Page 3 of Ride with the Devil

That’s because I have one job as a Sinner: the Devil of Springfield’s personal driver. I take him wherever he has to go, whenever he needs to be there. I’m always on the clock, and I like it that way. I like being useful, and it’s not as if I have a personal life on my own.

Not anymore.

Tonight is one of the scheduled dinners that Devil has with the head of the Libellula Family. They trade off locations. One meal it’s on Sinner turf, the next it’s on Dragonfly territory. It’s Damien’s turn to host.

Devil always offers to let me sit down to a meal while I wait for him to finish his. No matter where the dinner’s being held, you can bet that half the clientele is made up of Sinners and Dragonflies, each one there to watch the back of their leader. Just because we have a truce these days, that doesn’t mean it could change at any moment.

It’s possible. When I arrived in Springfield, the two rival gangs were already years into a feud that started when a Dragonfly girl got shot and died in Rolls McIntyre’s arms. I was also waiting in the car when Damien Libellula took Devil’s wife, Ava, and blackmailed the boss into agreeing to a truce. It’s been shaky at best since then, but now that the Sinners and the Dragonflies have a shared enemy in Johnny Winter and his Snowflakes… who knows? Maybe the truce will last.

It’s still awkward as fuck, eating a plate of paste or a bloody steak, waiting to see if guns are going to be drawn before dessert.I’d much rather wait in the car, then grab myself something from a drive-thru after Devil relieves me for the night.

It didn’t take long for him to figure that out. So while he stopped with the invitations, he gave me permission to drive around instead of parking out front to wait for him. So long as I’m there when he needs me—and he’ll text me with enough time to get back to the restaurant—I’m free to do what I want while he’s stuck with Libellula.

On the West Side, there’s a lot more I can accomplish. Tonight, we’re on the East End. Dragonfly territory. We might have a truce, but all it will take is the wrong Dragonfly seeing my devil tat to start shit. I’d rather stick to Sinner turf if I can.

But since I can’t…

There’s one spot on the edge of the East End where all Sinners are welcome: Sinners and Saints II, the rebuilt tattoo studio owned and operated by Cross da Silva, the Sinner’s official tattooist.

He used to own a spot on Third Avenue. Last summer, some asshole who worked for Johnny Winter decided to get back at Cross by burning down his place while he was sound asleep in the apartment above it.

Fucked up, right? Poor guy was taken captive by Winter’s goons, along with Damien’s sister, Genevieve. Trapped behind bars for three weeks until the two gangs—with the help of yours truly—worked together to break them out of Winter’s containment facility in Hamilton, he was just starting his fledgling relationship with Genevieve when a blast from their past settled on a little arson for fun.

Thou shall not kill…

Luckily, Cross made it out in one piece. The asshole didn’t. Neither did Cross’s studio. It was nothing but shattered glass, ashes, and melted remains by the time the SFD put the blaze out. Three months after that, though, Cross had a bigger studio built—and because he’s in a committed relationship with Genevieve, a professional ballerina who has her own practice room in the same space, it’s technically on Dragonfly land.

Her overprotective older brother insisted. A Libellula stays on the East End, even if the ring on her finger says she’ll be a da Silva before long. Devil let the relocation slide, and now there’s somewhere I can go when I’m stuck on this side of Springfield.

The only vehicle in the side parking area is a motorcycle. Cross’s bike. That means he’s in even if theclosedneon in the front of his shop is on.

Sinners have an open invitation to any property run by one of us. I rarely take any of the others up on that, but Cross… he’s different.

We’ve been pals since the first time I asked him to tattoo me. Not the devil tat. We all get those. But I had one in particular in mind, and when I went to Cross to do it, there was no denying that I’ve been through some shit.

Cross is his nickname. He says it has nothing to do with religion; though Devil is a lapsed Catholic, and I’m agnostic now, Cross is pretty much an atheist. That’s because he has trauma of his own, too, and as much as two straight guys with issues can, we bonded over that.

Because Cross is his nickname—but I have a cross of my own that I can never, ever get rid of.

I can make it my own, though, and with eight simple slashes, I have… and that’s all thanks to the syndicate artist.

Through the front window, I can see Cross sitting by himself. His floppy hair is brushed out of his face as he sits behind the desk, legs propped up, boots resting on top of the cleared desktop as he fiddles with something held gingerly between his grip.

An open

I knock.

His head shots up, dark eyebrows drawn together as he peers through the glass. He has the light on inside, and despite how dark it is behind me, he must recognize that it’s me because he raises his voice and calls out, “It’s open. Come on in.”

I pull open the door, appreciating the blast of heat as it warms my face. The soft lull of faraway music hits my ears at the same time as the astringent scent of the sterilized studio right behind Cross.

Beyond that, there’s a door. And though I can’t see beyond it, the music tells me that Cross’s fiance is somewhere back there, dancing.

I was here two months ago, shortly after they moved into the place. Genevieve was dancing then, too, and I remarked on the soft music tinkling its way out to the front of the tattoo studio. Even with the door separating the two rooms, you can hear it, and Cross told me that was on purpose. They could’ve soundproofed her dance studio, but he liked hearing the music she was performing to so they didn’t.

It’s great seeing those two so happy. Especially since I can’t shake the memory of being led down to the cells and finding the two of them together after all those weeks of captivity. And if that was bad, knowing that Genevieve was forced to pull the trigger and shoot Noah while I was on the upper floor, clearing it so that Savannah—Damien’s assassin wife—and I could break Cross and Genevieve out.

Thou shall not kill…

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