Chapter 3: Dom’s Tattoo
The stale cigarette smoke coiled thicker in the cramped cell, mixing with the sharp tang of antiseptic and the underlying metallic scent of fresh ink. The buzz of Skids’ modified tattoo gun was a constant, high-pitched drone beneath the rough laughter and overlapping voices. Angel felt the vibration of it through Dominic’s chest where his back was pressed. He was tracing a faint scar on Dominic’s forearm with a light fingertip, lost in the relative quiet of their shared space amidst the chaos.
Elijah, perched precariously on the edge of the sink Theo had vacated, blew a stream of smoke towards the buzzing bulb. His eyes, sharp and slightly bloodshot, flickered from the knotwork healing on Brick’s arm to Dominic’s face. "Hey Stone?" His voice cut through the chatter. "Got any tattoos for Angel?"
The question landed oddly in the room. Conversations dipped. Even Skids paused his buzzing for a half-second, glancing up. All eyes swung towards Dominic and the slight figure leaning against him.
Dominic didn’t hesitate. A low, rumbling sound started in his chest – not quite a growl, not quite a chuckle. Pure possession. "Damn right I have," he stated, his voice gruff but layered with a fierce pride that silenced the room further. He shifted slightly, dislodging Angel just enough to give him room. With deliberate, unhurried movements, he began rolling up the sleeve of his grey prison jumpsuit, pushing the coarse fabric high above his thick bicep.
Angel’s breath hitched. He’d seen glimpses before, flashes of ink amidst the scars that mapped Dominic’s history, but never this. Never focused. Dominic turned his arm fully towards the dim light.
There it was, nestled within the faded tapestry of older ink – anchors, names blurred by time, indistinct symbols of a violent past. Fresh, stark black, the lines were crisp, the work undeniably Skids’ best. Roman numerals stood bold: VI • IV • MMXXII. April 6th, 2022. The day Angel had arrived, scrawny and silent, eyes like bruises in a too-pale face.
Beneath the date, elegantly scripted in flowing cursive: Mio Figlio. My Son. And weaving behind the lettering and numerals, framing them, a pair of stylized angel wings, feathered tips sharp and defined, meeting at the top in a simple, perfect halo.
The silence stretched, thick now with something deeper than surprise. Respect? Awe? A recognition of the raw, unapologetic claim staked in permanent ink. Angel stared, his grey eyes wide, tracing the lines of the wings, the curve of the script. A warmth bloomed in his chest, fierce and overwhelming, pushing against the cold knot that always lived there. His arrival date. Not his birthday, not some abstract symbol. The day he’d entered this world. The day Dominic had decided he was family.
"Jesus, Stone," Finch breathed, leaning in for a closer look. "Skids, that line work... clean as hell." He whistled low.
"Fuckin' A," Skids grunted, a rare flicker of pride crossing his weathered face as he studied his own handiwork from a distance. "Told you it'd pop."
Theo, ever the disruptor, recovered first. He nudged Brick with his elbow, gesturing at the tattoo with his newly inked forearm. "See that, Brick? Sentimentality. Stone’s gone soft. Next thing you know, he’ll be knitting booties." His tone was light, mocking, but his sharp eyes held a glint of something else – perhaps reluctant approval, quickly masked.
Brick just grunted, his gaze fixed on Dominic’s arm. He gave a single, slow nod. Solid. Unmistakable approval. A silent good.
Angel finally found his voice, soft but clear, cutting through Theo’s sarcasm. "Daddy..." It wasn’t a question. It was pure, stunned reverence. He reached out, his fingers hovering an inch above the inked skin, tracing the air over the halo. He didn’t dare touch the fresh work yet. The significance pressed down on him – a shield etched onto Dominic’s flesh, a declaration visible to every predator in this concrete jungle. This one is mine. Harm him, and you deal with me.
Skids cleared his throat, the moment stretching towards something too vulnerable for the harsh cell block. He jerked his chin towards Theo and Brick, the buzzing gun poised again. "Alright, alright, weepy hour’s over. Don’t let this distract you, Vance, Brick. Pay up. Two packs each. You heard the bet. Size fourteen clown shoes." He tapped the tattoo machine impatiently on his knee.
Theo groaned theatrically, pulling out the crumpled cigarette packs with exaggerated reluctance. "Extortion! Daylight robbery! Brick, back me up here!" He tossed the packs to Skids, who caught them deftly.
Brick just dug into his own waistband, extracting two packs of slightly better quality smokes. He handed them over without a word, his expression unchanging.
Ghost, still perched on the stool by the door, hadn't moved. But his dark eyes, usually scanning the corridor, were fixed on Dominic’s revealed tattoo. Angel felt the weight of that silent gaze. Then, with a movement so fluid it was almost imperceptible, Ghost reached into his own pocket. He didn't pull out cigarettes. He pulled out a single, pristine, handmade cigarette – contraband of a finer grade. He didn't offer it to Skids for payment. He held it out, pointedly, towards Dominic.
A silent tribute. Recognition. Respect for the claim, for the protector's mark. A language only understood in these shadows.
Dominic met Ghost’s gaze. Held it for a long second. Then gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. Acceptance. The cigarette disappeared back into Ghost’s pocket as silently as it had appeared. The transaction complete.
The chatter started up again, louder now, fueled by the payment exchange and the lingering energy of the revealed ink. Theo launched into a story about a guard with even bigger feet he’d known ‘on the outside’, embellishing wildly. Skids resumed buzzing on the minor enforcer’s shoulder.
But Angel barely heard them. The noise faded to a dull roar. He was still staring at the tattoo. The numerals, the words, the wings. A permanent part of Dominic. A shield. A belonging he’d never dreamed possible. The warmth in his chest threatened to overflow.
Dominic’s arm, the inked declaration still bare, slid back around him. Not gently, but firmly. Possessively. The heavy hand settled back on his thigh, warm and grounding. He pulled Angel snugly against his chest once more, the vibration of his voice a low rumble against Angel’s backbone that only he could feel.
"That’s my boy," Dominic murmured, the words rough velvet, meant only for Angel’s ears. A final, quiet seal on the pact displayed in stark black ink. Angel closed his eyes, leaning into the solid warmth, the buzzing, the smoke, the rough voices. For the first time in his short, brutal life, the place he was meant to be wasn't just a cell block. It was right here, encircled by the arm that declared him Mio Figlio. Safe. Claimed. Home.