Chapter 16: Old-Timers
Angel’s neck was a constellation of yellowing bruises from Morrow’s fingers, a stark map against his pale skin. He’d taken to wearing his shirts with the collars popped up, a strangely preppy defiance in the prison yard, but now, in the relative privacy of their cell block’s common area during a rare lockdown-for-maintenance afternoon, he’d let his guard down. The bruising was on full display.
Dominic saw them every time Angel moved his head. A quiet, simmering fury had settled in his gut, not just at the dead man, but at the entire system that kept putting obstacles in front of his child. The smell of industrial cleaner from the mopped floors mingled with the old sweat and damp concrete of the block. It was a closed-in, echoing space, but for now, it was theirs.
They weren’t with the usual crew. Silas was in solitary, serving his thirty-day ‘vacation.’ Rafael was likely in the library, cross-referencing something. Doc was probably sewing someone up in the infirmary. Instead, they were with older friends, men who’d been inside long enough to see generations of tough guys come and go, most of them in body bags.
There was Fletcher, a wiry man in his late sixties with ink-faded nautical stars on his knuckles and eyes that had seen too much weather, both inside and out. He was doing a crossword puzzle from a newspaper that was three weeks old. Next to him was Jax, a mountain of scar tissue with a shock of white hair and a voice like gravel in a tin can, whittling a small bird from a piece of soap with a smuggled shiv. Next to Jax was Leo, a quiet man who perpetually smelled of the prison machine shop’s grease and metal, and who was currently teaching Birdie, a tiny, twitchy arsonist with coke-bottle glasses, how to properly wrap a grip on a homemade barbell.
Angel was on the floor, sitting between Dominic’s legs, his back against Dominic’s chest. Dominic was working on his hair. The white curls were a snarl after the day’s activities, and Angel had been fussing, running his fingers through them until they were a cloud of knots.
“Hold still, tesorino,” Dominic murmured, his large fingers surprisingly deft as they sectioned the hair at Angel’s crown. He was attempting Dutch braids, a skill he’d painstakingly learned from a tattered hairstyle book Angel had traded for two years ago.
“It pulls,” Angel whined, his shoulders hunching. He fidgeted, his hips shifting on the concrete floor. “You’re doing it too tight, Daddy. It hurts my scalp.”
“If you’d sat still when I combed it, it wouldn’t be so tangled,” Dominic said, his voice a low, patient rumble. He didn’t stop braiding. “Now you’ll endure the consequences. Head up.”
“No, it’s too tight. It’s giving me a headache.” Angel deliberately slumped forward, trying to slip from Dominic’s grasp.
In one smooth motion, Dominic’s hand migrated from the braid to the back of Angel’s head. He didn’t yank. He simply applied firm, unyielding pressure, pulling Angel’s head back until it rested firmly against his stomach, craning his neck slightly. It was a position of total control, of submission. Angel let out a little squeak, but stopped struggling.
“You are being a brat,” Dominic stated, his tone cooling by a degree. He resumed braiding, his fingers weaving the sections with precise, steady pulls. “You asked me to fix it. I am fixing it. You will sit still and be grateful I don’t just shave it all off to teach you a lesson.”
Fletcher looked up from his crossword, peering over his reading glasses. “Kid’s got a point, Reap. You got the tension of a guy wiring a bomb. It’s hair, not piano wire.”
Dominic shot him a look that could have freeze-dried steam. “Your input on grooming is noted, Fletch. Remember your last haircut?”
Fletcher had given himself a buzzcut with electric clippers that had briefly caught fire. He had the faint scars to prove it. He grunted and went back to his puzzle. “7-across. ‘Cretinous.’ Eight letters.”
“Imbecile,” Jax rasped without looking up from his soap bird. A curl of scented lather drifted to the floor.
“That’s nine, you illiterate fuck.”
“Call it artistic license.”
Angel, his head immobilized, let his eyes drift around the room. “Daddy, if you shaved my head, I’d look like a Q-tip.”
