Chapter 42: Advice? No thanks.
The afternoon yard period was a concession to insanity. The air simmered with heat rising in visible waves from the concrete, carrying the sour odor of unwashed bodies, cheap tobacco, and restless Alpha aggression. Towering chain-link fences crowned with shining coils of razor wire boxed them all in, and from the high perches, guards watched with the indifferent patience of vultures.
Beneath the one twisted oak tree that had fought its way through the concrete, a sliver of its trunk rotted and hollowed, a small pocket of odd serenity existed.
Dominic sat with his broad back against the rough bark, his long legs stretched out. Between them, wedged in the space where his body formed a cradle, was Angel. The Omega was cross-legged, leaning back against Dominic’s solid chest, his head resting just below his father’s collarbone. A cheap, handmade comb was in Dominic’s hand, the teeth worn smooth from years of this same ritual. A second, similar comb was tucked behind his ear, and a few frayed black and pink hair elastics were wrapped around his thick wrist, stark against his faded prison tattoos.
Angel fidgeted. “Ow, Daddy. You’re pulling.”
“I’m not pulling. You’re squirming,” Dominic rumbled, his voice a low hum against Angel’s back. He worked methodically, separating a section of platinum blonde curls that spilled over Angel’s narrow shoulders and down his back. The hair was fine and caught on everything—the comb, the callouses on Dominic’s fingers, the dry bark of the tree. “Hold still, piccolino. Almost done with this side.”
“It hurts,” Angel whined, his soft voice taking on a familiar petulant edge. He tilted his head away from Dominic’s hands, trying to ease the tension on his scalp.
Dominic’s response was a gentle but firm tug, pulling Angel’s head back to its proper position. His other hand came up to cup Angel’s chin, tilting it upward until the boy was looking at the sickly yellow leaves above them. “You want pigtails or not? Can’t have your hair getting in the soup again. Doc said he found three of your curls in the stew last week.”
“They add flavor,” Angel mumbled, pouting. He reached a hand back to try and bat Dominic’s away, but Dominic caught his wrist effortlessly, pressed a quick kiss to the inside of it, and returned the errant hand to Angel’s lap.
“They add a sanitation violation. Hold still. One more tie.” Dominic gathered the length of the first section, his thick fingers surprisingly deft as he wound the elastic. He pulled it tight, securing a high, bouncy ponytail on the right side of Angel’s head. The curls sprang free from the band, a cascade of gold.
“Too tight!”
“It’s not. Hush.” Dominic began parting the left side, his movements precise. Angel squirmed in earnest now, a restless child denied a toy.
“Daddy, it’s hot. My neck is sweaty. I wanna go play with the rocks by the fence.”
“After,” Dominic said, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. He combed through a particularly stubborn knot, and Angel yelped.
“You’re doing it on purpose!”
A low chuckle vibrated through Dominic’s chest. “Maybe a little. Brat.”
“You’re a mean, mean man,” Angel declared, his voice thick with faux outrage. He went limp, his whole body slumping in a dramatic display of defeat, making Dominic’s job harder.
Dominic sighed, a sound of long-suffering affection. He finished the part, gathered the hair, and leaned down, his mouth close to Angel’s ear. His voice dropped to a threatening whisper, a velvet-covered stone. “You keep this up, mio angelo, and I’m gonna bend you over my knee right here. Let everyone see how a naughty little boy gets his backside warmed up. That what you want?”
Angel went utterly still. Not from fear, but from a sudden, intense focus. A slow flush crept up the back of his neck. He bit his lower lip, his dark blue eyes going half-lidded. The threat, the possession in it, settled him like nothing else. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head. “No, Daddy.”
“Good boy.” Dominic secured the second pigtail, gave it a tug to match the first, then smoothed his palms over Angel’s shoulders. “See? All done. Beautiful.”
He leaned back, surveying his work. The two high pigtails made Angel look even younger, more ethereal and out of place. The claiming bite on the side of his neck, that brutal scar, was fully visible now.
Around them, sitting in a loose semicircle on the hard-packed dirt, were four other inmates. These weren’t his usual crew—Silas, Rafael, Doc—who were handling business elsewhere. These were older men, long-timers, their faces carved with decades of bad decisions and worse luck. Their crimes were varied and forgotten, absorbed into the bland moniker of ‘lifer.’ They watched the scene with the detached amusement of uncles observing a familiar family ritual.
