Chapter 2: Tattoos
The air in Luca Navarro’s cell tasted of iodine, cheap soap, and the metallic tang of ink. It was a tight space, made claustrophobic by the bodies crammed inside. Five men besides Luca, Dominic, and Angel filled the room, leaning against the concrete walls or sitting cross-legged on the floor, their silhouettes casting distorted shadows in the light of a single, jury-rigged bulb powered by a contraband battery pack. The buzz of a small, homemade tattoo machine was a sporadic, insect-like drone under the low murmur of voices.
Luca—“Ink” to everyone—was a solid, compact Alpha with a spiderweb of black and gray designs covering every visible inch of skin from his neck to his wrists. He worked at a small, meticulously clean desk, his movements economical and precise. He wiped a man’s freshly inked forearm with a square of blue paper towel. “Alright, you’re dripping. Hold pressure, dumbass. Don’t ruin my work.”
The man, a wiry fellow with a scarred lip, grinned. “Feels fuckin’ great, Ink. Thanks.”
“Payment’s due Thursday. You know the deal.” Luca’s voice was gravelly, his tone devoid of warmth but not hostility. It was a transaction.
Dominic stood near the door, a silent pillar of authority. His presence alone kept the cramped room from tipping into chaos. Angel sat on the floor between his feet, his back leaning against Dominic’s shins, a textbook position of protection. He was watching the procedure with wide, curious eyes, his long white curls tied up in a messy bun on top of his head to keep them clear.
Spark was perched on the edge of Luca’s thin mattress, bouncing his leg. “So, Larson totally welshed on the smokes, right? I knew that butterscotch was a bullshit peace offering.”
From his post by the small, barred window, Ghost spoke without turning. “He paid Vargas instead. Vargas had heavier leverage. Your fault for not collecting sooner.”
Spark threw his hands up. “See? Unjust. The system is broken.”
Matteo “Brick” Santori stood opposite Dominic, his massive arms crossed, effectively blocking half the room. He said nothing, his gaze a passive monitor sweeping over the other inmates.
Doc was the only one sitting properly on the room’s single chair, a medical kit open on his knees. He was prepping antiseptic wipes and a small tube of petroleum jelly. “The skin needs to be clean,” he said, more to himself than anyone. “Angel, come here when Luca’s ready. I’ll prep the area.”
Angel tipped his head back to look up at Dominic. “Nervous, Daddy.”
Dominic’s large hand came down, fingers gently combing through the loose strands of hair at Angel’s temple. “It’s just a sting, piccolino. Like a cat scratch. You’ll be brave. I’ll be right here.”
Luca finished wiping down his equipment with alcohol. “Who’s next? Reaper’s kid, right? Let’s see the stencil.”
Angel got to his feet, suddenly feeling every eye in the room on him. He moved to Doc, who had him hike up the back of his standard-issue olive shirt. Doc’s hands were clinical and gentle as he wiped the small of Angel’s back with cold antiseptic. The air hitting his damp skin made him shiver.
Luca came over, a piece of thermal transfer paper in his hand. On it was a simple, elegant design: two softly feathered angel wings, not aggressive or gothic, but gentle and wide. Beneath them, in flowing cursive script, were the words Daddy’s Angel.
“This the spot?” Luca asked, his voice close.
“Yeah,” Angel whispered.
Luca pressed the paper against his skin, his touch firm and impersonal. When he peeled it back, the black outline of the design remained, a ghostly imprint on Angel’s pale skin.
A low whistle came from one of the other inmates, a bald man named Reyes. “Wings, huh? Fittin’.”
“Cute,” another, younger one muttered, not unkindly.
Spark hopped off the bed to look. “Aw, little bro, that’s sweet. Permanent daddy issues. I love it.”
Dominic’s gaze flicked to Spark, a silent warning that held no real heat. Spark just grinned back.
Luca pointed to the floor by his desk. “You’ll need to lie on your stomach. Here. Pillow.” He kicked a rolled-up blanket toward the spot.
Angel lay down, the concrete cold and unforgiving even through the thin blanket padding. He turned his head to the side, his cheek resting on his folded arms. The position felt vulnerable, exposing the back of his neck where the old, silvery scar of Dominic’s claiming bite stood stark against his skin. A ripple of awareness went through the room. It was a silent reminder, more potent than any words.
Dominic pulled the stool Doc had been using closer and sat, his knees bracketing Angel’s hips. He didn’t ask. He simply took Angel’s nearest hand, engulfing it in both of his own.