“A very talked-about Q-tip,” Leo remarked from his corner, not pausing in his grip-winding demonstration for Birdie. Birdie nodded fervently, his glasses slipping.
“I don’t want to be a Q-tip,” Angel announced, as if settling a great debate. He tried to shake his head for emphasis, but Dominic’s grip held him fast.
“Then. Sit. Still.” Dominic punctuated each word with a slight tug on the braid he was forming.
Angel sighed, a dramatic, world-weary sound that seemed to rise from his toes. He went limp in Dominic’s hold, a boneless doll of protest. For about thirty seconds.
Then he started up again, a low, grousing mumble. “It’s hot. Your legs are hot. I’m sweaty. This floor is gross. You’re taking forever. I want to go draw. I told Jerry I’d draw a picture of Mr. Snuffles for his new photo. This is taking a million years. You’re so slow, Daddy. It’s just hair, why does it have to be perfect, nobody cares—”
Dominic’s patience, a deep but finite well, ran dry.
He stopped braiding. The silence was sudden and absolute. Fletcher paused, his pen hovering. Jax’s whittling stilled. Leo and Birdie looked over.
Dominic’s hands left Angel’s hair. One moved to cradle Angel’s jaw, tilting his head to expose the unmarred side of his neck, opposite the Claiming scar. The other arm locked around Angel’s chest, binding him close. Angel’s whining cut off, his body going alert, sensing the shift.
“I have asked you nicely,” Dominic said, his voice so calm it was unnerving. “I have provided logic. You have chosen to be a disrespectful, ungrateful little brat.” He dipped his head, his breath hot against Angel’s throat. “You know what happens.”
Angel’s breath hitched. Not in fear, but in a strange, focused anticipation. “Daddy, I’ll be good—”
It was too late.
Dominic’s teeth sank into the tender junction of Angel’s neck and shoulder. It wasn’t the claiming bite, which was a ritual, a brand. This was a correction. Sharp, deep, and meant to sting. Angel gasped, a sharp intake of air, his fingers scrabbling briefly against Dominic’s denim-clad thighs before he forced them still, accepting it. Dominic held the bite for a three-count, then released.
He sat back up, licking a tiny bead of blood from his lower lip. On Angel’s neck, two neat, deep punctures welled up, vivid red against his skin, a fresh mark beside the old bruises and the permanent claim. Angel trembled once, a full-body shiver, then went pliant and quiet, his earlier irritability evaporated like smoke. He leaned back fully against Dominic, his eyes half-lidded.
“Now,” Dominic said, his voice returning to its normal timbre. He gathered the half-finished braid and continued weaving it, his movements now smooth, unimpeded. “Where was I?”
Fletcher watched, an unreadable expression on his seamed face. He cleared his throat. “You know, Reaper, sometimes with the smart-mouthed ones, what you gotta do is—”
Jax didn’t even let him finish. He barked out a laugh, a short, dry sound like splitting wood. “Fletcher, for the love of all that’s holy, shut your damn trap. You are the absolute last person on this green earth anyone should take parenting advice from.”
Fletcher raised a bushy gray eyebrow, setting down his pen with deliberate slowness. “And why’s that, Jax? Raised two boys to adulthood before I came in here, didn’t I?”
“You also boiled their hamster,” Birdie piped up unexpectedly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “We heard the story.”
“It was a science experiment about buoyancy! They were failing physics!” Fletcher protested, spreading his hands.
“And then you shot their mom,” Leo added, not looking up as he tied off the grip tape.
“She was nagging me about the hamster smell! It was a moment of profound marital frustration!” Fletcher insisted, but a faint, defensive smirk played on his lips.
Jax pointed his soap-shiv at him. “You. Killed. Your. Kids. You fed ‘em peanut butter sandwiches laced with antifreeze because they wouldn’t stop playing their damn nu-metal music.”
The common area fell silent except for the drip of a leaky faucet down the hall. Fletcher looked around at the faces, then shrugged, a gesture of profound philosophical acceptance.
