Chapter 37: ‘Daddy’s Property’
The air in Luca’s cell was a thick, living soup. It was hot, dense with the competing smells of men packed shoulder-to-shoulder: old sweat, cheap soap, the sharp, green scent of prison-issue disinfectant, and underneath it all, the coppery, organic tang of fresh ink and blood. The space was no larger than any other cell, but somehow, Luca had curated an atmosphere that felt less like a cage and more like a clandestine studio. A small, smuggled power converter hummed under the sink, feeding the cord of his tattoo machine, which was resting on a clean towel beside the bunk. The walls were plastered not with pin-ups, but with sheet after sheet of tattoo flash—classic eagles, snarling tigers, intricate geometric patterns, and script samples—all drawn in meticulous detail on prison commissary paper.
Luca himself was perched on a stool he’d welded from scrap metal, his back to the door. He was a lean, wiry Alpha in his late forties, his skin a tapestry of black and gray, his arms sleeved with shading so smooth it looked like smoke. He was currently hunched over the meaty forearm of a man called Fletcher, whose own face was a mask of strained concentration. The buzz of the machine was a constant, abrasive whine, cutting through the rumble of conversation.
“Keep fucking breathing, Fletch,” Luca grunted, not looking up. His voice was a low rasp, like gravel under a boot. “You’re clenching so hard you’re gonna push the ink right back outta your skin. Imagine you’re taking a shit. Relax that asshole, and the arm follows.”
“Easy for you to say, you bastard,” Fletcher hissed through gritted teeth. “You’re not the one getting Saint Michael shoved into your fucking epidermis.”
“I got him right here,” Luca said, tapping his own collarbone with his free hand. “Did it myself with a mirror. So shut up and bleed pretty.”
The cell was packed. Silas filled one entire corner, a monument of silent observation, his arms crossed over his barrel chest. Martinez and a few others from their block leaned against the walls, passing a single, carefully guarded magazine back and forth. Rafael sat on the floor by the toilet, methodically shredding a cigarette filter into a tiny, neat pile.
And in the center of it all, on the worn concrete floor between Dominic’s boots, was Angel. He was sitting with his back against Dominic’s shins, a living security blanket. He’d been fidgety with excitement for hours, ever since Dominic had told him the day had finally come. Now, he was relatively still, his head leaning back against his Daddy’s knee, his long platinum curls spilling over Dominic’s jeans. He was watching Luca work with wide, fascinated eyes, tracing the movements of the needle as it dipped and rose, leaving a trail of vibrant color and tiny beads of blood.
“Does it hurt, Uncle Fletcher?” Angel asked, his voice soft against the machine’s buzz.
“Like a motherfucker, kid,” Fletcher grunted, then shot a glance at Dominic. “Sorry, Reap.”
Dominic’s hand, which had been resting on Angel’s head, stroking his hair, didn’t pause. “He’s heard the word before.”
“It looks pretty, though,” Angel said, tilting his head. “The red in the cape. Is that your blood mixing?”
“Yeah, that’s the juice,” Luca said, wiping a swath of blood and ink with a green soapy paper towel. “Makes it look alive. You’ll see in a minute, kid. You’re up next after Fletch finishes being a princess about it.”
Angel squirmed, a thrilled little shiver running through him. He looked up and back at Dominic. “You ready, Daddy? You gonna hold my hand?”
“The whole time, little bird,” Dominic rumbled. His black eyes were calm, but they kept sweeping the room, a silent watchman. This was a vulnerable moment. His boy, prone and exposed. Every instinct he had was on alert, soothed only by the presence of Silas and Rafael, and by the unspoken law of this place: this was Luca’s shop. Neutral ground.
“What’s he getting again?” Martinez asked from his spot by the wall, not looking up from the magazine.
“Lower back,” Luca answered, capping a vial of black ink and reaching for another. “Pair of wings. Script underneath.”
“’Fly Me to the Moon’?” Fletcher joked, sucking in a breath as the needle hit a tender spot.
“‘Daddy’s Property’,” Dominic said, his voice flat, leaving no room for further commentary.
The room didn’t go quiet—the buzz sawed on—but the quality of the attention shifted. Nods of approval. A low chuckle from Silas’s corner.
“Classy,” Martinez said, a genuine grin spreading across his face. “Makes it official-official. Like a receipt.”
“It is a receipt,” Rafael muttered from the floor, not looking up from his filter dissection. “Paid in full.”
Fletcher’s session ended with a final, long pass of the needle and a heavy sigh of relief. He stood, cradling his freshly wrapped forearm, passing a crumpled pack of smokes to Luca as payment. “All yours, kid. Try not to scream like I did.”
