Chapter 25: Starman
The prison yard was a slab of gray beneath a bruised sky. The high walls ate the sunlight, casting the concrete in a perpetual, chilly shadow. The air smelled of wet asphalt, old cigarettes, and the coppery tang of fresh blood.
Silas “Crusher” Wooledge stood over the man at his feet, flexing his knuckles. They were split and bleeding, but the damage done to the other Alpha’s face was far more impressive. The man—a loudmouth from the west block named Grady—wasn’t moving. His breathing was a wet, ragged whistle.
The circle of inmates that had formed around the brief, brutal exchange hadn’t dispersed. They lingered, not out of concern, but out of a mild, curious interest. Something else was happening.
Angel had been watching from his usual perch on a nearby bench, legs swinging. The moment Grady hit the ground, Angel had slid off and padded over, drawn like a moth to a lantern. He now sat cross-legged on the cold concrete beside the unconscious man, his head tilted.
Dominic, leaning against the wall near the weight pit, pinched the bridge of his nose. A long, slow sigh escaped him, fogging briefly in the chill air. He’d seen the look in Angel’s eyes. That focused, curious glint.
“Oh, here we go,” muttered Jaxon “Spark” Halloway from beside him, a grin spreading across his face. “Art time.”
Angel prodded Grady’s shoulder. The man didn’t stir. Satisfied, Angel pulled a small, sharpened piece of plastic from the seam of his jumpsuit. It was a lovingly crafted thing, a shiv honed to a fine point with a wrapped handle. A gift from Spark.
With the concentration of a child coloring in a book, Angel used the tip of the shiv to trace a shape on the back of Grady’s jumpsuit, right between the shoulder blades. The fabric was thin. The point scratched the skin beneath. Angel leaned close, his platinum curls falling forward.
“What’s he drawing this time?” Brick rumbled, appearing silently at Dominic’s other shoulder.
“Star,” Ghost answered flatly, not needing to move closer to see. “Five points. Uneven.”
Dominic just watched, his black eyes unreadable. He didn’t stop it. There was no point. This was how Angel processed the world. It was anatomy to him, not atrocity.
Angel finished tracing through the fabric. He hooked the point under the collar of the jumpsuit and, with a series of precise, careful tugs, ripped the cloth open along the lines he’d drawn. He peeled the rough blue fabric back, exposing a patch of pale, bruised skin.
A low chuckle rippled through the watching crowd. Viktor, a scarred Ukrainian with ice-blue eyes, shook his head, a smirk playing on his lips. He caught Dominic’s gaze.
“Reaper,” Viktor called, his accent thick. “I hope you know your son is a psychopath.”
Dominic didn’t look away from Angel. The boy was now using the shiv to score the lines of the star directly into Grady’s skin, a thin red line welling up in its wake. His tongue was poking out between his lips in concentration.
“…We’ve been working on it,” Dominic said finally, his voice a dry, gravelly exhaust. The response was automatic by now.
The laughter around them was warm, communal. It wasn’t mockery. It was acknowledgment. Their kid was weird. So what? So was everyone.
Angel began the delicate work of peeling. He inserted the tip under a flap of skin at one point of the star and lifted, separating the dermis from the tissue beneath. It came up in a small, triangular tag. He worked with a bizarre tenderness, placing each peeled piece neatly on the concrete beside him, like he was saving them for later. The blood was minimal, beading slowly.
“He’s got a steady hand,” Doc observed clinically, arms crossed. “Better technique than last time. Less tearing.”
“Practice makes perfect,” Spark said, winking.
The four guards arrived then, their heavy boots slapping against the wet concrete. They moved as a unit, batons in hand, faces set in masks of institutional boredom. The crowd parted for them without a word.
Officer Rockwood, a beefy man with a ruddy complexion, reached the inner circle first. His eyes took in the scene: Silas standing placidly, his knuckles dripping; the unconscious Grady; and Angel, cross-legged and bloody-fingered, meticulously arranging his little skin-petals on the ground.