Luca powered up the machine. The buzz was suddenly immediate, loud. Angel flinched.
“Easy,” Luca grunted. “Gonna do the outline first. Breathe.”
The first touch of the needle was a sharp, insistent scratch. Angel inhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around Dominic’s.
“That’s it,” Dominic murmured, his thumb stroking over Angel’s knuckles. “Just a scratch. You’re doing perfect.”
The needle dragged, line by line, tracing the upper curve of a wing. It was less pain and more a persistent, hot irritation. Angel focused on the weight of Dominic around him, the familiar scent of him, the solid warmth of his hands.
The room’s conversation resumed, flowing around the central act of the tattoo.
“—so I told him, if that shank is as dull as your fuckin’ wit, no wonder you got caught,” Reyes was saying, earning a few gruff laughs.
Luca wiped away excess ink and blood with a cold, damp paper towel. The shock of it made Angel gasp.
“S’alright,” Luca said, his focus absolute. “Just cleaning. Hold still.”
Doc watched from nearby, ready. Ghost kept his vigil at the window. Brick’s looming presence by the door meant no one even thought about crowding too close.
Spark had settled back on the mattress, leaning against the wall. “Hey Angel, what’s the first thing you’re gonna do when you get out of here?”
A few of the men snorted. It was a cruel joke in a place like this, a life sentence. But Spark’s tone was light, curious.
Angel, his face half-smushed into his arms, answered softly. “Get real ice cream. And sit in the sun.”
The simplicity of it brought a momentary quiet.
“Vanilla?” someone asked.
“Strawberry,” Angel murmured.
The needle moved to the other wing. The buzz was a constant vibration now, settling into Angel’s bones. Dominic’s hand left his for a moment to rub a slow, comforting circle on his lower back, just above the waistband of his pants. Then, as naturally as breathing, that large hand moved lower, coming to rest on the curve of Angel’s buttock, a heavy, warm, possessive weight. It wasn’t sexual; it was grounding, a primal gesture of ownership and comfort. Angel let out a shaky breath, melting into the touch, the tension leaving his shoulders.
No one commented. It was a language they all understood.
“Lookin’ good, kid,” Luca said, pausing to dip his needles into a tiny cap of black ink. “Steady canvas. Skin takes ink well.”
“He’s a good boy,” Dominic stated, his voice low but carrying. The statement was a fact, a decree.
The script came next. The cursive was finer, requiring a lighter, more precise touch. The needle felt like a hot wire being drawn across his skin. Angel whimpered, his legs shifting slightly.
“Shhh, I know, angelo mio,” Dominic soothed, his hand on Angel’s backside giving a gentle, patting squeeze. “Almost done. Just breathe through it. Think of the strawberry ice cream.”
Angel focused on the image: a sun-warmed patio, a cold bowl, the taste of sweet fruit and cream. The pain receded to a background hum.
Spark chuckled. “Damn, Reaper. I’d get a tattoo daily if you’d pet my ass and talk about dessert.”
That broke the tension. A round of rough laughter echoed in the small cell. Even Ghost’s mouth twitched.
“Your ass isn’t worthy of the Reaper’s attention, Spark,” Reyes guffawed.
“And your face isn’t worthy of daylight, but here we are,” Spark shot back, grinning.
Luca worked through the laughter, unperturbed. He was in his zone, his hand steady, his eyes fixed on the evolving artwork. The words took shape under his needle: Daddy’s… then Angel.
Finally, the buzzing stopped. Luca leaned back, setting the machine down. “Outline’s done. You wanna shade the wings? Give ‘em some depth?”
Angel nodded against his arms. “Please.”
“Gonna hurt a bit more. Filling in’s a bitch.”
“He’s fine,” Dominic said, his hand still a comforting weight on Angel. “Do it.”
The machine buzzed back to life. This pain was different—a rapid, repetitive tapping sensation, a broader soreness spreading under the skin. Angel clenched his jaw, a small sound escaping his throat. Tears welled in his eyes, driven by pure physiological reaction.
Dominic saw them. He leaned forward, his broad frame curving over Angel, casting him in shadow. He put his lips close to Angel’s ear, his voice a private rumble meant only for him. “You’re so brave. My brave, beautiful boy. Just a little longer. I’ve got you. I always have you.”
Angel squeezed his eyes shut, letting the words wash over him. The pain was still there, acute and burning, but it was secondary. What was primary was the hand holding his, the other resting possessively on his body, the voice in his ear claiming him, comforting him, loving him. This was his safety. This was his world.
