Chapter 44: Obedience
The common room of D Block existed in a perpetual state of low-grade tension, a current humming just beneath the surface of casual conversation and muted television noise. It was a wide, hard space, all poured concrete and steel grating over the windows. The air smelled of industrial cleaner, stale sweat, and the ghost of a million cigarettes smoked before the indoor ban. Faded portraits of grim-faced former wardens lined the high walls, their disapproving stares fixed eternally on the living spectacle below.
Today’s spectacle was domestic.
Dominic occupied his usual space at the end of a heavy, bolted-down vinyl sofa, the one with a clear line of sight to both exits. His sheer size seemed to warp the space around him, a gravitational pull of quiet authority. He sat with his legs spread, creating a V of worn denim. Between them, nestled on the cold concrete floor atop a folded towel, was Angel.
The boy was small enough to fit entirely within the cage of his father’s legs. He was facing Dominic, his back resting against the sofa’s edge, knees drawn up. His long, platinum-blonde curls were loosely gathered into two messy pigtails, tendrils escaping to frame a face that held a look of utter, plaintive want. He was watching a single green gummy bear held between Dominic’s thumb and forefinger as if it were the Holy Grail.
The rest of the room continued its own rhythms, but their attention was a tangible thing, a soft focus on the scene. Matteo “Brick” Santori stood near the steel mesh windows, his massive arms crossed, a silent monolith. Silas “Crusher” Wooledge was meticulously cleaning a pair of reading glasses with the hem of his shirt, his eyes periodically flicking over. Rafael “Ghost” Villareal leaned against a support column, ostensibly watching a news report on the muted TV, his posture relaxed but his awareness encompassing the entire room. Jaxon “Spark” Halloway was fiddling with a deck of cards at a table, but his usual restless energy was subdued, his gaze often drifting to the sofa with a mixture of fondness and bemusement. Conrad “Doc” Wexler sat in a nearby plastic chair, reading a dog-eared medical journal, the picture of calm. This was part of their routine, too. Watching the Reaper father his feral child was a kind of grounding ritual.
“Look at me, Angel,” Dominic said, his voice a low rumble that didn’t carry beyond their immediate space. It was a tone that brooked no distraction.
Angel’s dark blue eyes, wide and liquid, snapped from the candy to Dominic’s face. His lips were slightly parted.
“Now, baby,” Dominic continued, holding the gummy bear aloft. “What do we say when we want something? The right way.”
Angel’s brow furrowed. The question seemed to cause genuine, albeit fleeting, cognitive strain. His instinct was to grab. His training was to ask. The war played out on his features. “It’s mine,” he whispered, a hint of a whine creeping in.
“It’s in my hand. So it’s mine until you ask properly.” Dominic’s expression didn’t change. It was patient, implacable.
A small huff escaped Angel’s lips. He fidgeted, the toes of his standard-issue slip-ons curling. “Can I… can I please have the candy, daddy?” The words were recited, but the plea in his voice was authentic.
A faint, almost invisible softening touched the corners of Dominic’s eyes. “Good boy. You asked nicely.” He extended his hand slowly, placing the green gummy bear on Angel’s waiting tongue. He watched, hawk-like, as Angel’s mouth closed. “Chew. Swallow. Don’t just suck on it.”
Angel chewed with theatrical slowness, making a show of it, his eyes locked on Dominic’s the whole time. He swallowed with an audible gulp.
“Now,” Dominic instructed, his hand coming to rest on top of Angel’s head, a heavy, warm weight. “Say ‘thank you, daddy.’”
“Thank you, daddy.” The words were a soft, sweet rush, accompanied by a smile that transformed his face. It was a bright, innocent expression that made the faded scars on his knuckles and the faint, silvery claiming bite on the side of his neck seem like absurd, impossible accessories.
“Good boy,” Dominic rumbled, and the approval in his voice was richer, deeper than any candy. He ruffled the chaotic blonde curls, his big fingers surprisingly gentle. “Now come here. Give daddy a kiss.”
Angel uncurled himself from the floor with a fluid, boneless motion. He didn’t stand; he simply crawled forward the half-step into the space between Dominic’s thighs and rose up onto his knees. He placed his small hands on Dominic’s denim-clad legs for balance and lifted his face.
Dominic leaned down.
The kiss was not romantic. It was a seal. A punctuation mark on the lesson. Firm, dry, and lasting a precise two seconds. Dominic’s hand cupped the back of Angel’s head, holding him steady. When he pulled back, Angel’s eyes had fluttered closed. He stayed there, kneeling, leaning into the touch, a low purr starting in his chest.
From the card table, Jaxon let out a quiet, amused breath. “He’s like a goddamn cat. Feed him, pet him, he vibrates.”
“Quiet, Spark,” Matteo said, his voice a low slab of sound. He didn’t even look over.
Dominic ignored them. His focus was entirely on the boy in front of him. “Nap time, piccolino. You’re getting squirrelly.”
“Not sleepy,” Angel murmured, but the protest was weak, his head already lolling against Dominic’s knee.