Fletcher, a gaunt man with watery blue eyes and a permanent nicotine stain on his right thumb, shook his head. He was whittling a shapeless piece of wood from the tree with a contraband shank of filed-down plastic. “You gotta stop lettin’ him run his mouth like that, Dom. He’s playin’ you. My youngest, Kayla, she used to pull that same go-limp trick. Drove her mama nuts.”
Dominic just grunted, running a hand over one of Angel’s pigtails. Angel preened under the touch, turning his head to nuzzle Dominic’s palm.
“See?” Fletcher pointed his shank. “He’s got you trained. What you gotta do is set a consequence and follow through. Don’t just threaten the spanking, give it. Quick, hard, and over with. Then the behavior stops.”
Before Dominic could respond, a snort came from his left. Vlad, a burly man with a shaved head and a thick salt-and-pepper beard, rolled his eyes. Vlad’s thick Russian accent coated his words like grease. “You are giving parenting advice now, Fletcher? This is rich.”
Fletcher didn’t look up from his whittling. “Just ’cause I killed my kids don’t mean I ain’t got good advice. I raised the little shits for twelve and fourteen years respectively before I put ’em in the ground. That’s more experience than most of you dicks have.”
The statement hung in the hot, heavy air. There was no shock, no moral outrage. Only consideration.
Angel tilted his head back to look up at Dominic. “What’d they do, Daddy?” he asked, his tone one of pure, curious innocence.
“Hush, baby,” Dominic murmured, stroking his hair. His eyes stayed on Fletcher, thoughtful.
Vlad barked a laugh, a short, sharp sound.“See? Experience! He took them to Disney World, then fed them antifreeze popsicles in the hotel room because they wouldn’t stop fighting over a stuffed mouse. This is your parenting expert.”
“It worked, didn’t it?” Fletcher said placidly, blowing wood dust off his carving. “They stopped fighting. Permanently. Lesson learned.” He finally looked at Angel. “The point is, kid, your old man’s too soft on you. You need structure. Clear boundaries.”
Angel blinked. “I have boundaries. I’m not allowed to eat the birds or the new people without permission.”
“That’s a dietary restriction, not a boundary,” Fletcher countered.
“Same difference,” Angel said, shrugging. He twisted around to face Dominic, crawling up his chest so they were nose-to-nose. “Daddy, can I have a juice pop from commissary? Please? My throat’s dry from whining.”
Dominic’s large hands came up to frame Angel’s face, his thumbs stroking the high cheekbones. “Was that an apology?”
“Maybe.”
“Try again.”
Angel heaved a dramatic sigh, fluttering his eyelashes. “I’m sorry for being a squirty little brat and making my hair hard to do.”
Dominic’s mouth twitched. He pressed a firm kiss to Angel’s forehead. “Good enough. Yeah, you can have a juice pop. Later.”
Angel beamed, sealing the promise with a quick, smacking kiss to Dominic’s lips—a child’s kiss, innocent and possessive all at once—before settling back down, this time sideways, so he could see the other men. He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. The posture made him look impossibly small.
Vlad shook his head again, a grim smile on his face. “You are hopeless, Ricciardi.”
The fourth man in the circle, a silent, watchful Black man named Isaac who had done thirty years for arson, finally spoke. His voice was a soft, rasping whisper, like pages turning. “Let him be. The boy’s the only thing keeping the Reaper from sharpening his blade on the whole population. We all benefit from the… domesticity.” He offered Angel a rare, thin smile. “You are a civilizing influence, young one.”
Angel didn’t fully understand the word, but he liked the smile. He gave Isaac a shy, brilliant one in return.
“He’s a time bomb with pretty hair,” Fletcher muttered, but there was no malice in it. It was a statement of fact, like noting the weather.
A tense silence fell, different from before. It was the silence of acknowledgment. They all knew what Angel was, what he’d done, what he was capable of. His presence here, cuddled and coddled, was a conscious collective fiction they all maintained. It was preferable to the alternative.
The moment was broken by the grating squeal of the yard gate. Two figures entered: Silas, hulking and grim, and behind him, the new transfer from C Block, the gardener who had yelled at Angel. The man’s name was Ramsey. He was a Beta, skinny, with a perpetually sunburned neck. He looked like he hadn’t slept since the pigeon incident. Silas had him by the upper arm, guiding him not with force, but with an implicit direction that was impossible to resist.
All casual ease vanished from the group under the tree. The atmosphere didn’t become hostile; it became focused.Sharp.
