Page 120 of Twisted Devotion

A month ago, they were all waiting to see who would come out on top.

Now, they know.

He gives a small bow when he finishes speaking. For a heartbeat, I picture Aria’s face—but I force the thought aside, lifting my chin.

“Your offer of alliance is heard,” I say, my voice even. “Loyalty is a two-way street. Those who remain faithful will find me generous.” I pause, allowing a cold smile to flicker at the edges of my lips. “And I never forget those who betray my trust.”

Chris’s smile falters—just for a second—before he clears his throat and gestures to the side. “Allow me to introduce my family.”

At the signal, three younger figures step forward from the crowd.

“These are my children,” he continues smoothly. “Each of them brings a valuable skill to our operations.” He rests a hand on the shoulder of the tallest—a broad-shouldered man in his thirties, with a shaved head and a scar running across his jaw. “This is Luca, my eldest. He has led our security team for a decade.”

Next, he gestures to a poised woman with sharp eyes. “My daughter, Sofia. She manages our finances and… diplomacy.”

Finally, his hand settles on a younger man's shoulder who lingers half-hidden behind his siblings.

The youngest steps forward hesitantly. He’s mid-twenties at most—lean, lanky, with ink creeping above his collar. His hair is artfully messy, streaked with color, and his fingers are adorned with rings and smudged with ink.

Chris chuckles, clapping him on the back. “And this is my youngest, Enzo. Our artist. A truly gifted tattooist.”

Enzo offers a sheepish smile. A faded snake tattoo coils up his forearm where his sleeve is rolled. Unbidden, my mind conjures the image of Aria’s delicate wrist, imagining it adorned with ink. I recall how her fingers traced the designs on my skin, curiosity in her touch.

I turn to Chris, my decision made. “I’d like to borrow your son’s talents. Send him to my residence in the morning.”

Chris brightens. “Of course, Nicolas. He’ll be there, first thing.”

Enzo nods quickly, his eager expression betraying a mix of nerves and intrigue.

The corners of my mouth lift in the barest hint of a grin. “Good.” I down the rest of my Scotch in one swallow and set the empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray. The rest of the evening fades into blur.

Enzo arrives at my mansion early the next morning, clutching a black case of supplies in his hand. He hesitates for a beat before stepping inside, his voice echoing slightly beneath the vaulted ceilings. “Mr. Nicolas. G-good morning.”

I nod. “Morning.” With a quick wave, I dismiss the security detail.

I lead him to a quiet room and unfasten the top buttons of my shirt, shrugging it off one shoulder. The fabric slides down, exposing my left upper arm and part of my chest. Enzo’s eyebrows lift slightly when he realizes I intend to get ink there. He doesn’t comment, but his gaze flickers briefly to the scar running along my ribs before he looks away. A good artist notices details—but a smart man knows when to keep quiet.

I settle into a chair, watching as he pulls on a pair of latex gloves.

“I want a name,” I say quietly. “Aria.”

Enzo nods, carefully unpacking his tools. His hands' steady, practiced rhythm should be reassuring, but my thoughts drift elsewhere. Minutes pass in silence before he steps closer.

“Where exactly would you like it, sir?”

I turn my head and see him holding a semi-transparent sheet with ‘Aria’ written in a graceful script. My chest tightens at the sight of her name, even just handwritten. I tap my left chest, just below the collarbone, over my heart. “Here,” I say.

Enzo nods and presses the stencil gently against my skin. The first touch of the needle sends a sharp burn across the outline of the initial letter. I inhale slowly through my nose, fixing my gaze on the ceiling.

The pain is nothing at first—a dull sting, a sensation I’ve grown used to. But when he starts shading the curves of the ‘r’ and ‘i,’ the burn intensifies. I welcome it. I let it consume everything else. Pain is simple. Pain, I understand.

I don’t know how to process the other sensations clawing at me—regret, longing, the quiet fury at myself. So I submerge them into the bite of the needle. Each time it digs in, I tell myself,This is for her. Again:I’m sorry.Again:I miss you. Again:I love you.

Over and over, until the words blur into the pain and all that remains is a silent snarl in my chest.

At last, the tattoo machine whirs to silence.

“All done,” Enzo says quietly.

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