“I don’t scream,” Angel said, puffing out his chest slightly as he got to his feet. “I’m brave.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re a regular fucking warrior,” Luca said, but his tone was more amused than cruel. He began laying out fresh paper towels, swapping needles with the efficient, sterile grace of a surgeon. He patted the bunk, now covered with a clean-ish towel. “Belly down, Angel-cakes. Let’s see the canvas.”
Angel shot a last, quick look at Dominic—a silent check for reassurance—then clambered onto the narrow bunk. He wriggled out of his oversized state-issue shirt, pushing it up to his shoulders, revealing the smooth, pale skin of his back and the dip of his waist. He lay down, turning his head to the side, his cheek pressed against the towel. Dominic moved from the floor to sit on the edge of the bunk near Angel’s head, his thigh a solid presence beside him.
Luca studied the area, his calloused fingers pressing and stretching the skin just above the waistband of Angel’s pants. “Okay. Deep breath and hold it for me.” He flicked the machine on. The buzz, so close now, was more intimate, more visceral.
The first touch of the needle was a line of pure, startling fire.
Angel gasped, his whole body tensing. His hands, which had been resting by his head, flew back and one found Dominic’s wrist, gripping it with surprising strength.
“There it is,” Luca said, his voice dropping into a focused, almost hypnotic monotone. “Just breathe out. Don’t hold it in. Let it out slow.” He began the outline, a single, fluid stroke that started at the tailbone and swept up to form the top curve of a wing. The sound was a steady bzzzzzt-bzzzzzt-bzzzzt, punctuated by the soft, wet pat-pat of Luca wiping away excess ink and blood.
“Fuck,” Angel whispered, the word trembling.
“Language,” Dominic murmured, but his free hand came to rest on the side of Angel’s head, his thumb stroking his temple. His other hand turned in Angel’s grip so he could hold his son’s hand properly, lacing their fingers together. “Look at me. Right here.”
Angel’s dark blue eyes, bright with unshed tears, locked onto Dominic’s. They were wide, shocked by the immediacy of the pain.
“It’s just a scratch, little bird,” Dominic said, his voice a low, steady rock in the buzzing chaos. “You’re doing perfect.”
“It burns,” Angel whimpered.
“I know. It’s supposed to. It’s marking you. Making you mine in a new way. You can take it.” Dominic’s gaze never wavered. He saw the pain, acknowledged it, but didn’t allow it to be a crisis. It was just a fact. A step in the process.
Luca worked steadily, his breathing even, his entire world narrowed to the line he was creating. The wing took shape—large, elegant, feather by individual feather. The room’s chatter had died down to a respectful murmur. This was different from Fletcher’s session. This was ritual.
“So, Reaper,” Martinez said quietly, leaning against the wall and watching. “Those documentary fucks. They ever send that copy?”
“Not yet,” Dominic said, his eyes still on Angel’s. He saw Angel’s focus sharpen slightly on the question, a distraction from the needle digging into his lumbar spine. “Wexler said they will. For ‘archival purposes’.”
“Bet they’re editing it right now,” Fletcher said, admiring his own new tattoo. “Trying to figure out how to make our little Angel here look even more fucking terrifying.”
“He told them about the steak,” Rafael said, finally looking up. His dark eyes were sharp. “On tape. That’s going to be a thing.”
Silas grunted from the corner. “Let it be a thing. Shows the system works.”
“Shows we run a gourmet kitchen for sociopaths,” Luca muttered, pausing to dip his needle. “Might get some animal rights people pissed. ‘That beef could’ve lived a full life in a pasture, not pacify a cannibal.’”
A few low chuckles rippled through the room. Angel managed a shaky smile, his grip on Dominic’s hand easing slightly as he grew accustomed to the relentless, scratching burn.
“Did I… get Daddy in trouble?” Angel asked, his voice small.
“No, baby,” Dominic said, his thumb moving from Angel’s temple to wipe a tear that had escaped. “You just told the truth. The truth doesn’t cause trouble. People’s reactions to it do. That’s their problem.”
“Okay.” Angel closed his eyes for a second, a shudder running through him as Luca started on the inner detailing of the wing, a tighter, more concentrated area of pain. He focused on the weight of Dominic’s hand in his, the anchor of his presence.
The first wing was completed after what felt like an hour but was only twenty minutes. Luca switched needles for the second, a mirror image. The process began again. Angel was quieter now, riding the waves of discomfort, his breaths coming in slow, controlled puffs against the towel. Dominic continued to hold his gaze, a silent conversation passing between them. A squeeze of the hand for a particularly bad spot. A slight nod when Angel breathed through it.
“Almost done with the wings, kid,” Luca announced. “Then the fun part. Script’s always a bitch on the spine.”
To comfort him, Dominic let go of Angel’s hand for a moment. His large, warm palm came to rest on the undrawn skin of Angel’s upper thigh, giving it a firm, reassuring rub. Then it slid up, over the curve of his rear, over the thin cotton of his prison pants. A solid, claiming pat. It wasn’t sexual. It was primal. A touch of ownership, of comfort, of here I am. Angel melted into the touch, a soft sigh escaping him, the tension in his shoulders visibly dissolving.
