Page 138 of Dance of Madness

Anyway, that’s your unsolicited science fact of the week. You’re welcome.

Meanwhile, I’ve been thinking about getting some more tattoos. My dad’s not big on the idea of anything supervisible or out there, since one day, I’ll be taking his place leading the family. But I think a tattoo that has to do with Krakatoa, maybe on a forearm or even my hand, would be cool as fuck. Thoughts?

Be heard,

-Me

I don’t read it over a second or third time. All I can do is stare at the last “-Me” like the letters might burst into flames.

What.

The.

Fuck.

“I think a tattoo that has to do with Krakatoa, maybe on a forearm or even my hand, would be cool as fuck.”

My pulse ticks slowly through my veins like syrup. My head spins, my eyes trying to focus on the words as a memory of just yesterday morning filters in through the fog.

“Why do you have that tattooed on your arm?”

“It’s inspirational to me.”

“Mayhem and destruction?”

“Maybe. Or because it was the loudest fucking thing on Earth. Maybe I just like to be heard.”

Be heard.

It all hits at once, a wave slamming into me and knocking the air from my lungs.

For years, I never knew who my pen pal was, even though we told each other everything, up to and including our deepest, darkest thoughts and fantasies.

Kinks. Desires.Needs.

We met, just once, masked, and he chased me through the shadows, pulled me to the ground, and took every part of me.

Then bullets shattered the night, and scattered whoever he was to the winds.

And for the last few weeks, I’ve been debating if it was Laz, or Nero.

They’re both the right age. They’ve both got dark hair and piercing green eyes. They both come from mafia families.

It could have been either of them.

There was only one I wanted it to be, though. And I just got my wish.

It’s him.

My pen pal, and the man from that night…

IsNero.

The sheer force of the smile that spreads across my face sends me reeling. I'm grinning so hard it fuckinghurts, my heart pounding in my chest as I whirl, giddy with excitement. Bursting with a thousand questions.

Buzzing with the need to look him dead in the eye and tell him everything.

That I’m me.

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