“Okay, first of all, it was a blend. Peanut butter, antifreeze, and a little raspberry jam for palatability. I wasn’t a monster.” He leaned forward, as if explaining a complex business strategy. “And second, just because I killed my kids doesn’t mean I ain’t got valid points about fatherhood. Those boys were disciplined. They had structure. They knew the rules. Right up until the gastro-intestinal cascade failure, they were two of the most well-mannered boys in Schenectady.”
He said it with such earnest, unshakable conviction that for a beat, no one spoke.
Then a snort came from Dominic’s lap.
Angel was trying to stifle a laugh. It started as a shudder, then a hiccup, then burst out of him—a bright, clear sound of pure, unadulterated delight. He clapped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking.
Dominic felt the laughter vibrate through Angel’s back and into his own chest. He looked down at the crown of his son’s head, where the first braid was now neatly finished. A slow, rare smile touched his own lips, just a faint curve.
“See?” Fletcher said triumphantly, gesturing towards Angel. “The kid gets it. It’s about the principle. The parenting framework.”
“The framework was lethal, you daft bastard,” Jax muttered, but he was shaking his head with a kind of grudging amusement.
“The method is secondary to the message,” Fletcher insisted, picking his pen back up. “Now, ‘cretinous.’ ‘Imbecile’ is nine. You sure?”
“Idiot,” Leo offered.
“Six letters.”
“Moron.”
Fletcher snapped his fingers. “That’s six! Yeah.” He scribbled it in. “Thanks, Leo. See? We’re a community. Sharing, supporting. It’s all part of the same thing.”
Dominic tied off the end of the second braid with a band from his wrist. He gave the braid a gentle, final tug. “Done.” He smoothed his hands over the twin plaits, neat and tight against Angel’s scalp. “No more complaining.”
Angel twisted, climbing up into Dominic’s lap now that he was free, straddling him and wrapping his arms around his neck. He buried his face in the crook of Dominic’s shoulder, right where the prison-issue denim met skin. The new bite mark throbbed warmly.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” he murmured, his voice muffled. He didn’t sound particularly contrite; he sounded sated, settled.
“I know, baby.” Dominic’s arms came around him, large hands spreading across his back. He kissed the side of Angel’s head, right by the neat braid. “You feel better now?”
Angel nodded, nuzzling closer.
“Good.” Dominic let him stay there, a comfortable weight. He looked over at Fletcher, who was smugly filling in another clue. “Fletch.”
“Yeah, Reap?”
“Next time you have a fatherly insight,” Dominic said, his tone dry as dust, “keep it between you and the crossword.”
Fletcher gave a magnanimous wave. “Your loss. Those boys could set a table like you wouldn’t believe. Right up to the end.”
The lockdown ended with a crackle of the intercom and the heavy thud of electronic bolts disengaging. The slow bleed of men back into the common area began. Angel eventually unwound himself from Dominic, the red puncture marks on his neck now obvious against his pale skin and the yellowing bruises. He touched them with his fingertips, a curious, proud gesture, before hopping up.
“I’m gonna go get paper from Jerry for Mr. Snuffles’ picture!”
“You stay on this tier,” Dominic commanded, not moving from his seat. “Jerry’s cell is three doors down. You go there, you come back. No detours.”
“Yes, Daddy.” Angel skipped off, the Dutch braids bouncing behind him, a picture of childish innocence entirely at odds with the fresh wound on his neck and the history in his dark blue eyes.
Fletcher, having moved on from his crossword, was now studying them. “Y’know, back in my day, we just let ‘em ride it out in the—”
“Fletcher,” Jax, Leo, and Dominic said in unison, their voices a flat, forbidding chorus.
Fletcher held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Modern parenting. I’m progressive. I can adapt.”
Angel returned, clutching a few precious sheets of blank paper and a stumpy pencil. He resumed his place on the floor, not between Dominic’s legs this time, but leaning against his knee, content to exist in his sphere. He began to draw, his tongue poking out in concentration.