Chapter 18: Carve out
The weight yard was a symphony of strain. The clank of iron plates, the grunt of effort, the scrape of concrete under shuffling feet. Sunlight, harsh and unfiltered, baked the expanse, making the air shimmer over the barbells and pull-up bars. The scent was a physical thing: sweat, rust, testosterone, and the underlying, ever-present note of despair.
Dominic stood near the high wall, a shadow despite the glare. He was spotting Silas, who was benching what looked like a small car. Each rep was a controlled, seismic event. Veins corded in Silas’s neck. Dominic’s focus was absolute, his hands hovering near the bar, but his eyes kept flicking to the periphery.
To the small, cross-legged figure twenty feet away.
Angel had found a project.
The project was a lumpen, tattooed Alpha named Grimes, who was currently face-down in a puddle of his own drool, courtesy of Silas’s right fist. The dispute had been something inconsequential—a borrowed magazine, a perceived slight. Grimes had made the catastrophic error of getting loud near Silas during his set. It had been a short conversation.
Now, Angel sat beside the unconscious man like a child examining an interesting beetle. He had a shiv. Not a crude toothbrush-and-razor job, but a proper piece of filed-down shelving bracket, sharpened to a wicked point, its handle wrapped in neat strips of torn cloth. Jax’s work, undoubtedly. A craftsman.
“Daddy, look,” Angel called over, his soft voice cutting through the yard’s noise. He sounded pleased, instructional.
Dominic pinched the bridge of his nose. A deep, world-weary sigh expanded his chest. “Angel. Tesoro. What did we talk about?”
“Public artistry requires permission or plausible deniability,” Angel recited, not looking up. He was tracing a design on Grimes’s sweaty back with a dirty finger. “This is deniable. He’s asleep.”
“He’s concussed,” Dominic corrected, his voice flat.
“Same difference.”
A loose circle of inmates had formed, not out of concern, but bored curiosity. Men paused their reps, wiping sweat from their brows, to watch the little Omega at work. It was break-time entertainment.
Viktor, a wiry forger with ink-stained fingers, sidled up to Dominic. He jerked his chin toward Angel. “The kid’s improving. Lines are cleaner than last time.” He took a drag from a smuggled cigarette, exhaling slowly. “I hope you know your son is a psychopath.”
Dominic didn’t look at him. His black eyes were fixed on Angel’s meticulous, focused posture. The sunlight caught in Angel’s white braids, making them glow. He looked like a renaissance painting of a saint, if saints enjoyed scalpels.
Another sigh, deeper this time, dredged from the roots of his being. “…We’ve been working on it.”
It was the understatement of the century. Therapy in this context was Dominic gently prying a blood-slick shiv from Angel’s grasp and explaining why carving your initials into a snitch’s forehead during chow hall was ‘poor timing.’
On the ground, Angel began his work. He placed the point of the shiv just below Grimes’s shoulder blade. There was no hesitation. He pressed down and dragged, a smooth, firm incision. Grimes, deep in oblivion, didn’t even twitch.
A thin red line welled up, beading like a string of rubies.
Angel hummed a tuneless little song. He carved another line, connecting it to the first. A five-pointed star began to take shape, about the size of a peach. His movements were calm, precise. An artist lost in the flow.
The circle of inmates watched, murmuring.
“Kid’s got a steady hand.”
“Waste of good skin. Could’ve at least spelled something funny.”
“Shut up, he’s concentrating.”
Blood began to flow more freely, tracing the lines of the star, dripping down Grimes’s side to stain the concrete a rusty pink. Angel paused, tilting his head. He seemed dissatisfied with the uniformity. He went back to the top point, deepening the cut, flaying a small, precise triangle of skin. He peeled it back with the tip of the shiv, exposing the wet, glistening subcutaneous fat beneath.
“There,” he whispered to himself. “Better.”
He lifted the small flap of skin on the shiv’s point, examining it. Then, with a thoughtful expression, he brought it to his lips and licked it.
A collective, soft groan of mixed disgust and appreciation went through the spectators.
“Oh, come on, kid,” someone muttered.
“That’s just unsanitary,” said another, shaking his head.
Angel ignored them. He was staring at the blood now freely weeping from the exposed flesh. His dark blue eyes were wide, fascinated. He leaned in close, his nose almost touching the wound. He inhaled deeply, a small, contented smile on his lips. Then, he extended his tongue and licked a long, slow stripe up through the center of the bloody star.
Dominic closed his eyes for a three-count. When he opened them, the look he directed at the heavens was one of pure, exhausted negotiation. Why? it asked. He was doing so well with the coloring books.
The gate to the weight yard clanged open.
