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I nod tightly, on edge and wound up. My head is a mess, and I keep bouncing back and forth between being pissed the fuck off and so goddamned tired.
There are times when I think maybe it would’ve been better if I’d died in prison. Then X never would’ve pulled strings to get me out, and my brothers could’ve gone on with their lives and built something for themselves in this city without having to sign their goddamn souls away to someone they’ve never even met. It’s not a thought I’ve ever shared with my brothers, because I know it would piss them off to hear me say that.
They consider the debt we owe X to be worth it, but still… sometimes I wish I could’ve saved them from getting trapped in this fucking web, even if I’d had to die to do it.
Our little meeting breaks up, and I stalk out of Vic’s room, needing to blow off some steam. I consider taking a drive, but getting behind the wheel right now is probably a bad idea. So instead, I go to the work room and pull out my tattoo gun, yanking off my shirt and sitting down on one of the benches to add to the tattoo I’ve been working on, on my right arm.
It’s a skill I picked up in prison, something to pass the time and keep me from going insane, and it helps me clear my head now. Something about the focus I need to keep the lines straight and the gun steady helps center me in a way few other things can—besides a good fuck, and I haven’t had one of those in way longer than normal.
I’ve been adding to this piece on my arm for a while, and it doesn’t really have a theme. Just random images, dark lines and chaotic swirls and sharp edges for when I feel too out of control. I take deep breaths, the buzzing of the machine and the bite of the needle keeping me grounded in the moment. I watch as the black ink sinks into my skin, leaving harsh, dark lines as I go.
Every so often, I pause to wipe away the excess ink, checking the new additions against the old shit to make sure it’s what I want.
I go at it for a while in silence, getting lost in the sound of the buzz and the biting pain of the needle. Then footsteps catch my attention, and when I look up, Willow is standing in my doorway.
She just stands there, watching me with her large brown eyes, and I go back to my tattooing, trying to ignore her. But it’s impossible, the way it always is. Just by fuckingexistingnearby, she’s pushed herself to the forefront of my goddamned brain, and the tension in the room gets thicker by the second.
She tilts her head, her focus sweeping over my skin to look at the other tattoos I have. My shirt is off, so there are a bunch on display, and I can almost feel her gaze like a physical touch.
I’m almost at the point of telling her to either say something or get the fuck out when she finally speaks up.
“Who’s Diana?” she asks quietly.
Of all the fucking questions.
The name is tattooed on my arm, and there’s a hint of something that sounds almost like jealousy in her voice, like she thinks it’s the name of a lover or something. I wait for the irritation to flood me at the idea of her thinking she gets any say in whose name I ink on my body, but instead, there’s a little spike of pleasure.
She wants to have some claim over me, however unconsciously, and a part of me likes that.
“Diana was our mom,” I finally grunt, answering her question.
“Oh.” Her voice is soft, and when I glance up at her, she’s chewing her bottom lip. “Vic and Ransom have told me a little about her. She sounds like she was an amazing person. Ransom said she was a saint.”
I grit my teeth, irritated at the way Willow makes me feel. I usually have better control than this, but something about this woman talking to me about our mother—another weak spot in my heart—sends my emotions rising faster than I can shove them back down.
“She was,” I say, my voice rough. “She was the sweetest woman in the whole goddamned world. And look where that got her.”
Willow’s brow furrows. She takes a step deeper into the room, her hand still resting on the door frame. “What do you mean?”
“I mean this world takes people who are sweet and good, and it chews them up and spits them out. It takes all the kindness in their hearts and uses it up, giving them nothing but pain to show for it.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Willow whispers. “Or at least, it doesn’t have to be.”
I switch the tattoo gun off, setting it aside. My hand is usually incredibly steady, even when I’m tattooing myself, but if I keep going right now, I know I’ll end up with shitty lines.
“Oh yeah?” I fix Willow with a challenging glare. “Our mother was the best person I’ve ever known, and she ended up with a man who was cruel and abusive. He could have just chilled the fuck out and let her love him. We could have been a real family, but no. He had all these dreams of running his own crime syndicate. Becoming some big name in the criminal underworld. And that made him lose his fucking mind. He treated her like shit. He treated us like shit. He tortured the fuck out of Victor, trying to make him into a perfect little soldier that he could send out to do his fucking dirty work.”
Willow sucks in a sharp breath, one hand coming up to cover her mouth. “Oh my god. I didn’t know…”
She trails off, looking horrified. I should probably stop talking, but I don’t. Ican’t. I see the same goodness in Willow that I saw in my mother, and part of me wants to terrify her with my words. To warn her. To make her understand how easily the world could break her, despite her strong spirit.
“Dad wanted Vic to be his second in command, so he started ‘training him’ when he was five. Mom tried to get him to see reason. To understand what he was doing was wrong. She thought if she could just get through to him, then maybe he’d change.” I snort, curling my fingers into fists. “Didn’t fucking work. He’d get pissed at her for getting in the way, for not knowing her place.”
That last word hurls its way out of my mouth, full of bitterness and resentment. Willow hears it all, and to my surprise, she doesn’t flinch away from it. Not from my tone or the grim story I’m telling her.
“Why did she stay with him?” she murmurs.
I shake my head, my teeth grinding together. “Because she believed in people. And because she had us. She wanted to protect us from his bullshit, even when he was slapping her around. When we were all little, she’d lie to us and say she fell down at work or there was a patient who was hard to sedate and it was all an accident. But we knew it was him who was hurting her. Then one day, he left.”
