Chapter 1: Happy Birthday
The clang of the cell door sliding open was his alarm clock. Angel stirred, a soft sigh escaping his lips as the familiar sound pulled him from a deep, dreamless sleep. The thin wool blanket was tucked up to his chin, a barrier against the ever-present chill of the concrete block. He blinked slowly, dark blue eyes adjusting to the gray light seeping through the high, narrow window.
A large, warm hand settled on his head, fingers gently carding through the cascade of long, white curls fanned across the thin pillow.
“Wake up, piccolino. It’s a big day.”
Angel’s face lit up even before he was fully awake. He turned his head, nuzzling into the calloused palm. “Daddy.”
Dominic Ricciardi stood by the bunk, his frame filling the space beside the bed. The stark overhead light cut across the sharp planes of his face, shadowing the tattoos that crept up his neck. His black eyes, usually hard enough to make seasoned cons look away, were soft. “Eighteen years old. My boy is all grown up today.”
With a happy wiggle, Angel pushed himself up, the blanket pooling around his waist. He wore a standard-issue olive-drab t-shirt that swam on his slight frame. He reached his arms out, a silent request.
Dominic leaned down, allowing Angel to wrap his arms around his neck in a tight, lingering hug. The scent of old ink, harsh soap, and something uniquely Dominic—steady, solid, safe—enveloped him. Angel pressed his face into the man’s shoulder. “Love you, Daddy.”
“Ti amo anch'io, angelo mio,” Dominic murmured into his hair. He gave him one last firm squeeze before straightening up. “Come on. Doc will have my head if your breakfast gets cold.”
The tier was already humming with the low-grade noise of a hundred men beginning their day—the scrape of doors, the shuffle of feet, the murmur of voices echoing off the catwalks. As they stepped out of the cell, Angel automatically slipped his hand into Dominic’s larger one. No one batted an eye. It had been this way for four years.
Walking down the gallery, they passed a guard leaning against the railing. “Morning, Reaper. Angel,” the guard nodded, his tone neutral, almost conversational.
“Miller,” Dominic returned the nod.
Angel offered a small, sweet smile. “Good morning, Officer Miller.”
The guard’s stern expression softened just a fraction. “Happy birthday, kid.”
They descended the stairs into the main hall, joining the river of olive green funneling toward the cafeteria. The noise level rose, a crescendo of clanging metal and echoing voices. Angel stayed close to Dominic’s side, his smaller frame shielded by the older man’s imposing presence.
The cafeteria was a study in controlled chaos. The air hung thick with the smell of overcooked eggs, stale grease, and industrial cleaner. Sunlight struggled through the high, wire-reinforced windows, casting long, dusty beams across the sea of scarred tables and men.
Their table was an island of relative calm in the corner. The usual faces were already there.
Conrad “Doc” Wexler looked up from stirring a cup of something that resembled coffee. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed, his posture that of a man trying to maintain order in a place that defied it. “There’s the birthday boy. Come sit. I saved you the least-suspicious oatmeal.”
Jaxon “Spark” Halloway was already bouncing on the bench, his restless energy seeming to vibrate the whole table. “Happy Day of Emerging From the Womb, little bro! Eighteen! You can finally vote, if you weren’t, you know, inhabiting a concrete hotel.” He grinned, his blond hair sticking up in chaotic tufts.
Rafael “Ghost” Villareal sat perfectly still beside him, his dark eyes scanning the room in a slow, continuous sweep. He gave Angel a slight, almost imperceptible nod. “Happy Birthday, Angel.”
Matteo “Brick” Santori just nodded from his seat, his massive arms crossed over his broad chest. A tiny, wrapped piece of hard candy sat on the table in front of Angel’s usual spot. That was Matteo’s version of a wrapped present.
Angel slid onto the bench between Dominic and Doc, his smile wide and genuine. “Thanks, everybody.”
A tray of surprisingly decent-looking food—a portion of slightly less-gray scrambled eggs, a piece of toast, and the promised bowl of oatmeal—was slid in front of him by Doc. “Eat,” Doc said, his voice quietly firm. “You need the protein.”
Dominic remained standing for a moment, a silent monolith overseeing his domain. His gaze swept the room, a brief, possessive scan that reminded everyone who sat at this table. Satisfied, he settled next to Angel, his thigh pressed reassuringly against his son’s.
The meal passed with easy chatter. Spark was in the middle of an elaborate, completely implausible story about a mouse he’d apparently trained to steal cigarette butts from a guard’s pocket. Ghost would occasionally interject with a quiet, factual correction that would make Spark scowl and revise his tale.
Angel ate contentedly, leaning into Dominic’s side. He felt a deep, unshakeable sense of belonging. These men, these fearsome Alphas with their violent pasts and intimidating reputations, were his family. They were the ones who had taught him how to navigate this brutal world, who had protected him, who had, in their own gruff ways, loved him.
About halfway through the meal, Dominic moved. He reached into the inside pocket of his uniform shirt and pulled out a small, slightly squished chocolate cupcake with white frosting. It was a miracle of contraband.
Angel’s breath caught. “Daddy…”
“Shh.” Dominic placed it carefully on the table in front of Angel. Then, from another pocket, he produced two small birthday candles and a plain metal lighter.
