Chapter 8: ‘You’re my baby, say it to me’
The heavy steel door clanged shut behind them, severing the last echoes of the yard’s chaos. The sudden silence of the cellblock was a physical thing, thick and muffling, broken only by the distant, rhythmic snores of another inmate and the constant, low hum of the prison’s electricity. Their cell was a tomb of shadows, the single bulb above the sink casting a tired, yellowish puddle of light that did little to push back the darkness.
Dominic locked the door from the inside with a soft, definitive click. He stood for a moment, his broad back to Angel, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep, deliberate breath. The tension he carried for show outside, the mantle of the Reaper, began to seep from his frame. When he turned, his black eyes found Angel, who was still standing just inside the door, small and pale in the gloom.
“Come here, piccolino,” Dominic said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to warm the cold air.
Angel didn’t hesitate. He crossed the small space and walked directly into Dominic’s chest, wrapping his arms around the older man’s waist, burying his face in the worn gray fabric of his shirt. He inhaled deeply—sweat, soap, cigarette smoke, and that unique, grounding scent that was just Dominic, just Daddy. The safety of it washed over him, rinsing away the lingering, abstract buzz of the violence he’d witnessed.
Dominic’s hands came up, one cradling the back of Angel’s head, fingers threading through the white curls of his pigtails, the other splayed across the small of his back, pressing him close. “You’re shaking,” Dominic murmured into his hair.
“Not from being scared,” Angel’s voice was muffled against his chest. “Just… it’s loud inside me. From outside.”
“I heard.” Two words, heavy with meaning. News traveled faster than light in this place. Dominic had already gotten the silent, respectful nods, the knowing looks. The story was being told in whispers on every tier: Crusher made an example. For the kid. For the Reaper. He held Angel tighter. “Silas took care of it.”
“He was very… thorough,” Angel said, pulling back just enough to look up. His dark blue eyes were clear, reflecting the dim light. “He said I was family. He said I was everything.”
“You are.” Dominic’s thumb stroked over the claiming bite on the side of Angel’s neck, a habitual, possessive gesture. The scar was raised and pale against his skin, a permanent covenant. “You are everything. Now, let Daddy get you cleaned up. You smell like the yard. Like tension.”
He took Angel’s hand and led him the few steps to the sink. The partition in the cell—a flimsy, rusted sheet of metal—was a formality. Dominic ignored it. He wetted a clean washcloth under the tepid tap, wrung it out, and turned Angel gently by the shoulders.
With slow, methodical strokes, he began washing the boy. Starting with his face, wiping away the invisible grime of the afternoon, tracing the arch of his brows, the curve of his jaw. He moved to his neck, his shoulders, his arms. The act was ritualistic, intimate in its simplicity. Angel stood pliant, his eyes closed, a soft sigh escaping his lips as the cool cloth moved over his skin.
“Arms up, baby,” Dominic instructed softly.
Angel raised his arms. Dominic lifted the thin tank top over his head, dropping it to the floor. He continued with the cloth, washing over Angel’s toned stomach, the hourglass dip of his waist, the soft swell of his breasts. His touch was clinical yet tender, a caretaker tending to a prized possession. There was no erotic charge to it; it was a sacrament of belonging.
He undid the drawstring of Angel’s sweats, pushing them and his boxers down over his hips. Angel stepped out of them, naked now in the yellow light. Dominic knelt, washing down his legs, his feet, even between his toes. He was meticulous. Removing the outside world. Redrawing the boundaries of their private domain.
When he was done, he dried Angel with a second, rougher towel, rubbing until his skin glowed pink. “There,” Dominic said, his voice a warm caress. “My clean boy.”
He stripped his own clothes off quickly, efficiently, his movements those of a man who’d spent decades changing in barracks and cells. His body was a map of old violence—scars layered over muscle, tattoos telling stories in ink that had faded to green and black. He washed himself at the sink with the same brisk practicality, then joined Angel by the lower bunk.
The bed was narrow, meant for one, but they had long since learned how to fit. Dominic slid in first, his back against the cold wall. He opened his arms. “Come on, baby. Time to settle.”
Angel crawled in immediately, molding himself against Dominic’s side. He slung a leg over Dominic’s thighs, tucked his head under his chin, and pressed as close as physically possible, skin to skin from chest to toes. A contented, almost silent hum vibrated in his throat. Dominic arranged the thin blanket over them both, then wrapped his arms around Angel, one hand resting possessively on the curve of his hip, the other resuming its gentle stroking of his hair.
The silence stretched, comfortable and deep. The cell was theirs. The world beyond the steel door ceased to exist.
After a long while, Angel whispered, “Daddy?”
“Right here, baby.”
“Did I do okay today? When he… when Marco…”
Dominic’s hand stilled for a moment. “You did perfect. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t cry. You let your uncles handle it. You trusted the family. That’s all Daddy ever wants from you.” He kissed the crown of Angel’s head. “You were so brave.”
“I wasn’t brave,” Angel said, nuzzling closer. “I was safe. It’s different.”
