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Then I feel a cold piece of metal against my shoulder. I open my eyes to look up at my father. He’s got a sword gripped in his hand that he touches to my shoulder, then lifts it and touches the other one. It’s like a knighthood thing. It’s almost laughable.
Except it’s not funny.
This is my life.
My future.
My legacy.
“A life for a life,” my father murmurs.
“A life for a life,” I repeat, then the other men say the words as well.
“Rise. Executive of the family, you hold the power to vote, to deny, to approve working parts of the family. You are now privy to information that you never have been before. You are the family.”
“And the family is me,” I finish the saying as I stand to my feet.
My father reaches out, wraps his fingers around the back of my neck, and touches his forehead to mine. “Welcome, son. I am so fucking proud of you.”
Proud.
Pride.
Bliss.
ChapterThirty-One
COLEMAN
Standingfrom my place on the floor, I am offered congratulations by my new fellow executives. I’m still shirtless, my tattoos on display, and I realize that’s why he wanted me stripped. Not just to see them, but also, a man walks into the room carrying a case.
I recognize him. He’s one of my cousins but about my father’s age. I know what he does for us. Tattoos. TheLife for a Lifetattoo is the only one we, as a family, share. Once you’re initiated into the family, when you’ve passed all your tests, when the ritual is complete, you’re tattooed across your chest. No other ink is required, although we’re all fairly heavily marked.
Until now.
“This tattoo will bind you as an executive. It marks you as an elite member of the family,” my dad begins.
He’s very much the director right now, and I can’t help but smile. There is something about him in this position. He is clearly in his element and was made, born, and bred for this job—for this lifestyle. Because being the director isn’t really a job to my dad—it is who he is, deep down to his core.
“A tattoo?” I ask.
My dad smirks, clearing his throat before he speaks. “A tattoo.”
I have a fair amount of ink on my chest, my back, my arms, and even crawling up my neck. I’m not sure where he intends to put this or how big it is. I walk over to the table and chairs where my cousin has set his machine up, sink down in the chair and arch a brow as I wait for instruction.
“Same place?” my cousin asks.
My father jerks his chin in a nod of confirmation. Clearing my throat, I wonder where the fuck this thing is going to go. Then, without a single word, my father reaches out and taps my chest. My pec. There is an empty space there. It’s not much but a four-by-five-inch area.
Pressing my lips together, I lift my chin and look straight ahead as my cousin sets the transfer in place. Although, he probably doesn’t need to. If he’s done every executive who’s been initiated into the position, he likely has the whole fucking design memorized.
When the transfer is in place, I hear the familiar sound of the buzzing machine, and it begins. Closing my eyes, I let out a heavy breath. I’m not sure how long I sit there while the other men drink and carry on around me, but it seems like it’s only a few moments before he’s finished.
He hands me a mirror, and I hold it out to study his handiwork. It’s a crest, ornate in detail, and scrolls, but inside is a cursiveH. I know it stands for Hamilton, our last name. But this means more to me than just a name. This means everything.
“We have to discuss the siblings and then the newest issue,” my father announces. “But this was more important than any of that shit. You earned this. Just like you earned your condo, your car, and your bride. You are an executive in the family now, Coleman, and I’m proud of you.”
If I were a man who cried, this moment would be the time to do it. But I’m not, and neither is my father. My cousin dresses the tattoo, and my father tosses me my shirt. I don’t need instructions on how to care for the new piece. I’ve had so many that it’s just second nature now.
