Page 210 of The One

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I clench my hands into fists, grounding myself in the rough bite of my nails against my palms.

You’re not a child anymore.

Angelo presses the stencil onto my skin. The roaring lion stares back at me from the mirror, fierce and untamed, enclosed by a laurel wreath for victory, honor, and strength. Below it, tomorrow’s date is inked in Roman numerals, the only addition to the authentic De Marco crest.

“Ready?” he asks, flicking the machine on.

No!

I nod sharply. “Yes,” I push out.

Then the first puncture.

A sting, sharp and quick. Then another. The needles drag through flesh, slicing deep, embedding ink. The pain is nothing. I barely register it.

But then…

Tiny beads of blood rise to the surface, dark against the ink. A slow, crimson bloom.

The room vanishes.

I’m a child again. Back at the pond. The hook buried deep. My hand. My skin. Stuck.

It won’t come out.

Blood. Red. So red.

Mamma.Papà. No help. No way out.

Alone.

Pain. My heart hurts. So much pain. Blinding. Taking over.

Mamma.Papà. Where are you?

Argh!

My breath shatters, ripped from my throat. Too fast. Too shallow. Can’t slow it down. Hands trembling. Useless. Weak.

I can’t stop it.

I can’t control it.

Breathe.

My pulse pounds. I swallow against the nausea, forcing my lungs to move in a steady rhythm. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Slow. Controlled.

You are here. You are not that boy anymore.

I force my gaze back to the ink, to the process.

I watch.

The machine hums, carving permanence into my skin for the first time. The sting builds. It’s hot, relentless. My muscles lock, but I don’t look away.

The past will not own me.

For years, Tiero was my shield, my safety net. When I bled, he was the one who stepped in, grounding me before I unraveled.

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