Page 112 of Devil's Tulip

Untested pharmaceuticals. Wonderful… I feel so reassured.

He squeezes a generous amount into his palm and slowly works it into the skin of my finger. I try—really try—to swallow back my panic, but I have absolutely zero faith in this unofficial, unapproved numbing cream, no matter who swears by it.This is going to hurt like hell.

“Do you still want to know what design I came up with?” Michael asks as he caps the ointment and returns it back to the tray, then places my hand palm-down on the armrest, spreading my fingers apart.

“I thought you wanted it to be a surprise?” My voice is thready from my nervousness.

“I did, Ido, but you’re getting it right now anyway, so I suppose it doesn't matter anymore.” He stands and heads to his desk where he retrieves a drawing pad, flipping through it as he walks back.

When he reaches the last page, he hands it to me. My breath catches in my throat. It’s a stunning design—a ring with tiny rows of diamonds circling the finger, topped with a burst of pink tulips, surrounded at the bottom by a black and white mixture of azaleas, lily of the valley, and iris, all connected by the tiniest, most delicate stems.

“You drew this?” I ask in amazement.

“I draw all my tattoo designs,” he answers nonchalantly, as if creating such beauty is nothing remarkable when I can barely draw a straight line, let alone a stick figure.

“You’re really good. If the whole CEO-of-a-multi-billionaire-company-and-mafia-don thing doesn’t work out, you could always be an artist,” I joke, and he chuckles.

With a disposable towel, he pats my ring finger dry, then carefully picks up what appears to be a ring-shaped piece of paper—stencil paper, I realize—bearing a bold image of the design from his drawing pad. He gently drapes it over my finger, smoothing it in place.

Then he picks up the tattoo gun, and I swallow, my stomach gurgling so loudly my cheeks go hot with embarrassment.

“You’ll be fine,” Michael assures me again.

Nope. Nope. I don’t trust that. Not one bit.

I stiffen reflexively as I squeeze my eyes shut. If I don’t see the moment the needle touches my skin, maybe I won’t react. Maybe I won’t yank my hand back or scream or do something equally embarrassing.

I brace for the pain.

One second.

Five.

Ten.

Nothing.

Is he teasing me right now?

I crack one eye open. Then the other—and my mouth drops.

Michael is already moving the machine across my finger, but I feel absolutely nothing.

“It worked,” I breathe in disbelief. “The numbing cream actually worked!”

“Guess Connor will be getting his research grant then.” He winks at me before returning his focus back to my finger.

Now that he’s already working on the tattoo and I don’t feel any pain, my fear dissolves, replaced by the first flickers of excitement.

I’m getting my first tattoo!

I can’t wait to see that pretty design wrapped around my finger. I glance down at the drawing pad clenched in my righthand and carefully study it again, tracing every tiny detail with my gaze. And that’s when I realize…

It’s a miniature replica of the tattoo on his arm. The one that symbolizes his brotherhood with Rafael, Maximo, and Romero.

My heart melts into a pathetic little puddle at the significance of him choosing this design for me. I’m surprised he can’t physically see just how utterly gone I am for him in this moment.

He’s drawing something that means so much to him onmyring finger.

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