Dominic’s hands, which had been idly playing with the ends of Angel’s pigtails, stilled. He didn’t tense, but his body seemed to become denser, heavier. Angel felt the change immediately. He went very still himself, his playful demeanor evaporating. His dark blue eyes tracked Ramsey with the unblinking focus of a cat watching a wounded bird. A faint, interested scent—sweet and coppery—briefly threaded from his glands before Dominic’s own scent, a dominant wash of aged leather and cold stone, covered it, a silent command.
Silas led Ramsey to the edge of their circle and stopped. He gave Dominic a slight nod. “Brought him for a chat.”
Ramsey’s eyes were wide, darting from the fearsome Silas to the even more fearsome Dominic, who currently had a beautiful, doll-like Omega in his lap. The cognitive dissonance made him visibly sweat. His gaze finally landed on Angel and skittered away, a fresh wave of fear rolling off him.
Dominic took his time. He carefully moved Angel off his lap, settling him on the ground beside his left leg. It was a positional shift, placing Angel slightly behind him, protected, but within touching distance. Angel immediately leaned his head against Dominic’s thigh, his fingers twisting in the fabric of Dominic’s prison-issue trousers.
“Ramsey,” Dominic said. His voice was calm, conversational. It was worse than a shout. “You’re in C Block. You work in the greenhouse.”
“Y-yes, sir,” Ramsey stammered.
“You had an incident there. With my son.”
Ramsey’s throat worked. “I… I didn’t know, sir. I didn’t know who he was. He was just… there. Messing with the birds.”
Angel made a tiny, discontented hum against Dominic’s leg. Dominic’s hand came down to rest on top of his head, fingers sifting through the curls at his crown. A soothing gesture. A claiming gesture.
“What did you call him?” Dominic asked, his voice dropping a degree.
Ramsey flinched. He looked at the ground. “I… I don’t remember exactly.”
“Try.”
The man was trembling. “I… I called him a monster. I said he… he should be put down. Like a rabid animal. Sir.” The last word was a squeak.
A low murmur, almost a growl, started in Silas’s chest. Vlad cracked his knuckles, the sound like popping gravel. Fletcher just watched, his whittling knife still.
Dominic’s expression didn’t change. “I see.” He looked down at Angel, his voice softening marginally. “Is that what he said, baby?”
Angel nodded, his cheek rubbing against Dominic’s thigh. “Mm-hmm. He was very loud. And mean. He scared the birds. Even before I ate one.”
Dominic looked back at Ramsey. “You frightened my son. You insulted him. You suggested I should have him killed.” He stated it plainly, without heat. “That is a direct attack on me. On my family. You understand that, don’t you?”
“I’m sorry!” Ramsey burst out, his voice cracking. “I didn’t know! I was just… shocked. He had blood… he had feathers… I panicked!”
“You panicked,” Dominic repeated. He let the word hang. “My son has particular… needs. They are not a subject for your panic. They are managed.By me. By his uncles.” He gestured vaguely to the men around him, to Silas. “Your job was to tend the plants. Not to pass judgment on other inmates. That is a very, very dangerous hobby here.”
“I won’t do it again.I swear. I’ll stay away from him. I won’t look at him.”
“That would be wise,” Dominic said. He leaned forward slightly, just an inch, but it made Ramsey shrink back. “But an apology is owed. Not to me. To Angel.”
Ramsey’s eyes flicked to the Omega clinging to Dominic’s leg. Angel looked back, his head tilted. There was no anger in his gaze. Just a deep, unsettling curiosity.
“Go on,” Dominic said, his tone making it clear this was not a request.
Ramsey swallowed hard. He took a shaky step forward, then seemed to think better of it and took two steps back. He looked at the ground again. “I’m sorry, Angel. For what I said. It was wrong.”
Angel was silent for a long moment. The yard seemed to hold its breath. Then, in his soft, gentle voice, he asked, “Do you still think I’m a monster?”
Ramsey’s head jerked up, his eyes wide with terror. It was a trap. Any answer could be the wrong one. “I… I don’t… I don’t know you.”
“He was crunchy,” Angel said, as if offering a helpful review. “The pigeon. A little gritty, but the red part was hot and sweet. Like a juice pop.”
Ramsey turned a sickly shade of green.
Fletcher snorted. Vlad chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. Even Isaac’s lips twitched.