Rockwood’s face went through a fascinating series of shifts. Initial alarm at the body. Then recognition of the players. Then a profound, weary exasperation that settled deep into the lines around his eyes. He looked from Angel to Dominic.
“For Christ’s sake, Ricciardi,” Rockwood sighed, holstering his baton. The other guards followed suit, their tension easing. This wasn’t a riot. This was paperwork.
Angel looked up, his dark blue eyes wide and guileless. “Hi, Mr. Rockwood. Look.” He pointed at his arrangement. “A star. It’s kinda wobbly ‘cause he moved a little when Uncle Silas hit him. But it’s okay.”
Rockwood scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah. I see it, Angel. It’s… real creative.” He turned to Silas. “Crusher. What was it this time?”
Silas’s voice was like stones grinding. “He called the kid a freakshow. Said he should be in gen pop with the other fgot omegas.”
A collective, low grumble moved through Dominic’s men. That was the line. Always had been.
Rockwood nodded, as if checking off a box on a form. “Right. And you?” He looked at Dominic.
“I was over there,” Dominic said, motioning with his chin toward the weight pit. “Didn’t see a thing until Crusher was already teaching manners.”
Rockwood’s eyes flicked to the skin-star on Grady’s back. “And this? This part of the manners lesson?”
“That’s arts and crafts,” Spark supplied helpfully. “Separate extracurricular.”
Dominic pushed off the wall. He walked toward Angel, his movements slow and deliberate. The inmates gave him a wide berth. He stopped beside his boy, looking down at the bloody, focused face.
“Angel. Baby. Time to clean up.”
“But Daddy, I’m not finished,” Angel pouted, holding up a tiny piece of skin. “The middle part is stuck.”
“It’s good enough, cuore mio. The guards are here. They gotta take the spicy man to the clinic.” Dominic’s voice was firm but not unkind.
Angel’s lower lip trembled, a picture of artistic frustration. “He’s not even that spicy. He smells like old cheese and dumb.”
A snort of laughter came from the crowd. Even one of the younger guards coughed to hide a smile.
“I know, I know,” Dominic soothed. He then bent, his powerful frame moving with a shocking grace, and slid his hands under Angel’s armpits. He hoisted him straight up into the air. Angel gave a little squeak, dropping his shiv. Dominic gave him a small, playful shake, like one might shake a misbehaving kitten, before settling the boy securely on his hip.
Angel automatically wrapped his legs around Dominic’s waist and his arms around his neck, nuzzling into his throat, right over the old mafia tattoos. The blood from his fingers smeared dark on Dominic’s collar.
Dominic bounced him lightly, a hand coming up to pat Angel’s butt in a steady, rhythmic motion. “You did good. Very pretty star. Now we gotta let Mr. Rockwood do his job.” He turned, carrying Angel as if he were a toddler, facing Rockwood. “He need anything else?”
Rockwood looked at the unconscious Grady, then at the serene, blood-smeared child being cradled on the hip of the most feared man in the yard. He sighed again, the sound heavy with a lifetime of institutional absurdity.
“Doc,” Rockwood said, nodding to Conrad. “You wanna check his vitals before we drag him? Make sure Crusher didn’t pop something vital?”
Doc stepped forward, kneeling efficiently beside Grady. He checked the pulse in his neck, peered at his pupils. “Concussion. Probable broken jaw, nasal bones. He’ll live. The…” he glanced at the star, “…the additional decoration is superficial. Clean it, stitch it if the clinic feels charitable, it’ll scar.”
“Great. A souvenir,” Rockwood said dryly. He motioned to the other guards. They hauled Grady up by his arms, his head lolling. The exposed, bloody star on his back flashed at the crowd for a moment before they draped him over their shoulders.
As they shuffled away, Rockwood paused beside Dominic and Angel. He looked at Angel, who was now sucking thoughtfully on one of his bloodied fingers.
“Kid, next time you get the urge for leatherwork, maybe use a notepad.”
Angel removed his finger with a soft pop. “Paper doesn’t taste the same, Mr. Rockwood.”
