Chapter 24: Baby Boy
The common room was a cathedral of echoing noise and flickering light. A single, long fluorescent tube buzzed and stuttered overhead, casting a sickly pallor over everything. The scent was a layered thing: old sweat, bleach, the cheap soap from the showers, the damp wool of uniforms, and underneath it all, the constant, faint metallic tinge of desperation.
In the far corner, anchored by a heavy, bolted-down steel table, was the heart of it.
Dominic Ricciardi sat like a king on a bench of molded plastic, his back to the wall, eyes lazily scanning the room. He was a broad, solid man in his early fifties, with hair as black as engine oil and eyes to match. Tattoos peeked from his collar and sleeves—old symbols, intricate and faded. His presence didn’t demand attention; it simply absorbed it, making the space around him feel heavier, quieter.
Curled against his side, practically in his lap, was Angel.
The boy was a splash of platinum and softness against Dominic’s hardened frame. He had one arm wrapped possessively around Dominic’s waist, his face buried in the crook of his neck, right against the worn fabric of his jumpsuit. A low, thrumming purr vibrated from Angel’s chest, a contented, engine-like hum that was audible even over the distant rumble of the room.
Dominic’s large hand splayed over Angel’s lower back, cupping the curve of his hip. His other hand rested comfortably on Angel’s thigh. His movements were slow, possessive, utterly calm.
“There’s my boy,” Dominic murmured, his voice a gravelly rumble that seemed to emanate from his chest directly into Angel’s skin. He shifted his hand from Angel’s hip, sliding it around to cradle the soft swell of his belly through the jumpsuit, then lower. His palm came to rest, warm and heavy, over the junction of Angel’s thighs. He began to pat gently, a slow, rhythmic pat-pat-pat against the clothed mound, the gesture profoundly mundane and intimately paternal.
Angel squirmed, nuzzling deeper, his purr kicking up a notch. He made a soft, muffled sound of pleasure.
“Daddy’s perfect baby,” Dominic crooned, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of Angel’s head, right between the pigtails. “Just a little kitten, aren’t you? Purrin’ away for me.” He nuzzled into the platinum curls, inhaling the scent of soap and the underlying, unique sweetness that was purely Angel. His hand stopped patting and began to rub in slow, deliberate circles, the pressure firm through the fabric. “My sweet, innocent boy. Don’t you know nothin’ but how to be good for your Daddy?”
Around the table, the others went about their business with the practiced ease of men long accustomed to the scene. Matteo “Brick” Santori was methodically cleaning a set of handmade dominoes with a scrap of cloth, his massive, silent form a bedrock of calm. Silas “Crusher” Wooledge was whittling a piece of pilfered wood into an unrecognizable shape, his battered face impassive. Conrad “Doc” Wexler was quietly reading a months-old newspaper, his glasses perched on his nose. Jaxon “Spark” Halloway was fidgeting, trying to balance a toothpick on the edge of the table. Rafael “Ghost” Villareal simply watched the room, his dark eyes tracking every movement, every shift in the social ecosystem.
It was Fletcher, a wiry man with ink-stained fingers who handled the contraband book trade, who finally broke the domestic spell. He looked up from the playing cards he was fanned out, his gaze landing on Dominic and the purring bundle in his arms. A dry, amused smirk twisted his lips.
“Look, Dom, I love the kid,” Fletcher began, his tone conversational. “Angel’s a delight. A real ray of fucking sunshine. But innocent?” He shook his head, the smirk widening. “Come on. The boy eats people. He prepares people. With sides.”
A ripple of low, knowing laughter moved around the table. Not mocking, but comradely. This was an old, comfortable joke.
Spark snorted, his toothpick tower collapsing. “Heard he used worcestershire sauce on the last one. That’s not innocence, that’s a discerning palate.”
“A curious palate,” Doc corrected softly, not looking up from his paper. “There’s a difference.”