Four guards entered. The first was Rockwood, a grizzled man in his late fifties with a face like worn leather and eyes that had seen every permutation of human stupidity and cruelty. He walked with a slight limp and an air of profound, managerial disappointment. Behind him were three rookies, their uniforms still stiff, their eyes wide, trying too hard to project authority into this pit of seasoned predators.
The yard’s rhythm stuttered. Weights were re-racked. Conversations died. All attention slid from Angel to the new arrivals.
The rookies scanned the area, their training kicking in. Their eyes swept over the lifting stations, the pacing men, and then landed on the circle. On the small, pretty Omega kneeling over a bleeding, motionless body, his mouth smeared with red.
One rookie, a kid with a patchy mustache named Higgins, went pale. His hand went to his baton. “Hey! What the—”
Rockwood’s arm shot out, barring his advance. “Hold.”
Rockwood’s gaze took in the scene: Silas, now sitting up on the bench, watching with flat eyes; Dominic, a statue of paternal resignation; the ring of amused convicts; and Angel, who had looked up at the interruption with the mildly irritated expression of a sculptor disturbed mid-chisel.
Rockwood did not sigh. He had surpassed sighing years ago. He simply nodded, as if confirming a tedious appointment. He started walking toward the circle. The inmates parted for him without a word.
He stopped a few feet from Angel, hands on his hips. He looked at the star, the blood, the flap of skin. He looked at Angel’s reddened lips.
“Emberly,” Rockwood said, his voice remarkably calm. It was the tone of a janitor addressing a child who’d spilled glue. “What have we got here?”
Angel blinked up at him. “A star, Officer Rockwood. See?” He pointed with his shiv. “It’s a little messy. The skin was tougher than I thought.”
“I see that. And Grimes? He agree to this… modification?”
“He’s sleeping.”
“He’s unconscious, son.”
“Is there a difference?”
Rockwood’s mouth twitched. It wasn’t a smile. It was a muscle spasm of deep, professional fatigue. He glanced over at Dominic. “Reaper. This your boy’s work?”
Dominic spread his hands, a what can you do? gesture. “He’s creative.”
“He’s a public health violation,” Rockwood muttered. He knelt down, his knees popping. He was now at eye level with Angel. He ignored the rookies’ nervous shuffling behind him. “Angel. Look at me, kiddo.”
Angel did. His eyes were guileless, bright.
“That’s a very sharp tool you have there,” Rockwood said, his voice dropping into a gentle, almost grandfatherly register. It was the voice he used to talk down men on PCP. “Way too sharp for a fella like you. You could hurt yourself. And look at poor Grimes. He’s gonna have an awful rash when he wakes up. You don’t want to give a man a rash, do you?”
Angel’s brows furrowed. He looked at Grimes, then back at his star. “It’s not a rash. It’s art.”
“It’s gonna get infected, art or not. And then Doc’s gonna have to rub awful-smelling ointment on it, and Grimes is gonna be even crankier than usual. You want a cranky Grimes stumbling around?”
A faint pout appeared on Angel’s blood-stained lips. “I suppose not.”
“Course not. You’re a good kid.” Rockwood extended his hand, palm up. It was a large, scarred hand, but it was held perfectly still, non-threatening. “Now, why don’t you let me hold that nasty thing for you? Before you slip and spoil your nice drawing.”
Angel looked at the shiv. He looked at Rockwood’s hand. He looked at the star, his head tilted. The calculus in his eyes was visible: the pleasure of his work against the inconvenience of a cranky Grimes and the loss of his tool.
“Will I get it back?” Angel asked.
“After cleanup, maybe,” Rockwood said, no hint of deception in his voice. “We’ll see. Can’t have sharp things just lying around, son. It’s the rules.”
Angel sighed, a tiny, put-upon sound. He placed the bloody shiv neatly across Rockwood’s palm. “Okay. Be careful with it, please. The point is very delicate.”
“I’ll treat it like a precious jewel,” Rockwood said solemnly. He stood up, pocketing the shiv without looking at it. He nudged Grimes’s leg with his boot. “Alright, the show’s over. Somebody drag this lump to the infirmary. The rest of you, find something constructive to do. Lift something. Brood menacingly. I don’t care.”
The circle broke up, murmurs of laughter following the inmates back to their routines. Viktor clapped Dominic on the shoulder as he passed. “Working on it,” he chuckled, shaking his head.
The rookies were still frozen. Higgins was staring at Rockwood as if he’d just performed a magic trick.
Rockwood turned to them, his expression reverting to its default state of granite. “That,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, “is how you avoid a riot over a damned shiv. You don’t escalate. You negotiate with the crazy. Especially when the crazy belongs to him.” He jabbed a thumb toward Dominic.
“But he… he was…” Higgins stammered, pointing at Angel, who was now trying to wipe the blood from his hands onto his jumpsuit pants.
