Chapter 31: Bullfinch
The fluorescent lights in the cellblock hummed with a sickly, insectile buzz. It was the sound of stagnancy, of time being processed into waste. Morning count had cleared, and the slow bleed into yard time was beginning. Dominic stood by the bars of his cell, a cup of bitter, instant coffee cooling between his hands. He was listening to Sergeant O’Leary, a man with a face like a clenched fist and a policy manual for a soul, who was making introductions.
“This is Officer Johnson,” O’Leary was saying, his voice stripped of any inflection that could be mistaken for courtesy. “Fresh from the academy. He’ll be on this block and yard detail. Johnson, this is Ricciardi. You follow the protocol sheet you were given regarding him and his… associates.”
Officer Johnson was young, his uniform still crisp with newness, his badge shining with an optimism that hadn’t been scoured off by the grime yet. He stood with a straight back, eyes carefully avoiding direct contact with Dominic’s, focusing instead on a point just past his shoulder. A textbook response to a high-profile inmate. Dominic almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“Sir,” Johnson said, a tight nod.
Dominic took a slow sip of his coffee, his black eyes fixed on the young guard. He said nothing. Silence was a language he spoke fluently, and in it, he could say volumes. I see you. You are nothing. Do your job and stay out of my way.
O’Leary cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “Johnson here needs to understand the… particular ecosystem of this block. You keep your son in line, Ricciardi, and your crew, and we won’t have issues.”
“Angel is never an issue,” Dominic said, his voice a low gravel. “It’s the world that tends to be the issue for him.”
Before O’Leary could formulate a retort, a figure approached at a speed just under a run. It was Jaxon “Spark” Halloway, but the usual restless energy was gone, replaced by a sharp, wired tension. His blond hair was disheveled, his eyes wide. He skidded to a stop a respectful few feet from the bars, his gaze darting from Dominic to the guards and back again.
“Dom,” he said, the single syllable strained.
Dominic’s posture didn’t change, but his focus narrowed completely onto Spark. The coffee was forgotten. “Where’s Angel?”
“Yard. He’s… he’s fine. He’s just…” Spark ran a hand through his hair, a frantic gesture. “You gotta come. Now. It’s… it’s a bird thing.”
A bird thing. The words hung in the chemically-clean air of the cellblock. O’Leary scowled. Johnson looked confused.
Dominic set the coffee cup down on the ledge inside his cell with a precise, quiet click. He moved to the cell door, waiting for O’Leary to buzz it open. The sergeant hesitated, then punched the code. The lock thunked, a sound of heavy, mechanical permission.
“Lead,” Dominic said to Spark, falling into step beside him as they moved toward the yard entrance. His strides were long, effortless. Spark had to jog to keep up. O’Leary and Johnson, caught off guard, followed a pace behind.
“What did he do?” Dominic asked, his voice barely audible over the clang of their footsteps on metal grates.
“A bullfinch. Must’ve hit the wire or got stunned,” Spark muttered, his words tumbling out. “Just lying there by the fence. He sat down. I was watching, I swear, Dom, I was right there, but he moved so fast. He just… picked it up. And then he… you know. He does.”
Dominic did know. A cold, precise understanding settled in his gut. He’d seen it before, though never with an audience that included green guards. The craving. The simple, oblivious need.
The heavy steel door to the yard screeched open. The flat gray light and the din of incarcerated men spilled in. Dominic’s eyes, accustomed to scanning for threats, for angles, for weakness, found his son immediately.
Angel was sitting cross-legged in a patch of weak sunlight near the high perimeter fence, away from the main knots of men. His posture was serene, almost devotional. His long platinum curls were tied back, exposing the pale, vulnerable line of his neck and the stark, jagged scar of Dominic’s claiming bite. In his small, delicate hands, he cradled a small, rust-red bird. Its head was tilted back.
Angel’s lips were pressed to its breast. His eyes were closed. A soft, contented hum vibrated from him, a bizarre lullaby. A thin trickle of dark red ran from the corner of his mouth, down his chin, and dripped onto the gray concrete of the yard. As they watched, Angel’s jaw worked minutely, a tiny, crunching sound audible in their frozen bubble of silence. He was chewing. A fragment of tiny bone.
“Holy Christ,” Officer Johnson breathed behind him.
Spark stood rigid, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I didn’t know what to do, Dom. Do I grab it? He’d cry. He might bite me. I figured… better to get you.”