Dominic didn’t stop his ministrations. He didn’t even look at Fletcher. He simply turned his head and pressed a long, firm kiss to Angel’s temple. Angel hummed happily, his own hand coming up to clumsily pat Dominic’s stubbled cheek.
“He was just a baby,” Dominic said, his voice still that low, crooning rumble. He spoke to Angel, not to them. “A curious baby. Weren’t you, piccolino? Just wanted to see how things worked. Tasted a little somethin’ and got confused, didn’t you? Didn’t know it was a ‘no-no’.”
Angel pulled his face back, his dark blue eyes glassy with pleasure and affection. “Was yummy, Daddy,” he whispered, as if sharing a secret.
“I know it was, baby,” Dominic cooed, his thumb rubbing a firm circle over Angel’s clit through the rough fabric. “Daddy knows. But we gotta keep our yummy snacks to the bad people, remember? The ones who bother us.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Angel agreed, his eyelids fluttering. He was arching subtly into the touch now, a slow, sensual roll of his hips that was entirely instinctual. “The spicy ones. Fowler was spicy. Like pepper.”
Brick, without looking up from his dominoes, gave a single, slow nod. “He was an asshole.”
“See?” Dominic said, as if Brick had just delivered a profound philosophical thesis. “A bad, spicy man. My baby was just… tidying up. And settling a debt. Very responsible.” He finally glanced at Fletcher, his black eyes glinting with a dark amusement that held no warmth for anyone but the boy in his arms. “You call that a lack of innocence? I call it efficient.”
Silas let out a grunt that might have been a laugh. He held up his whittling. It was starting to look like a tiny, crude animal. “Kid’s got focus. Most people, they kill, they panic. They hide. Angel? He plans a menu. That’s follow-through.”
Ghost’s cool voice cut through. “The new transfers from Block C sat with Ledger at chow. He gave them the orientation. The big one, Blackwood, got the full primer.” His eyes flicked to Angel, then back to Dominic. “He won’t be a problem. He looked like he was gonna piss himself when Angel brought Ledger the cigarettes.”
Dominic’s hand paused its rubbing. A different kind of attention filled the space around him. It was subtle—a slight tightening of his jaw, a stillness in his shoulders. “Primer on what, exactly?”
“On the nutritional value of the average inmate,” Spark said cheerfully, picking up his toothpicks. “And the importance of not looking at the Reaper’s kid like a snack, lest you become one.”
Angel blinked, tuning into the conversation. “New people? The scared-smelling ones?” He pouted slightly, looking up at Dominic. “Daddy, I said hello but I had to leave ‘cause you said. They didn’t say hello back. That’s rude.”
“It is rude, cuore mio,” Dominic agreed, his dangerous focus melting back into doting concern. He used the hand on Angel’s thigh to give a gentle, admonishing squeeze. “But they’re learning. They’re new. They don’t know my beautiful boy deserves all the polite hellos in the world.” He leaned down again, nosing along Angel’s hairline, his lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You wanna go say a proper hello later? With Daddy?”
Angel’s face lit up. “Can we?”
“We’ll see how their manners shape up,” Dominic said, his tone implying he would be personally conducting the etiquette lesson. He resumed the slow, circular massage over Angel’s pussy, and the boy instantly slumped back into him, purring recommencing.
Fletcher watched, shaking his head again, but the smirk was fond. “You’ve created a monster, Dom. A polite, purring monster who thinks cannibalism is just a way to pay off a guy’s gambling debts.”
“He’s not a monster,” Dominic said, and for the first time, his voice lost its crooning edge, gaining a layer of unshakeable, simple finality. It wasn’t a argument. It was a statement of cosmic fact. “He’s my son. My blood.” He angled Angel’s head gently to the side, exposing the dark, mottled scar of his claiming bite on the pale neck. He ran his thumb over it, a possessive stroke. “Mine. Everything else is just… details. Management.”
The table lapsed into a comfortable silence. This was the core of it. The unshakeable faith. Angel could have confessed to eating the warden, and Dominic would have asked if he wanted ketchup.
