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“Are you okay?” Pasha asks and places a kiss on my shoulder.
I flip around so I’m facing his naked inked chest. The lamp by the nightstand is on but dimmed, throwing a soft yellow light onto the black and red shapes. I reach out to stroke the line of a skull bathed in blood. It’s one of many. There must be at least ten different skulls on his chest alone. The rest of the tattoos are of similarly disturbing scenes.
Most men in the Cosa Nostra have some ink. Even my brother has a full sleeve tattoo. But I don’t think I know anyone who has their entire upper body tattooed like Pasha.
“Why so many?” I ask.
“Everyone has a different way of coping with the shit life throws at them. This was mine.”
“What kind of shit?”
Pasha looks down at me and places the tip of his finger on the corner of my lips. “Abandonment. Low self-esteem. Loneliness,” he answers, then looks away. “Humiliation. Hunger.”
I blink at him in confusion. It’s obvious he has money. His watch costs at least twenty grand.
“It wasn’t always like this for me,” he says, guessing my thoughts. He looks down at me again and traces his finger over my eyebrow. “I was left on the doorsteps of a church when I was three. The earliest memory I have is of a woman leading me up the steps to a big brown door and telling me to stay there. Then she left. It was probably my mother, but I can’t be sure. I don’t remember what she looked like. I don’t remember anything prior to those five stone steps and the brown door.”
I slide my palm across his chest and examine the design on his left pec. It shows a dark double door. Thick black vines wrap around it several times as if to keep it shut. The details are amazing; the images are almost photo quality.
“You did that?” I point to the design.
“Yes. As well as most of the rest. Except for the ones on my back and other places I couldn’t reach.”
“Can I see those?”
He turns so his back is to me. Skulls again. Snakes. Lots of red. Spiders. Some strange, winged creatures. The style is similar to those on his front and arms, but they don’t look as good as those he did himself.
“A jail buddy did those for me,” he adds and turns back to face me.
My head snaps up and I stare at him. “You were in jail?”
“A couple of times.”
“What for?”
“Police often raided the clubs where the underground fights were held. The charges varied from disturbing the peace to assault. I did four months for that last one.”
“But you’re so levelheaded. You even organize your T-shirts by color.”
He smiles at me. “I organize everything by color, mishka.”
I reach out and brush the side of his face with the tip of my finger. Such a hard-looking man. Yes, looks can be so deceiving, because his rough exterior hides an amazingly beautiful soul. How can someone who experienced the things he did have a heart as big as his? Is it big enough to include me, too? I lean forward and kiss him. The moment our lips touch, my soul begins to sing.
For as long as I can remember, I have associated music with the feeling of joy. Whenever I was feeling down or scared, I’d play the piano Arturo bought me. Sometimes, I played for hours until sadness or fear was replaced with joy. Right now, it seems that my relationship with music has transformed. I don’t need to play anymore to feel better. I just need to be close to him, to my Pasha, and the melody fills me.
“How old were you when you started fighting?” I ask.
“Eighteen.”
“Were you good?”
Pasha laughs into my lips. “Not in the beginning. The first few months, I got the shit kicked out of me.”
“But you kept doing it?”
“The money was good. And as I got better, I earned larger sums. So I practiced every day and made sure I was the best I could be.”
“So it was all about the money?”