Luca worked with swift, efficient strokes. The wings grew darker, shadows forming at the base of the feathers, giving them dimension. He was an artist, even here, with makeshift tools. The vulgar, hardened man vanished, replaced by pure focus.
After what felt like both an eternity and a single moment, Luca turned the machine off for the final time. He wiped the tattoo down, the blood and ink mixing into a hazy pink on the paper towel. He applied a thick layer of petroleum jelly from Doc’s tube, making the fresh ink shine.
“All done. Get up slow.”
Dominic helped Angel to his feet, keeping a firm arm around his waist as he wobbled. The adrenaline drop made him lightheaded. The skin across his lower back screamed, a tight, hot sheet of pain.
“Let’s see,” Spark said, hopping up.
Angel turned, his shirt still rucked up. The men in the room crowded in a little, not touching, just looking.
The tattoo was stark and beautiful against his pale skin. The wings looked both soft and strong, arched protectively. The script beneath was elegant, a permanent declaration.
Reyes nodded in approval. “Clean work, Ink. Kid wears it well.”
“Thanks,” Angel whispered, his voice thick.
Luca was already cleaning his equipment, his moment of artistry over. “Keep it clean. Doc has the ointment. Don’t fucking scratch it when it itches. You’ll ruin it and I won’t fix it for free.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Doc said, stepping forward with a clean piece of non-stick gauze and medical tape. He carefully applied the dressing over the fresh tattoo.
Dominic guided Angel’s shirt down gently over the bandage. He kept his arm around him, pulling him close into his side. Angel went willingly, burying his face against Dominic’s chest, his body trembling slightly from the aftermath.
“You did so well,” Dominic murmured into his hair, his voice thick with a pride that vibrated through his chest and into Angel. “My good boy. My angel.”
The other inmates began to disperse, the transaction complete, the spectacle over. They filed out with nods to Dominic, respectful murmurs to Angel. “Looks good, kid.” “Take care of that.”
Soon, it was just their family in Luca’s cell: Dominic, Angel, Brick, Ghost, Spark, and Doc.
Spark ruffled Angel’s hair. “Badass, little bro. Seriously. Welcome to the club.” He gestured vaguely at his own collection of ink.
Ghost gave one of his rare, full smiles, a slight softening around his eyes. “It suits you.”
Brick simply placed a heavy hand on Angel’s shoulder and gave one firm, approving squeeze.
Doc finished packing his kit. “I’ll check the dressing tonight. No yard for you tomorrow. Let it start to heal.”
Dominic nodded his thanks to Luca, a silent exchange passing between them—acknowledgment of a debt, professional respect. Then he guided Angel toward the door. “Let’s go home, piccolino.”
They walked back through the tiers, a procession. Angel walked carefully, the throbbing in his back a constant, startling reminder of what had just happened. But more than the pain, he felt the ghost of Dominic’s hands on him, the echo of his words in his ear. He felt the new weight on his skin, a weight he had chosen, a mark he had asked for.
As they reached their cell, Dominic led him inside. The familiar gray walls, the two bunks, the small sink. It was the only home Angel could remember now.
“Lie on your stomach on my bunk,” Dominic instructed, his voice gentle. “It’s softer.”
Angel did, wincing as the fabric brushed the bandaged area. Dominic sat beside him on the edge of the bunk, one hand resting lightly on Angel’s leg.
“Show me again?” Dominic asked, his tone softer now, intimate.
Angel lifted his shirt slowly, revealing the bandage. Dominic’s fingers, so incredibly careful, traced the very edge of the gauze, not touching the wound but framing it.
“Beautiful,” Dominic said, the word leaving him like a sigh. “My mark on your neck,” his finger gently brushed the claiming scar, “and your mark for me, here.” He touched the space beside the bandage. “Now everyone will always know.”
Angel turned his head to look at him, his dark blue eyes clear and full of a devotion so absolute it was frightening. “I wanted them to know. I want… I want to carry you with me, Daddy. Always.”
Dominic’s stern face crumpled for a fraction of a second, an earthquake of emotion quickly controlled. He leaned down and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to Angel’s temple. “You do, tesoro. You have since the day I found you. This…” he gestured to the bandage, “…is just for the world to see.”
Outside, the prison klaxon blared for the change in shifts, a harsh, impersonal sound. But inside the cell, there was only the quiet sound of their breathing, the gentle touch of a father on his son’s sore back, and the gleaming, painful, beautiful new truth etched into skin. It was a promise, a possession, and a prayer, all in one. Angel closed his eyes, the pain a lullaby, and slept.