Spark let out a low whistle. “The Reaper, master of the black-market bakery. I’m impressed.”
Doc watched, a small smile touching his lips. Ghost’s scanning paused, his attention fully on their table. Brick’s stoic expression didn’t change, but his eyes softened.
Dominic stuck the candles into the frosting and flicked the lighter. Two small flames sprang to life, dancing in the cafeterias dull air. He looked at Angel, the candlelight reflecting in his dark eyes. “Make a wish, tesoro.”
Angel closed his eyes. The noisy cafeteria faded into a vague buzz. He didn’t wish for freedom. He didn’t wish for his past to be undone. He wished, with every fiber of his being, for this—this table, these men, this love—to last forever. He opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and blew. The flames died with a tiny wisp of smoke.
Spark immediately launched into a loud, off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.” After a beat, Doc joined in with his steady baritone. Ghost’s lips moved, though no sound came out. Brick gave a low, rumbling hum that might have been the tune. Dominic didn’t sing, but he watched Angel, his large hand resting on the back of Angel’s neck, thumb stroking the delicate skin there.
A few inmates at nearby tables turned to look. Some smiled. A few gruff voices from across the room joined the chorus for a line or two. It wasn’t a pretty sound, but to Angel, it was a symphony.
When the song finished, Spark whooped. “Cake time! Well, cupcake time. Smush it in your face, it’s tradition!”
Angel carefully picked up the cupcake. He broke it into pieces, handing the first, largest piece to Dominic. “You first, Daddy.”
Dominic took it, a flicker of profound emotion crossing his face. He ate it in one bite. Angel then passed pieces to Doc, Spark, Ghost, and Brick. They all accepted their share without ceremony, eating the smuggled sweetness with a solemnity that bordered on ritual. Angel finally popped the last bite, rich with frosting, into his own mouth. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted.
As they were finishing up, the first one approached. A tall, lean man with a shaved head and intricate tattoos on his knuckles walked past their table. Without breaking stride, he dropped a single, crinkly-wrapped butterscotch candy next to Angel’s elbow and gave Dominic a respectful dip of his chin before moving on.
Angel looked up at Dominic, questioning.
“It’s for you. Your birthday,” Dominic said softly. “It’s… acknowledged.”
Then another came. A older man with a deeply lined face slid a stick of gum onto the table, offering Angel a toothless, fleeting smile. A younger guy, all nervous energy, practically tossed a mint in his direction before scurrying away.
Over the next ten minutes, a quiet procession occurred. Inmates of all sizes and affiliations—men who wouldn’t normally share a glance—drifted past the Reaper’s table. Some met Dominic’s eye, some didn’t. Each left a small, illicit sweet: a packet of sugar pilfered from the kitchen, a stale peppermint, a single-serving jelly, a piece of chocolate hoarded from a commissary run. The offerings accumulated around Angel’s tray like a bizarre, sugary shrine.
It was a currency of respect. Not for Angel, the Omega who’d killed his parents, but for the son of Dominic Ricciardi. A recognition of his place. A testament to the protection that surrounded him.
Ghost monitored each approach, his eyes missing nothing. Doc quietly swept the candies into a neat pile. Spark kept up a cheerful commentary. “Ooh, that one’s from Larson. He owes me a pack of smokes. Maybe this is a down payment.” Brick just watched, a silent, unmoving bulwark.
Angel felt overwhelmed, a lump forming in his throat. He looked at the pile of candies, then up at Dominic, his dark blue eyes shimmering. “Daddy… why?”
Dominic’s hand returned to his neck, a grounding weight. “Because you are mine,” he stated, his voice low and final. “And this is their way of showing they understand that.”
The movement in the cafeteria began to shift, indicating the end of the meal period. Guards started calling out for tray returns.
Dominic stood, and the table followed suit. Angel carefully gathered his birthday treasures into his hands, holding them against his chest. As they filed out of the cafeteria, Angel walked in the center of their group, flanked by Dominic and Brick, with Spark ahead and Ghost and Doc behind.
The walk back to the cell felt different. Lighter. The usual oppressive weight of the concrete and steel felt momentarily insignificant against the warmth in Angel’s chest.
Back in the cell, Dominic took the candies from him and placed them in a small metal box that held their few personal items. “For later,” he said.
Angel sat on the lower bunk, swinging his feet slightly. The morning’s emotions were settling into a warm, contented glow inside him. He was eighteen. An adult in the eyes of the law. A lifetime behind these walls stretching ahead of him.
And yet, he’d never felt more like a child—cherished, protected, loved.
Dominic sat beside him, the mattress dipping under his weight. He didn’t speak, just put a heavy arm around Angel’s shoulders and pulled him close. Angel went willingly, curling into his side, his head resting against Dominic’s shoulder. He could feel the strong, steady beat of the man’s heart through his shirt.
Outside the cell, the prison carried on with its harsh, rhythmic life. Keys jangled, doors clanged, voices echoed. But in this small space, there was just the quiet sound of their breathing, and the profound, unshakeable peace of belonging.
Angel closed his eyes, imprinting the feeling to memory. The smell of the cupcake frosting still on his lips, the crinkle of the candy wrappers in the box, the solid strength of the man beside him. This was his life. This was his family. He was eighteen.
And for the first time in a very, very long time, he was completely, utterly happy.