“You figured right,” Dominic said, his voice devoid of any emotion. He began to walk forward, his movement calm, deliberate. He was a predator approaching a feeding predator, and the dance was delicate.
O’Leary’s face had purpled. “Emberly! Drop that! That is a biohazard! Drop it now!”
Angel’s eyes fluttered open. They were dark blue, clear, and utterly untroubled. He saw Dominic and a sweet, crimson-stained smile spread across his face. He pulled the bird away from his mouth with a soft, wet sound. “Daddy! Look! It’s a little one. It’s so sweet. Like… like raspberry syrup.”
He offered the small, limp carcass, its chest cavity gruesomely opened.
That’s when Officer Johnson made a choked, guttural sound. He clapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes bulging. He took two stumbling steps to the side, bent double, and vomited onto the asphalt. The sharp, acrid smell of bile cut through the yard’s usual stench.
The reaction was instant. The yard, which had been rumbling with its own life, went quiet. Every head turned. Weightlifters paused mid-rep. Card players froze. The basketball stopped bouncing. Two hundred pairs of eyes fixed on the scene: the tiny, blood-smeared Omega, the looming Alpha approaching him, the retching new guard, and the furious sergeant.
Angel blinked at Johnson, his head cocked. “Is he okay?” he asked Dominic, genuine concern in his soft voice.
“He’s fine, angelo,” Dominic said, finally reaching him. He crouched down, his large frame blocking Angel from the view of most of the yard. He didn’t reach for the bird. He looked at his son’s face, at the blood painting his lips and chin like messy lipstick. “You’re making a scene, cuore mio.”
“I’m just having a snack,” Angel said, his lower lip pushing out. “He’s the one making the icky noises.”
Dominic reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean, if threadbare, handkerchief. “Here. Wipe your mouth.”
Angel obediently took the cloth and dabbed at his chin, smearing the blood more than removing it. He looked past Dominic at Johnson, who was dry-heaving now, supported by a disgusted-looking O’Leary. “Does he need Doc? He looks sick.”
“He’s not sick,” Dominic said, his voice taking on that gentle-but-firm tone that brooked no argument. “He’s new. He’s not used to seeing pretty boys enjoy their snacks. Now, are you finished? The little bird is gone to heaven.”
Angel looked down at the bird in his hand. He gave it a sad little look. “Most of him is.” He hesitated, then held it out to Dominic. “Do you want the rest? The legs are still good. They’re crunchy.”
Behind him, Johnson made another terrible gagging sound.
Dominic didn’t flinch. He looked at the offered remains, then back at Angel’s hopeful, sanguine face. This was his child. His beautiful, broken, bizarre child who expressed love through sharing the grotesque. “No, thank you, baby. You finish it. But do it quickly. And quietly.”
Angel’s smile returned. He popped one of the tiny legs into his mouth with a crisp snap. He hummed again.
Dominic stayed crouched, a wall of solid grey between his son and the staring, silent yard. He turned his head just slightly, his gaze sweeping the assembled inmates. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
“Show’s over,” he said.
The words were quiet, but they carried like a shiv sliding between ribs. Men suddenly found the clouds fascinating, their shoes immensely interesting. The clank of weights resumed, the slap of the basketball against concrete started again, conversations picked up in hushed, deliberate tones. The yard’s noise returned, a forced normalcy.
Dominic turned his attention to O’Leary and the wretched Johnson. “Sergeant. Your officer is contaminating the yard. Might want to have him cleaned up before he slips in it.”
O’Leary’s jaw was working. He looked from the vomiting Johnson to the serene Angel, to the implacable Dominic. The power calculus was evident. One guard’s weak stomach versus the atomic stability of keeping the Reaper placated. “Johnson,” he barked. “Get a grip. Now. Go to the infirmary and get checked. You’re a goddamn embarrassment.”
Johnson, pale and shaking, wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He couldn’t look at Angel. He gave a weak nod and stumbled back toward the door, one hand on the wall for support.
O’Leary glared at Dominic. “This is unsanitary, Ricciardi.”
“It’s organic,” Dominic corrected, standing up. He placed a hand on top of Angel’s head. “He’s done now. Aren’t you, Angel?”
Angel swallowed the last of his snack. He licked his fingers clean with quick, kittenish strokes, then meticulously wrapped the few remaining feathers and tiny bones in Dominic’s handkerchief. “All done, Daddy. Should I save the feathers? For my collection?”