Rockwood stared at him for a beat too long, then shook his head, a strange, almost fond smile touching his lips. “Yeah. I guess it doesn’t.” He walked off after his men.
The yard’s normal murmur slowly returned. The spectacle was over. Viktor clapped Dominic on the shoulder as he passed. “Good boy you have. He knows his geometry.”
Dominic just shifted Angel’s weight, continuing to bounce him gently. The adrenaline of the small violence was fading, leaving the usual yard dullness in its wake.
“Daddy?” Angel mumbled against his neck.
“Yeah, baby?”
“I’m hungry.”
Doc, who had returned to their group, raised an eyebrow. “Lunch was two hours ago. You ate your full tray.”
“Not that kind of hungry,” Angel said, pulling back to look at Dominic with those big, limpid eyes. “My tummy is… fizzy.”
Dominic understood. The scent of blood, the act of carving, it stirred his particular appetite. The jerky from the other day was long gone. He pressed his nose against Angel’s hair, inhaling his scent. There was a quivering edge to it, a sweet-rotten hunger.
“Alright,” Dominic murmured. He started walking toward the benches, his men falling into step around them, a protective phalanx. “Let’s go sit. Daddy’s got you.”
He sat on a cold bench, settling Angel sideways on his lap. He kept one arm tight around him, the other hand resuming its slow, circular pat on Angel’s backside. It was a calming mechanism, for both of them.
“He’s gonna be out of commission for a while,” Ghost stated, meaning Grady. “His crew won’t make a move. They’re short-timers. They know the math.”
“The math being us feeding them to the kid if they look at us funny,” Spark clarified happily.
Brick grunted in agreement, a solid, definitive sound.
Angel squirmed, the fizzy hunger making him restless. He rubbed his cheek against Dominic’s stubbled jaw. “Daddy, can I have a story?”
“What kind of story, piccolino?”
“The one about the bakery. With the pretty frosting.”
It was a story from Dominic’s past, a front business he’d run decades ago. He’d sanitized it for Angel, turning it into a tale about making rainbow cookies and cannoli. Angel was obsessed with the description of the food.
Dominic began to talk, his low voice weaving a mundane tale of ovens and icing sugar. As he spoke, his hand on Angel’s butt moved from patting to a gentle, kneading massage, feeling the soft give of his flesh through the rough uniform. Angel slowly relaxed, the tension of his hunger soothed by the touch and the familiar voice.
But his eyes stayed dark, fixed on nothing. His fingers plucked absently at the fabric of Dominic’s sleeve.
Silas sat down heavily on the bench opposite, watching. “He’s gonna need something soon, Dom.”
“I know,” Dominic said, not breaking the rhythm of his story or his massage. “I’m working on it.”
“The new transfers from Block C,” Ghost murmured, leaning against the wall behind them. “Blackwood. The big one. He’s got debts to Ledger already. Aggressive. Stupid. Doesn’t listen.”
Dominic’s black eyes met Ghost’s over the top of Angel’s head. A silent conversation passed between them. The yard noise faded into a distant buzz.
Angel, tuned into the shift, perked up. “The rude ones? The ones who didn’t say hello?”
“Yeah, baby,” Dominic said softly, his story trailing off. “The rude ones.”
A slow, sweet smile spread across Angel’s face. The fizz in his stomach seemed to settle into a warm, pleasant anticipation. He cuddled closer, his earlier artistic frustration completely forgotten. “Oh. Okay.”
Doc watched the exchange, his pragmatic face unreadable. “He needs to be careful. That one’s all muscle. No finesse.”
“My boy doesn’t need finesse,” Dominic rumbled, a hint of pride in his voice. He kissed Angel’s forehead. “He just needs an opportunity. And for someone to be very, very rude.”
The wind cut through the yard, carrying the smell of rain. The sky darkened another shade. On Dominic’s lap, Angel began to purr again, a low, vibrating sound of contentment, his bloody fingers now curled peacefully against his father’s chest. The star of skin remained on the concrete where they’d left it, a small, red-brown Rorschach test already beginning to dry in the cold air.