Page 61 of Irish Reign

He shifts his weight. He looks from Russo to Paolo to the tattoo gun. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he swears, half under his breath. But then he moves toward the table. “Go on, then,” he says to Paolo. “What does she do to get ready?”

I strip to my underwear. It hurts to take my clothes off, a physical pain, like I’m peeling away flesh instead of fabric. But I have to do this. I have to meet Russo’s demands. This is the only way he’ll trust me, the only way I’ll get the evidence I need to lock him away forever.

Fighting panic, I lie on the table, flat, on my stomach. I pull my hair to one side. I try to relax the iron muscles of my back.

Looking over my right shoulder, I see Russo. He’s staring at me like I’m a side of beef and he’s the butcher. His eyes measure my bra straps. He studies the elastic band of my panties with clinical expertise.

I turn my head to the left and start to shiver like I’m stranded on an ice floe.

“Get her a blanket,” Liam orders.

“You think you are at the Ritz?” Russo asks.

Liam swears, in Irish this time, and he strips off his jacket. I can feel the warmth of his body as he settles it, cross-wise, over my shoulder blades.

Paolo sets one palm in the middle of my back and lowers the tattoo gun to my spine, a hands-breadth above my hips. “This will hurt,” he says, just before he switches on the device.

He lies.

Hurtis too small a word for the agony I feel. The first punch of the needle echoes all the way to my brain. I scream, but Paolo only shifts the palm he’s using to brace himself, and then he settles down to serious business.

It’s agony.

Torture.

Fire fans out from my spine to my flanks, an impossible flame that freezes everything it touches. My stomach lurches, and I’m grateful my breakfast was nothing more than coffee and toast. I regret I had that much.

I want to sob. I want to beg. I want to plead with him to stop, to set me free, to let me get off the table.

But if I do that, if I give in, I’ll never capture Russo. So I set my jaw. I hold my breath as long as I can. I close my eyes. And I endure.

After a century or two, Liam says, “She needs a break.”

“No break,” Paolo says.

Part of me wants to argue. But I know that if he stops, I’ll never find the courage to let him start again, and then all of this will be for nothing. I’ll never get Russo.

I close my eyes. I count to one hundred. Again. Again. Again.

And finally, when I’ve lost track of who I am, of where I am, of why I ever agreed to do this, the needle stops. The room falls silent, except for a harsh, tearing sound, which I finally figure out is my own breathing.

Paolo moves toward my head, and I realize he’s holding a mirror. Clenching my teeth, I angle my chin for a better view.

The black ink stands out against the smooth flesh of my lower back. It’s faintly rimmed with red, where my skin protests the abuse. But however brutal Paolo was, he had a steady hand.

The line drawing looks like it belongs in a history book about Sicily, or maybe a textbook on witches. The snakes of Medusa’s hair twist around the three bent legs. The bizarre design is perfectly legible.

I nod, because I don’t trust myself to speak. Paolo looks across to Russo and grunts something in Italian, in a dialect I no longer understand. Steeling myself, I turn to face the Mafia don.

“Si,” he says to Paolo. And then to me, “My sign looks good on you, Giovanna.” He waves a dismissive hand to Paolo. “Cover it up,” he says.

Paolo rips open a paper packet and settles a clear dressing over the tattoo. “You keep for twenty-four hours,” he says. “Then wash. Careful.” He thinks for a moment, then chooses another word. “Gentle.”

“Tw— Twenty-four hours.” My voice is sandy with exhaustion.

Liam is the one who helps me sit up. He retrieves my clothes like a trained nurse, and he helps me to dress. By mutualagreement, we don’t tuck in my smooth silk top. I hand him back his jacket once I’m fully clothed.

And then I turn to Russo. “All right,” I say. “I got your tattoo. Now I can advise you on those tax documents.”

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