully made his change and was running back when he collided with a boy dashing down the street. Spades groaned and shoved the boy back but quickly noticed a group of other boys chasing after him. Together, they bolted down the street into an alley that lined empty shops.

Backed up against the wall at the end of the alley with no escape, Spades held the other boy’s hand, pushing him to stand behind him as he prepared to confront the pursuers. He remembered the stick he used to beat his box, and without hesitation, he pulled it out, holding it firmly in his hand. He swung and knocked the first boy out cold; the others shouted and fled in fright, leaving the bleeding boy behind, who soon got up and stumbled after his friends.

Once they were alone, Spades turned to the boy who stood smiling behind him and frowned. As if about to strike him, he swung the stick, but the boy dodged it easily.

“Tsk,” Spades murmured as he turned to leave. But the boy grabbed his left hand, prompting Spades to glare daggers at him. “What?” he asked, irritated. “They’re gone now, so you can go too,” he told the boy.

“Than—”

“Master Karlin!” A rough voice startled them. Spades, upon seeing men in black suits walking toward them, took off and ran. As if his rough day wasn’t enough, when he arrived at the spot where he had left the men, only his box remained on the table; the men had vanished into thin air.

It doesn’t matter. Whenever he saw him again, he would give him his change. As he picked up his box and swung it over his shoulder, a car drove by. Inside, waving at him, was the boy with the golden hair whom he had saved moments ago.

What was his name again?

Unbeknownst to Spades, that boy would become a man who would wreck his life.