“Didn’t ask.” In one smooth, powerful motion, Dominic bent, hooked his hands under Angel’s arms, and lifted him. Angel went limp, a practiced surrender. Dominic settled him sideways into his lap, cradling him against his broad chest as if he were holding a large, delicate doll. One arm supported his back, the other slid beneath his knees. Angel immediately tucked his head into the hollow of Dominic’s neck, nuzzling against the familiar scent of soap, starch, and Alpha.
The common room’s atmosphere shifted a degree. The focused attention diffused back into the general hum. A conversation resumed in low tones. The clack of dominoes started up from a corner table. The television droned on.
Dominic began to rock. It was a slight, almost imperceptible movement, a slow shifting of his torso. His chin rested on top of Angel’s head. His black eyes scanned the room, missing nothing, but the harsh lines of his face had relaxed into an expression of profound, weary possession.
Ten minutes passed. Angel’s breathing had deepened into the soft, rhythmic pattern of sleep. One small hand was fisted in the fabric of Dominic’s shirt.
Rafael detached himself from the column and drifted over. He pulled a plastic chair close and sat, his movements silent. He looked at the sleeping boy, then at Dominic. “Patterson from C Block was asking around in the laundry,” he said, his voice a bare murmur. “Asking about our ‘pretty little pet.’ Wondering if he was… available for trade. He’s got a new shipment of contraband coffee. Thinks it’s a fair deal.”
Dominic didn’t stop rocking. His gaze, when it flicked to Rafael, was flat and cold. “What did you tell him?”
Rafael’s lips twitched in a humorless smile. “I told him the only thing leaving D Block for C Block would be his intestines if he finished that sentence. He got the point. He won’t ask again.”
A slow nod. “Good.”
“He’s a problem, though,” Rafael continued. “Thinks because he runs a ratty little network in C, he can expand. Doesn’t understand the geography.”
“Then teach him the geography,” Dominic said, his voice still low so as not to disturb Angel. “A simple lesson. No need for a mess. Yet.”
“Understood.” Rafael didn’t need details. A simple lesson, in their parlance, could mean a broken hand, a missing finger, a night spent tied to a steaming pipe. It was vocabulary they all shared.
Silas lumbered over, his bulk blocking the flickering light from the TV. He looked down at Angel, his battered face performing a complex maneuver that might have been a smile. “Kid’s out cold. Train could come through here.” He reached out a single, sausage-sized finger and very carefully pushed a stray curl off Angel’s forehead. The gesture was absurdly tender coming from a man who had once crushed a windpipe for snoring too loud.
“He was up late,” Dominic said. “Had a nightmare. Something about red water.”
Silas grunted in understanding. Nightmares were currency here. Everyone had them. Angel’s were just… more literal.
Doc Wexler closed his journal and joined the circle, his medical eye assessing. “His color’s good. Sleep’s regular since you got him on the routine. The supplements from the kitchen are helping. Still underweight for his frame, but it’s improving.”
“He eats when I watch him,” Dominic said. It was a simple statement of fact. Without that supervision, Angel’s eating habits could veer from forgetting meals entirely to fixating on things that weren’t food. The memory of finding him in the library two years ago, teeth sunk into the leather binding of a book, tasting the old animal hide, was still vivid.
Jaxon spun a card on the table, making it zip through the air. “He’s gotta be the only guy in here whose daddy has to make him eat his veggies instead of hoarding them for shine.” He grinned. “We should have a party. Kid’s been here four years next month, right? Four years since the Reaper went domestic.”
Matteo shifted his weight. The floor seemed to groan in sympathy. “A party draws attention.”
“So?” Jaxon’s eyes sparkled with mischievous energy. “We can make it a quiet party. A D Block thing. I could rig up something. Get some real sugar from the bakery detail. Make a little cake. A party party.”
Dominic considered it, his hand slowly stroking up and down Angel’s back. The boy sighed in his sleep, pressing closer. “No cake. He’d eat the whole thing and be sick for a week. But… something. He likes shiny things.” He looked at Jaxon. “Can you make something shiny? From foil or something.”
Jaxon’s grin widened. “I can make him a crown. A king’s crown. Well, a prince’s crown. Out of gum wrappers and foil. It’ll be fucking majestic.”
The idea, so bizarrely innocent in this context, settled over them. A crown made of trash for a cannibal prince.
“Do it,” Dominic said finally. “But it stays in here. On his bunk. Nowhere else.”
“Yes, boss,” Jaxon said, the title layered with genuine affection.
The quiet council continued around the sleeping boy. They discussed the flow of contraband, a potential issue with a new guard on the night shift who was too eager, the deteriorating quality of the prison soap. It was governance. Domestic and brutal, intertwined.
Angel slept through it all, a small, warm weight against Dominic’s chest. His lips moved silently, dreaming. A tiny line of drool darkened the shoulder of Dominic’s shirt.
After an hour, the shift-change klaxon blared from the hall, a distorted metallic squawk. Angel jerked awake with a soft gasp, his eyes flying open, disoriented. For a second, pure, animal panic flashed in the dark blue—a trapped thing sensing a sudden noise.
