Page 56 of The Devil's Playground

But she isn’t Heather. She’s Nicolette, and I take a deep breath and ask one question: “Did Alfieri do this to you?”

She gulps. “Yes.”

I wait a beat, then ask another: “Did you want him to?”

Nicolette shakes her head. “No.” It’s a whisper. More than that, it’s a confession. “I told him not to. He… he didn’t like me saying no. I wasn’t allowed. And then… he did it himself.”

He marked her. Prison-style, if I’m any judge, with a needle and some ink and no way to keep her safe from infection except a hope and fucking prayer.

Okay. Okay.

I move to the next cushion, closing the gap between us. I don’t want to push her, so I keep my hands to myself, though I do turn my body so that I’m all she can see.

“Do you want it gone?”

Her head bobs, hair falling like a curtain into her face. Before I can push it away, she shoves the strands behind her ears. “I looked into getting it removed. I couldn’t afford that. Covering it up would be better, but even that was too pricy. Trust me. I’d do anything to get rid of it, but I’ve just kept it covered up with clothes the last ten years instead.”

Ten years…

Fuck that. She spent ten years with a tattoo she didn’t want?

I can fix that. “Have you thought about it? If you could cover that shit up… what would you put over it?”

For a moment, I see hope written in her face. Like she honestly believed that tattoo might be the thing that pushes me over the edge, that sends me running… and she’s both surprised that it isn’t, while also taking a moment to believe that I might be able to do something for her that she hasn’t been able to.

Of course. I’m a fixer. That’s what I do.

“Go on, Nic. Tell me.”

“It’s silly.”

I take the chance to sidle up next to her on the couch. Laying my hand on the edge of Nicolette’s jaw, I angle her head so that she has no choice but to look straight into my eyes.

“It’s not. So tell me.”

An impish grin. “A seahorse.”

Okay, then.

Seahorse it is.

TWENTY

CROSS

ROYCE

Talk about fucking déjà vu.

Almost two hours ago, I was in the back offices of the Playground, having a meet with Tanner and Link. Tanner’s l long gone by now, Link hurrying back to be with Ava, but while the soundproofing means it’s quiet as I let Nicolette in, I know we’re not alone.

Tanner’s set-up is here, but another one of the offices belongs to Carlos “Cross” da Silva. The artist for our crew, it’s his responsibility to ink any Sinner with Devil’s mark. Like a right of passage for each of our members, once you’re a Sinner, you get branded with the devil horns and the tail.

My tat is different. When Link lined me up to be his second, I wanted to show him that I was loyal to him and his vision. I didn’t just get the horns and the tail. Oh, no. I had Cross draw me a full-on devil that stretched from my left hip up to my pec. It’s detailed, with a swarthy face, black hooves, and even a pitchfork. Then, because I’m “Rolls”, I had him add a pair of dice beneath it, showing off snake eyes.

It fucking hurt. I decided then and there that I would never get another tat, and I haven’t. Besides, with the devil and the dice, it got the two most prominent facets of my personality right there: the life and gambling. What else would I need to ink on my skin?

So while I don’t visit Cross in his office often, I’m usually the one who brings new recruits down to get branded. I’ve also known Cross since we were in high school together, long before either of us ended up in organized crime. I was the popular golden boy, he was the loner artist, but we lived on the same block and developed a fast friendship.

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