After a while, Angel started to get fidgety. The pleasurable stimulation was winding down, replaced by a childlike restlessness. He wriggled in Dominic’s lap. “Daddy. Thirsty.”
Doc looked up immediately, his protective medic’s instinct kicking in. “You drink your water today, Angel? All of it?”
Angel nodded earnestly. “All of it! But I’m thirsty thirsty.”
Dominic understood. He always understood. The look he shared with Doc was quick, a silent consultation. “Alright, baby. Daddy’s got a little treat for you. For being so good and saying hello to the new people, even though they were rude.”
He shifted Angel off his lap, holding him steady as the boy stood on wobbly legs, blinking. From his pocket, Dominic produced a small, tightly rolled piece of waxed paper. He unrolled it carefully on the steel table. Inside were two thick, deep crimson strips of jerky, homemade and meticulously dried.
Everyone at the table stilled. The casual atmosphere didn’t vanish, but it deepened, became more aware.
Angel’s eyes locked onto the jerky. His sweet, placid expression sharpened with a focus that was unnervingly pure. A tiny pink tongue darted out to wet his lips.
“From the spicy man?” Angel asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“From the spicy man,” Dominic confirmed, his own gaze fixed on Angel’s face, watching every micro-expression with rapt devotion. “A little snack. To keep your strength up.”
With a reverence most would reserve for communion, Angel picked up one of the strips. He held it under his nose, inhaling deeply, his dark blue eyes slipping half-closed in bliss. Then he took a small, delicate bite.
The crunch was audible in the quiet corner.
He chewed slowly, savoringly. A tiny drop of saliva escaped the corner of his mouth and he quickly swiped it with his thumb. “Mmm. Still a little peppery.” He took another bite, humming in pleasure.
No one else moved. They watched him eat with a collective, quiet acceptance. This was Angel. This was what he was. It wasn’t grotesque to them. In this twisted ecosystem, it was simply a fact of life, as natural as Brick’s silence or Spark’s fidgeting. He was their kid, and he had unusual dietary needs.
Angel finished the first strip and picked up the second, holding it out to Dominic. “Daddy share?”
Dominic’s stern face softened into something unbearably tender. “No, baby. That’s all for you. Daddy doesn’t get thirsty like you do.”
“Okay.” Angel happily devoured the second piece. When he was done, he meticulously licked each of his fingers clean, then leaned into Dominic, who pulled him back into his arms, tucking him close. Angel sighed, a deep, satiated sound, and buried his face in Dominic’s chest. The metallic thirst was quenched, for now. The purr started again, softer this time, drowsy.
“Good boy,” Dominic whispered into his hair, rocking him gently. “My perfect, good boy.”
Fletcher opened his mouth, maybe to make another wry observation, but a look from Ghost silenced him. Some lines, even in their world, didn’t need to be crossed. The devotion was absolute, a closed circuit between the two of them.
The flickering light overhead buzzed. A guard walked past the edge of their territory, gave the scene a cursory glance, and moved on. Nothing to see. Just the Reaper and his boy. As normal as laundry day.
Spark finally broke the silence, his energy returning. “So, about those new transfers… I heard one of ‘em has a deck of plastic-coated cards. Real ones. Not this trash.” He flicked the worn deck on the table.
Interest, pragmatic and predatory, flickered around the table. A new resource. A new dynamic to manage.
Dominic listened, one hand idly stroking Angel’s back, the other resting once more on the boy’s hip. His mind was already working, compartmentalizing. The world of threats and negotiations and control existed in one chamber. The world of Angel, warm and purring in his arms, existed in another, sealed and sacred.
Angel, drifting towards sleep, mumbled against Dominic’s shirt. “Love you, Daddy.”
Dominic’s arms tightened, just for a second. An almost imperceptible shudder of pure, uncontaminated emotion went through him. He dipped his head, his lips brushing Angel’s forehead.
“I know, piccolino,” he murmured, the words swallowed by the curls. “Daddy knows.”
Outside their corner, the common room roared on.