Dominic gave Angel’s hair a slight, warning tug. “Enough, piccolino.” He returned his attention to Ramsey. “You will continue your work in the greenhouse. You will see my son there. You will nod, if he looks at you. You will say nothing. You will think your thoughts very, very quietly. If you so much as breathe in his direction wrong, you will not see Silas coming for you next time. You will just wake up in the infirmary… or not at all. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Dominci gave a single, curt nod to Silas. “Take him back.”
Silas placed his heavy hand on Ramsey’s shoulder again. The man practically jumped at the touch, then scurried away, Silas’s shadow engulfing him as they moved back across the yard.
The tension bled out of the circle, replaced by the familiar, grim acceptance. Fletcher resumed his whittling. Vlad leaned back, closing his eyes against the sun.
Angel crawled back into Dominic’s lap, this time facing him, straddling his hips. He wrapped his arms around Dominic’s neck and buried his face in his throat, breathing deep. “He still smells scared, Daddy.”
“I know,” Dominic whispered into his hair, rocking him gently.
“It makes the red quiet,” Angel confessed, his voice muffled.
“I know that too. But we don’t drink from the scared ones. They taste like piss and regret.” Dominic kissed his temple. “You did good. You were quiet when I needed you to be.”
“Was I a good boy?” Angel leaned back, searching Dominic’s face.
“The best boy.” Dominic cupped his cheek, his thumb stroking the apple of it. “My best boy.”
The claxon for the end of yard period blared, a jarring electronic scream that shredded the moment. Inmates began shuffling toward the gates in a slow, weary river.
Dominic stood, lifting Angel with him, setting him on his feet but keeping an arm firmly around his slender shoulders. As they fell into step with the others, joining the flow back toward the concrete tomb, Fletcher sidled up beside them.
“See?” Fletcher said, a note of genuine admiration in his voice. “That’s what I was talkin’ about earlier.Structure. Consequence for him,” he nodded toward where Ramsey had disappeared, “and reward for him.” He nodded at Angel. “You handled that perfectly. Textbook.”
Vlad groaned. “For the love of… he just threatened a man’s life over an insult. This is not a parenting manual.”
“It is in here,” Fletcher insisted, waving his shank at the surrounding walls. “Survival is the first lesson. Loyalty is the second. The kid learned both today. Didn’t you, kid?”
Angel nodded, grinning.
The expression transformed his face, wiping away the last traces of unsettling curiosity and replacing it with pure, guileless pleasure. The approval was all he ever really wanted. Dominic’s hand slipped from his shoulder, the movement fluid and practiced. His arm hooked under Angel’s thighs, and he lifted him in one smooth motion, settling the Omega’s weight against his side.
Angel’s legs wrapped instinctively around Dominic’s waist, his arms locking around his neck. He buried his nose in the familiar, safe scent at the junction of Dominic’s jaw. Dominic began to walk, a slight, rhythmic bounce in his step that made Angel’s pigtails sway.
“Textbook,” Fletcher repeated, falling into step beside them, his whittling finally tucked away.
“Your textbook ends with graves,” Vlad muttered, though he kept pace with the group, a reluctant participant in this odd procession.
“All textbooks do, eventually,” Isaac whispered, his eyes scanning the shifting crowd of inmates ahead.
The yard gate loomed, a steel mouth ready to swallow them back into the fluorescent gloom. Guards watched from the periphery, their faces blank. They knew better than to comment on the sight of the Reaper carrying his cannibal son like a toddler. It was part of the landscape now, a bizarre but accepted feature.
“Did I really learn, Daddy?” Angel’s voice was a warm puff against Dominic’s neck.
“You learned to let me handle the loud, mean men,” Dominic rumbled, his free hand coming up to support Angel’s back. “That’s a good lesson.”
“He smelled better scared.”
“I know.”
“But I didn’t bite.”
“No, you didn’t.” Dominic adjusted his grip, his fingers splayed over the curve of Angel’s backside, holding him secure. “That’s your reward. The juice pop. And no spanking.”
Angel giggled, the sound absurdly light in the grim corridor. The heavy metal door clanged shut behind them, sealing off the sky. The air changed instantly, becoming cool, stagnant, thick with the smell of old sweat and industrial cleaner.
They moved through the network of halls, a silent parade. Other inmates gave them a wide berth, eyes sliding away. Respect was paid not with words, but with space.
Fletcher yawned, his jaw cracking. “Gotta hit the commissary before lockup. Need more smokes.”
“You gonna give the kid his pop?” Vlad asked, a thread of genuine curiosity in his voice. The domestic logistics of this world still sometimes surprised him.