“See?” Dominic murmured. “You’re my good boy. Taking your mark so well.”
The second wing was finished. Luca wiped the area clean, revealing the twin arches of black, feathered wings framing Angel’s spine. They were beautiful in their simplicity, a stark and elegant contrast against his pale skin, which was now flushed red and angry around the lines.
“Ready for the words, Angel-cakes?” Luca asked, prepping a fresh needle for the script. “Last leg.”
“M’ready,” Angel mumbled, his voice thick.
The script was a different kind of pain. Sharper, more precise, as Luca began to etch the flowing cursive letters just below the wings. D… a… d… d… y… ‘… s…
Angel buried his face against Dominic’s thigh, his free hand fisting in the material of his Daddy’s pants. Small, muffled sounds escaped him—not cries, but grunts of effort, of endurance. Dominic kept one hand woven in his hair, the other a steady weight on the small of his back, right above the burning needle.
“You’re almost there,” Dominic whispered, bending low so his lips were near Angel’s ear. “Almost my officially marked boy. Forever.”
The final ‘y’ of ‘Property’ was connected with a delicate flourish. Luca leaned back, flicking off the machine. The sudden silence was shocking, ringing in their ears.
“Done,” Luca announced, starting the careful wiping and application of antiseptic ointment. “Fuck, kid. You sat like a rock. Better than half the tough guys in here.”
Angel didn’t move for a moment, just breathed heavily against Dominic’s leg. Then he slowly turned his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks tear-streaked, but he was smiling—a wobbly, triumphant smile. “Is it pretty, Daddy?”
Dominic looked at the tattoo. The wings, bold and dark. The words, a permanent, cursive declaration etched into his son’s skin. A complex mix of emotions surged in his chest—possession, pride, a fierce, unyielding love, and the somber weight of what it all meant. This boy, a murderer, his son, now physically bearing a claim that was as much a protection as a brand.
“It’s perfect,” Dominic said, his voice rough. He helped Angel sit up slowly, supporting his back, careful not to touch the fresh work. He took the clean paper towels Luca offered and gently dabbed at Angel’s face, wiping away the tears and sweat.
Luca applied a protective layer of ointment and taped a large, clear bandage over the entire piece. “Keep it clean. No tight shirts. You leak on my sheets, you owe me another pack.”
Angel wasn’t listening. He was trying to twist around, to see. “I want to see!”
“Mirror’s over the sink, but you ain’t seeing it good tonight,” Luca said, cleaning his machine with methodical care. “Wait ‘til the swelling goes down.”
But the other inmates were already nodding in approval. “Looks solid, kid,” Martinez said.
“Fierce,” Fletcher agreed.
Silas pushed off the wall and walked over. He looked at the bandaged tattoo, then at Angel’s proud, puffy face. He gave a single, slow nod, the highest praise. “Suits you.”
Rafael stood, brushing filter shreds from his pants. “Now the whole world knows, in two ways.” He meant the documentary tape and the tattoo. A dual layer of notoriety and ownership.
Dominic helped Angel back into his shirt, letting it hang loose so it wouldn’t stick. Angel leaned heavily against him, the adrenaline draining away, leaving him boneless and clingy. The area on his back throbbed with a deep, persistent heat, a reminder that would last for days, and a symbol that would last a lifetime.
As they shuffled out of Luca’s crowded cell, the buzz of conversation starting up again behind them, Angel kept one arm tightly around Dominic’s waist. The prison corridor felt cooler, the air less dense.
“It really doesn’t hurt anymore, Daddy,” Angel lied, his steps a little careful. “It feels… warm.”
“That’s the feeling of it settling in,” Dominic said, guiding him toward their own cell. “Making itself part of you.”
“So I’m yours forever now? Officially, officially?”
Dominic stopped, turning to face him. He cupped Angel’s face in his hands, his thumbs stroking the soft skin under his eyes. The claiming bite on Angel’s neck was a pale, silvery scar in the dim hall light. Now, he had another.
“You were mine forever from the moment I bit you, Angel,” Dominic said, his voice barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of stone. “This is just for everyone else to read.”
Angel beamed, leaning into the touch. The pain was a distant echo. All he felt was safe. Was claimed. Was loved.
Back in their cell, Dominic sat on the lower bunk and guided Angel to lie on his stomach beside him. He pulled the shirt up just enough to check the bandage. Clean. No excessive bleeding.
“Rest now, little bird,” he said, his hand resting gently on Angel’s hair.
“Will you tell me a story?” Angel murmured, already half asleep from the exhaustion of the ordeal.
“What story?”
“The one about the quiet forest. With the deep, soft moss.”
Dominic leaned back against