Page 97 of The Tattoo Artist

TWO YEARS AGO

ISLAM THE DOOR SHUT BEHIND, STEPPING INTO

the dimly lit alleyway. With practiced ease, I retrieve a pack of cigarettes from my back pocket and slide one between my lips. Fumbling with my lighter, frustration mounts as the damn thing refuses to cooperate. After what feels like an eternity, a small flame finally flickers to life.

About time.

Took way too fucking long.

“Every time I see you, you’re always so angry.” My head turns and I notice a girl walking out with two bin bags.

“I am, am I?”

“Yes, you are, you’re going to get lines if you keep frowning like that.”

“I’ll take my chances with the lines,” I mutter, exhaling a cloud of smoke as I lean against the wall. The girl gives me a sympathetic smile, her eyes scanning my face.

“You know, there are better ways to deal with anger than smoking yourself to death,” she says, tying up the bag and dusting her hands off.

“Enlighten me,” I reply, a hint of scepticism in my voice.

She shrugs. “Exercise, meditation, punching a punching bag... You name it. Anything beats slowly killing yourself with cigarettes.”

I scoff. “Sounds like a lot of work.”

“Maybe. But at least you won’t end up with lung cancer.”

I examine her.

I examine her face.

Hazel almond eyes.

Chubby cheeks.

Brown curly hair.

Tanned skin.

Catholic. Cross around neck.

But a butterfly bracelet around her wrist.

“So why are you so angry?” She asks, her tone laced with curiosity.

“I’m not angry,” I reply, my words sharp and defensive.

“You’re not? Seems like it,” she counters, her observation not missing a beat.

I narrow my eyes, studying her carefully. “Who the fuck even are you?”

“Alexandra Jones,” she replies calmly, her confidence unwavering. “And you are Ares Nicolaides.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

ARES NICOLAIDES

FINALLY SHE IS IN MY ARMS.

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