“Course I am,” Dominic said. He didn’t break stride. “Told him I would.”
They reached the junction where the corridors split toward different cell blocks. Fletcher, Vlad, and Isaac peeled off with silent nods. No goodbyes were necessary here. Silas had already melted away somewhere, his task complete.
It was just the two of them now in the echoing hallway, the bounce in Dominic’s step the only rhythm.
Angel’s body grew heavier, a trusting slump against Dominic’s chest. The adrenaline of the yard, the confrontation, was leaching away, leaving behind a pliant exhaustion.
“Tired, baby?” Dominic’s voice was so low it was almost inaudible, a vibration between them.
“Mmm. A little. My head’s quiet.”
“Good.” The commissary line was short, just a few stragglers. Dominic didn’t set Angel down. He held him on his hip, fished his chit card from his pocket with his free hand, and slid it across the counter to the trustee working there. “Grape juice pop.”
The trustee, a man with a tic in his eye, didn’t speak. He turned, fetched the frozen treat from the freezer behind him, and handed it over. His gaze never rose above Dominic’s chest. Dominic took the pop, retrieved his card, and turned away.
He handed the pop to Angel. The wrapper crinkled in Angel’s small hands.
“Thank you, Daddy.”
Dominic just grunted, resuming his walk toward their block. Angel struggled with the wrapper, his fingers clumsy. Dominic stopped walking. He took the pop back, tore the plastic with a sharp tug of his teeth, and handed it back, clean and ready.
Angel took a small lick. The artificial grape flavor stained his lips purple almost instantly. He hummed with contentment, a low, peaceful sound. He rested his cheek back on Dominic’s shoulder, licking lazily at the ice.
The final corridor to their cell was empty, silent but for the distant echo of slamming doors and the buzz of the lights. Dominic’s boots were soft thuds on the linoleum. Angel’s breathing slowed, syncing with the bounce.
He was halfway through the pop when he spoke again, his words slightly blurred by cold and fatigue. “Do you think he’ll dream about me? The greenhouse man?”
“Probably.”
“Good.” Angel took another slow lick. “He should remember.”
Dominic shouldered open the door to their cell. The familiar, cramped space welcomed them—two bunks, concrete, steel. He didn’t put Angel down immediately. He stood just inside, letting the door swing shut, holding his son in the dim quiet.
Angel’s popsicle hand dropped, resting on Dominic’s back. The purple drip slid down the stick, over his fingers, but he was too tired to care.
“All done?” Dominic murmured.
Angel nodded, his hair tickling Dominic’s chin. He let the half-eaten pop slip from his grasp. It hit the floor with a wet, insignificant tap.
Dominic finally moved. He walked the two steps to the lower bunk and sat, Angel still anchored to his hip. He pulled the thin blanket back with one hand. Only then did he loosen his hold, laying Angel down on the creaking mattress. He pried off Angel’s shoes, then his own, and stretched out beside him, his larger body curving around the Omega’s.
Angel immediately curled into him, seeking warmth, his cold, grape-stained mouth pressing against Dominic’s shirt. Dominic’s arm came over him, heavy and final.
The lights in the hall clicked off, plunging the cell into near-darkness, save for the sliver of security lighting from the corridor cutting through the small window in the door.
“The red is very small now, Daddy,” Angel whispered into the fabric. “It’s just a dot.”
“Sleep, then.”
“Will you be here?”
“Always.”
Angel’s breath evened out within minutes, a soft, trusting sigh. Dominic stayed awake, staring at the concrete ceiling. He listened to the prison settle, a beast groaning in its sleep. He thought of Ramsey’s green-tinged face, of Fletcher’s casual wisdom, of the cold weight of the juice pop in his hand.
His fingers found the ends of Angel’s pigtails, loosening the elastics with gentle pulls. He slid them off, letting the curls spill across the pillow. He rubbed the faint lines the bands had left on the delicate skin.
In the dark, he smiled. It was not a kind smile. It was the smile of a man who had built a kingdom on bones and now, inexplicably, had found a fragile, feral heart to guard within it. The pulse under his fingertips was steady, calm. His own matched it.
Outside the cell, footsteps echoed—a guard on rounds. The beam of a flashlight sliced through the window, sweeping over them. It paused, just for a second, on the sight of the Reaper wrapped around his sleeping son, then moved on.
The darkness returned, deeper this time.
Dominic closed his eyes.