“No, baby. Give them here.” Dominic took the bloody bundle. He’d dispose of it properly, through channels that wouldn’t cause a fuss.
Angel stood, brushing off his pants. He looked up at Dominic, his expression now one of mild contrition. “Did I get you in trouble, Daddy?”
“No, tesoro. You never could.” Dominic’s thumb stroked over the claiming bite on Angel’s neck, a possessive, calming gesture. “But you gave Jaxon a heart attack. And you broke the new toy.”
Angel looked over at Spark, who was still standing rigidly a few yards away, the adrenaline slowly leaving him. Angel beamed and skipped over to him. “Jaxon! Did you see? It was so fresh!”
Spark stared at him, at the now-clean but still faintly pink-stained mouth, at the innocent joy in his eyes. He let out a shaky, incredulous laugh. “Yeah, buddy. I saw. My fuckin’ life flashed before my eyes. I thought Dom was gonna use my ribs for a xylophone.”
Angel giggled, a light, airy sound utterly incongruous with their surroundings. “Don’t be silly. Daddy only spanks and bites. He doesn’t do ribs.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Your blood is probably spicy anyway. You’re always so… sparky.”
Spark’s laughter became more genuine, a release of tension. He ruffled Angel’s hair. “You’re a fucking nightmare, you know that? A cute, creepy little nightmare.”
“Language,” Dominic rumbled, joining them. He gave Spark a look—a long, measuring look that contained a brief flash of white-hot ‘you left him alone for a second and this happened’ anger, but which ultimately softened into weary acceptance. It was Angel. This was what Angel did. “You’re supposed to be the responsible older brother.”
“In my defense,” Spark said, hands up, “the briefing packet they gave me on ‘Older Brothering a Feral Omega Cannibal’ was really fuckin’ thin. It didn’t have a chapter on avian appetizers.”
Dominic’s mouth twitched. He put an arm around Angel’s shoulders, pulling him close into his side. Angel melted into the embrace, nuzzling against Dominic’s chest, his earlier energy subsiding into a post-snack contentment. The scent of blood was still on him, metallic and sharp under his usual sweet Omega smell.
O’Leary, seeing the crisis was contained and that he’d lost all disciplinary momentum, scowled and turned to leave. “Just keep him controlled, Ricciardi.”
Dominic didn’t bother to reply. Control was an illusion here. Management was the only possible goal. He looked down at the top of Angel’s head. “Are you satisfied now? No more cravings?”
Angel sighed, a happy, replete sound. “For now, Daddy. It was just a little one.” He peered up, his blue eyes guileless. “Can we go back inside? I want to draw Mr. Snuffles a friend. Maybe a butterfly.”
Spark snorted. “For the reaper’s puppy. Of course.”
Dominic guided Angel toward the door, Spark falling in step beside them. The yard’s attention had finally, fully shifted away. They were just the Reaper and his odd little crew again, a fact of life, a quirk of the ecosystem. The bullfinch was already a memory, a footnote. Only the stain on the concrete and the trauma of a new guard remained as evidence.
As they passed through the steel door, leaving the gray sky behind, Angel tugged on Dominic’s shirt. “Daddy?”
“Yes, Angel?”
“The new guard. He looked really scared. Was he scared of me?”
Dominic looked down into the earnest, worried face. He saw no malice there, no understanding of the horror he could invoke. Only a child-like concern that he’d been frightful. He cupped Angel’s cheek, his thumb stroking over the soft skin.
“No, angelo,” he lied smoothly, his voice a deep, comforting vibration. “He wasn’t scared of you. He’s just scared of this place. It takes some people that way. You… you just reminded him of where he is.”
Angel considered this, then nodded, accepting the explanation. He hugged Dominic’s arm tighter. “I’m glad I’m not scary. I don’t like being scary. I just get hungry.”
“I know, baby,” Dominic murmured, leading him down the dim, echoing corridor. “I know.”
Behind them, Spark shook his head, a grin finally spreading across his face. The crisis was over. The status quo, bizarre and blood-stained as it was, had reasserted itself. He pulled a slightly bent cigarette from behind his ear. “Kids, huh, Dom? They’ll sure keep you on your toes.”
Dominic didn’t answer. He just held his son closer, a fortress in grey cotton, walking through the endless, humming corridors where the monsters were real, and the most terrifying one of all was the one he loved most, who asked for nothing more than markers, affection, and the occasional fresh-killed bird.