That insight, so simple and profound, made Dominic’s chest tighten. He hugged him tighter. “You’re right. It is different. And you will always be safe. Daddy promises.”
His voice shifted then, dropping into the softer, lilting cadence he used only in this dark space, only with this boy. It was a voice that spoke of lullabies and secrets, of a tenderness so absolute it was itself a kind of violence against the harsh world that birthed them.
“My beautiful little boy,” he murmured, his lips moving against Angel’s hair. “Daddy’s perfect, perfect baby. All clean and sweet in Daddy’s arms. Just where you belong.”
Angel melted further, a boneless heap of contentment. “Love being your baby, Daddy.”
“I know you do, angelo mio. And you are. You’re my baby. My property. Every part of you.” His hand slid from Angel’s hip, tracing the line of his spine, up and down, a slow, soothing rhythm. “This soft skin? Daddy’s. These pretty eyes that look at Daddy like he’s the whole world? Daddy’s. This smart, kind heart beating right here?” He pressed his palm flat against Angel’s chest, feeling the steady thump-thump against his hand. “That’s Daddy’s most of all. Nobody touches it. Nobody gets to even look at it. It’s mine.”
Each declaration was a brick in the fortress around them. Angel drank them in, each word a warm sip of security.
“The man today,” Dominic continued, his tone never losing that soft, possessive warmth, “he was dust. He was nothing. He thought he could touch what’s mine with a dirty word. Silas reminded him. They all got reminded. You see? You are so precious, baby. So precious that men will break their own bones on the stone of you if Daddy allows it. And Daddy won’t allow it.”
He shifted, rolling slightly so he could look down at Angel’s face. In the murky light, the boy’s features were softened, his eyes half-lidded and trusting. Dominic kissed his forehead, then the tip of his nose, then each closed eyelid. The kisses were chaste, feather-light, an overflow of affection.
“You own me too, you know,” Dominic whispered, the admission raw and real in the dark. “This old, hardened thing that Daddy is? You wrapped your little hands around it and claimed it. You softened all the sharp edges. You’re the only thing in here… the only thing in years… that makes any sense. You’re my reason. So you see, baby, we belong to each other. But you… you will always be my baby first. My sweet boy. My beautiful, broken thing that Daddy put back together.”
Angel’s eyes opened then, glistening. “You did put me back together,” he whispered. “From all the pieces they left.”
“And I’ll break anyone who tries to crack you again.” The words were a vow, iron-clad. “Not a hair on your head. Not a single worry in that mind. Daddy protects what’s his. And you, my darling boy, are the most ‘his’ thing that has ever existed.”
He gathered Angel even closer, if that was possible, tucking the boy’s head back under his chin. They lay like that, breathing in sync, hearts beating a slow, conjoined rhythm against each other’s skin. The distant, mechanical sounds of the prison—a gate sliding shut, a muffled shout—were nothing. They were irrelevant noise.
Angel’s fingers traced idle patterns on Dominic’s chest, over the faded ink of a Madonna, over a long, silvery scar. “Daddy?” he said again, his voice drowsy.
“Hmm?”
“Tell me about the vineyard again. The one from the picture.”
It was a familiar request. A bedtime story from a different life. Dominic smiled into the darkness.
“It was in Sicily,” he began, his voice taking on a storyteller’s cadence. “Near a little town with white houses. The vines were old, gnarled. In the summer, the air smelled like hot earth and grapes. Your nonno would take me out at dawn, the dew still on the leaves…” He spun the tale, detail by sensory detail—the taste of the first press, the color of the sunset over the fields, the feel of the warm, dry soil. It was a ghost, a beautiful ghost he offered to his son.
Angel listened, his breathing deepening. The story wasn’t just a story; it was a placeholder for a childhood neither of them had truly had, a peaceful dream they shared in their concrete cocoon.
When the tale wound down, the silence returned, sweeter this time.
“Daddy loves you,” Dominic said, the words final and absolute, a period at the end of the day’s sentence.
“I love Daddy more,” Angel sighed, already half asleep.
“Impossible.”
Dominic held him, awake long after Angel’s breathing evened out into the gentle rhythms of sleep. He watched the shallow light and shadow play on the boy’s face, on the trusting curve of his parted lips. The ferocity of his love was a quiet storm inside him, a howling gale contained within the cage of his ribs. It was more profound than any obsession, more enduring than any vendetta. It was the core of him now.
The world outside was full of Marcos—men who saw something sweet and thought that gave them the right to sour it with a touch, a word, a look. They would keep coming, in one form or another. The Silases of the world would break them, and Dominic would let him, would order it without a second thought.
Here, in the dark, with his baby wrapped around him, that world held no power. Here, there was only this: the rise and fall of a delicate chest, the scent of clean skin and soap, the overwhelming, terrifying, perfect peace of ownership. He was the Reaper. And this boy, this sweet, murderous, innocent, dangerous boy, was his sanctuary. He pressed one last, lingering kiss to the claiming bite on Angel’s neck, a silent renewal of his vow, and finally let his own eyes close, anchoring himself in the warmth and the weight of the only thing that mattered.