“He was being a curious boy,” Dominic said, his voice cutting through the rookie’s shock. He had walked over, looming behind Rockwood. He placed a hand on Angel’s head, his fingers rubbing gently over his braids. “Weren’t you, piccolino?”
“I was being artistic, Daddy,” Angel said, leaning into the touch. He looked up at Dominic, his face a tragic mask. “Officer Rockwood took my tool.”
“It was for the best, baby,” Dominic soothed. He used his thumb to wipe a smear of blood from the corner of Angel’s mouth. “You don’t know where that man’s been. His blood could be acidic.”
“Oh.” Angel considered this, then nodded. “That’s true. Thank you, Daddy.”
Rockwood watched this exchange, his jaw working. He looked at the three rookies, who were utterly bewildered by the domesticity layered over the brutality. “Lesson two,” he grunted. “The Reaper there is the most dangerous man in this yard. His boy is the second most dangerous. You treat the boy like a misbehaving kitten, or you answer to the tiger. Clear?”
The rookies nodded, mute.
“Now, go make yourselves useful. Check the south gate.”
As the rookies scurried away, Rockwood turned back to Dominic and Angel. The professional mask slipped, revealing the weary man beneath. “Reaper, a word? Off the record.”
Dominic gave Angel a gentle push. “Go sit with Silas, cuore mio. Show him your clean hands.”
Angel skipped off toward the bench, where Silas regarded his approach with the warm affection of a cliff face.
Rockwood lowered his voice, stepping closer to Dominic. The clank of weights filled the space between their words. “He’s getting bolder. More public.”
“He’s expressive,” Dominic said, his eyes tracking Angel.
“He’s going to get noticed by someone who isn’t me. Someone who won’t ask nicely for the shiv. Someone who’ll see a lethal weapon and an Omega covered in blood and put two and two together with a taser.”
Dominic’s gaze didn’t waver. “He’s protected.”
“He’s a liability. A beautiful, psychotic liability.” Rockwood ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. “I can’t always be the one on yard duty. Those kids?” He jerked his head toward where the rookies had gone. “They’ll report this. They have to. It’s in their DNA. Paperwork will happen. Questions will be asked.”
“Then paperwork will get lost. Questions will find no answers.” Dominic finally looked at Rockwood. There was no threat in his eyes, just a simple statement of fact, colder than steel. “He is my son. This is his home. He stays. He is safe. However he needs to be.”
Rockwood held the stare for a long moment. He saw the unyielding truth in Dominic’s face. The Reaper’s love was the most terrifying thing in the prison. It was absolute, and it would burn the place to the ground before it let harm come to that white-haired boy.
“You’re gonna get me fired one day, Ricciardi,” Rockwood sighed, but the fight was gone from his voice.
“You’d be bored retired.”
“Damn right.” Rockwood looked over at Angel, who was now sitting on the bench, swinging his legs, pointing out something on his own palm to a silent Silas. “He really is a good kid, most of the time.”
“He’s the best,” Dominic said, and the ferocious pride in his voice was undeniable.
Later, back in the cell as the evening lock-down approached, Dominic sat on his bunk. Angel was between his legs, back against his chest, as Dominic carefully re-braided his hair, sectioning the white curls with meticulous care.
“Daddy?” Angel’s voice was sleepy.
“Hmm?”
“Was my star not good?”
Dominic’s hands stilled for a moment. He resumed his braiding. “It was a beautiful star, angelo mio. Very symmetrical.”
“But it caused trouble.”
“A little. Officer Rockwood understands. He knows you have… impulses.”
“I liked the taste,” Angel whispered, almost confessional. “It was… warm. And metal. Like licking a battery.”
Dominic closed his eyes, his forehead resting for a second on the top of Angel’s head. He breathed in the scent of his son—baby shampoo from the commissary and, faintly beneath it, the coppery tang of dried blood. “I know, baby. I know.”
He finished the braid, tying it off with a bit of string. He turned Angel around to face him, cupping his chin. Angel’s eyes were drowsy, trusting, utterly devoid of malice or remorse.
“Listen to me,” Dominic said, his voice low and intense. “The tasting. The… public artwork. We need to be more careful. For Daddy. Can you do that? Can you be my clever boy and find quieter ways?”
Angel searched his face. He reached up and touched Dominic’s stubbled cheek. “I don’t like making trouble for you, Daddy.”
“I know, tesoro. So next time, maybe you just imagine the star. Or you draw it on paper. Or you tell me, and I’ll take you to the shop room, and you can carve wood instead. Okay?”
A slow smile spread across Angel’s face. It was a radiant, innocent thing. “I can carve wood?”
“If you’re good.”
Angel threw his arms around Dominic’s neck, nuzzling into his claiming bite. “I’ll be so good, Daddy. The best.”
Dominic held him, rocking slightly. Over Angel’s shoulder, he could see the narrow