“Shhh,” Dominic murmured, his arms tightening instinctively. “It’s just the bell, baby. It’s okay. Daddy’s got you.”
The panic evaporated, replaced by instant, trusting recognition. Angel blinked up at him. “Daddy.”
“Right here. Nap’s over. Time to get up.”
“Don’t wanna.” Angel burrowed his face back into Dominic’s neck, his arms clinging. “Warm.”
“I know. But you gotta.” He pried Angel loose, gently but firmly, and set him on his feet on the floor. Angel swayed, still sleep-soft, rubbing his eyes with tiny fists. The sight was so childlike it made Conrad Wexler’s chest ache with a strange, paternal sorrow he’d thought long extinguished.
Dominic stood, his joints emitting a faint crackle. He placed a large hand on Angel’s back, steering him towards the cell block. “Come on. Let’s go get ready for count. You need to wash your face.”
As they moved away, the little group dispersed, falling into the routine of pre-count movement. Angel, now more awake, skipped a step to keep up with Dominic’s long stride, his hand finding and holding onto the edge of Dominic’s belt loop. It was their custom, a way to stay connected in the crowd.
They passed a group of inmates from another cell line. One, a lanky Beta with a spiderweb tattoo on his neck, glanced at Angel. His gaze lingered a fraction too long, traveling over the curves under the shapeless uniform.
It was a tiny thing. A flicker.
Dominic stopped walking.
The entire corridor seemed to cool by several degrees. He didn’t turn his head. He didn’t say a word. He simply stopped, and his presence became a solid wall of implicit threat.
Angel, unaware of the cause, bumped into his side and looked up questioningly. “Daddy?”
The Beta with the spiderweb tattoo felt the change in atmospheric pressure. He suddenly found the floor fascinating, his face paling. He quickened his pace, moving away without a backward glance.
Dominic watched him go, his eyes like chips of obsidian. Then he looked down at Angel. “Stay close, baby.”
“I am close.” Angel reaffirmed his grip on the belt loop.
They continued to their cell. Inside, Dominic pointed to the sink. “Wash. Be thorough.”
While Angel splashed water on his face, Dominic stood by the closed door, listening to the sounds of the prison gearing down for count. The incident in the hall was nothing. A look. It was dealt with. But it was a reminder. A reminder that Angel’s safety, this fragile, constructed normalcy they lived in, was maintained through constant, unspoken vigilance. A reminder that the boy humming off-key at the sink, now trying to blow bubbles in his cupped hands, existed in a bubble made of his father’s reputation and the willingness of men like Matteo, Silas, Rafael, Conrad, and Jaxon to defend it.
The evening count announcement blared over the tinny speakers. “STAND BY FOR COUNT. ALL INMATES IN THEIR CELLS.”
Angel, his face damp and clean, bounded over. Dominic caught him effortlessly, lifting him and carrying him the few steps to the bottom bunk. He sat, arranging Angel sideways in his lap again, this time with a blanket pulled from the foot of the bed. He wrapped it around them both.
From outside, the heavy tromp of booted feet began, moving cell by cell. The flicker of a flashlight beam swept past their window.
In the near-darkness, Angel was fully awake now, cuddled close. “Daddy?”
“Hmm?”
“Is my blood red?”
The question came out of nowhere, a random firing from his unique mind. Dominic didn’t flinch. “Yes, baby. It’s red.”
“Is your blood red?”
“Same as yours.”
Angel was quiet for a moment, his fingers playing with a loose thread on Dominic’s shirt. “The candy was green. But red is better. Red is the best color.”
“It’s a powerful color,” Dominic agreed, his voice a soft rumble in the dark.
“I want to see it,” Angel whispered, not with hunger, but with a kind of artistic longing. “Just to see. Not to… not to taste. Just to see it in the light. Is that bad?”
Dominic held him tighter. He thought about the countless times he’d seen it, spilled in gallons, in alleys and warehouses and the trunks of cars. He thought about the tiny, precious drops from when Angel skinned a knee in the workshop, and how his own heart had clenched with a fear he’d never known before.
“It’s not bad to be curious, Angel,” he said carefully. “But some things… seeing them changes them. Makes them real in a different way. Your red… it’s perfect where it is.Inside. Keeping you warm. Keeping you my sweet boy. We don’t need to see it.”
Angel absorbed this, his logic processing the poetic answer. “Okay, daddy.” He sounded content. The curiosity was shelved, for now. He yawned, a huge, jaw-cracking yawn that seemed too big for his small face.
The count passed their cell. The boots moved on.
Dominic didn’t put him down. He kept rocking, long after the count was cleared, long after the prison settled into its nighttime groan and sigh. He held his son, this beautiful, terrible, fragile creature he had claimed from the darkness, and watched the thin strip of hall light under the door.
In the common room, now empty and haunted by the day’s echoes, a single green gummy bear wrapper, discarded and forgotten, skittered across the floor in a draft from the vent. It came to rest against the leg of the sofa where a king had held his prince, a tiny, discarded flag from their tiny, defended kingdom.