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He smiles, displaying perfect white teeth, as perfect as the rest of him. “My apologies,” he says smoothly. “I’ve been terribly rude in not introducing myself. I’m Dante Campano.”
Campano.
Everything around me slows for a moment, my pulse picking up with a sudden nervous staccato as I recognize the name, and wonder if it might not be worth the risk to my job to simply turn around and leave. The overwhelming security presence and their attitude, suddenly makes chilling sense.
This client isn’t a celebrity, a businessman, or an athlete.
He’s a mafia boss.
2
DANTE
The woman who walks into my penthouse isn’t at all what I expected.
When Rico contacted me to let me know he was sick and offered to reschedule, I knew he was going to send out another artist if I insisted on keeping the appointment. As well-recommended as Rico came, I knew his shop had an equally good reputation for being staffed with excellent artists. But I hadn’t expected—
I don’t know what I expected, I suppose. Another guy like him, maybe. I realize how it sounds as soon as the gorgeous brunette in front of me tips her chin up and glares back at me, mouthing off in a way that no other person in my orbit would ever dare to do. Her attitude is refreshing, honestly—most of the people that I encounter in the course of a day are too frightened or obsequious to do anything other than askhow highif I say ‘jump.’ But one look at this girl, and I know she’d tell me to fuck off if I tried to order her to do anything.
However for some things, it would be worth it to find out.
I shake off the thought as I introduce myself. Emma is standing there with her arms crossed beneath her breasts, a canvas duffel at her feet, her gaze fixed on mine evenly. She’s not intimidated by me, not in the slightest—not until I say my name.
Even then, it would take a perceptive person to pick up on her reaction. A slight flinch, a quick intake of breath—her eyes widening just the slightest bit. The way she goes very still for a moment, as if she’s adding up a handful of clues, and they all come to the same sum.
She recognizes the name. I can see it in her face. And I have a moment’s temptation to let her squirm.
Instead, I have mercy on her. I tell myself that it’s because she’s here for an appointment, and we’re already twenty minutes behind—not that it matters, really. She undoubtedly cleared her entire night for me. I only called Rico about it because I wasn’t sure if the artist filling in for him had simply decided not to show.
Not everyone wants to tattoo a mafia boss. It’s not like inking a celebrity or a basketball star. There’s the impression that if you make me angry, you’ll find yourself sinking somewhere off of the Venice pier. It’s not a tactic I’ve ever employed, to be honest, but it’s not an idea I’ve tried to actively dissuade, either. I find that a bit of fear is good for business.
“Let me see your portfolio,” I tell Emma, trying to cut through the sudden tension in the air. “I trust Rico wouldn’t have sent you if you didn’t do good work, but I’d like to see your style.”
She instantly relaxes the smallest bit. I can see it in the set of her shoulders, the way some of the tension leaves her face. “Of course.” She motions to one of the couches. “Let’s sit? I’ll show you some of my work.”
I nod, walking over to the smaller of the two couches as she brings the duffel over, unzipping it and pulling out a leather-backed binder. “Here.” She hands it to me. “There’s some flash sheets in here that I’ve done for some shop events. And I’ll pull up my Instagram so you can see the tattoos I’ve done. I’ve got fresh and healed photos, so you can see how well the color holds, and that my lines don’t blow out—”
With every word, I can hear the tension drain out of her voice a little bit more. It’s clear that she’s in her element. There’s a confidence in her voice that wasn’t there before, as I start to flick through her portfolio.
“Your art is lovely.” I scan through the flash—there’s a sheet of traditional-style tattoos, one of a variety of fine-line flowers, and then a sheet of more Gothic-themed drawings. I pause on that one, and she glances over.
“There was a Halloween night at the shop last year,” she explains. “$150 for a flash piece on an arm or leg. I volunteered to do some with a Victorian gothic theme.”
“They’re wonderful.” I’m not exaggerating, either—even the simple line drawings have a crisp look and fine details that make me linger over the page, looking over each of them before I turn it. “Let me see some of your tattoo work, though.”
Emma hands me her phone without complaint, opened to her social media. A quick scan tells me all I need to know—she’s exceptionally talented, and her work holds up. She has healed, six-month, and year-long photos of several of her tattoos, and I can see that the lines are still firm and the colors are vibrant. She manages to capture all the details of her drawings in the tattoos themselves, too, and I find myself scrolling further and further down, taking in one after another.
“Like what you see?” There’s a touch of defensiveness to her voice, as if she’s expecting me to say otherwise.
“Absolutely.” I hand her back her phone. “You do gorgeous work. I’m glad Rico sent you.”
“So you’re fine with me being the one to handle your session?” She still sounds unconvinced, and I wonder if it’s something to do with her boss, or if there’s another reason.
“Do you tattoo high-level clients often? You must, with skills like these. Private appointments, that sort of thing?”
I expect her to take it as a compliment, regardless of the answer. But instead, Emma presses her lips together, as if I’ve struck a nerve.
“No,” she says shortly. “I handle my own clients in the shop. And walk-ins, when there’s time. Rico takes the private inquiries.”
