Page 3 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
I scoffed and shook my head.
About seven minutes later, the door creaked open, and a huge Asian dude walked in, his broad shoulders blocking the draft behind him. Chinese, Japanese, maybe. I wasn’t sure. He glanced around, taking off his hoodie, eyes cold as ice, with hands scarred in a way that told stories.
Military? Street? Triad?
Whatever the case, this dude clearly had his fair share of violence.
“Evening.” I straightened, meeting his gaze, unfazed by his ruggedness. “You’re the late slot?” I tugged on my black apron, worn and splattered with a few faded splotches of ink.
He nodded.
“Well, make yourself at home.” I gestured to the chair.
In silence, he walked over to the chair and sat on it like it was his fuckin’ throne. I had told him to feel comfortable.
“What can I do for you?” I asked, pulling on my gloves.
He handed me a crumbled printout: a red fire-breathing dragon, fierce and intricate. It was a complicated piece, but I was always up for a challenge.
I glanced at him over the top of the paper. “Nice choice.”
“Hmm.” He made a throaty groan, held out his left forearm, and lifted his sleeve.
With the hum of the needle just seconds away, I turned toward my station, ready to work. This was my element, my mojo: the one thing that kept me focused and distracted at the same time.
Here, under the sterile lights and low music, I was free to be my authentic self. No need for pretense, no blazer, no fake smiles or annoying colleagues prying into my private life. All I needed were my hands, my tools, and the art. That’s all it took to keep me distracted from the turmoil within, the chaos I was running from.
And for the next hour or so, nothing else mattered.
The client sat calmly while I etched the intricate red dragon on his forearm. He didn’t say much, and that suited me; I liked dealing with clients who talked less. Working in silence always helped me stay focused, and when I was focused, the clients left more satisfied than usual.
When buried in work, I was in control of the needle in my hand, carving every line deliberately. It was like magic, and it made me feel fulfilled and accomplished.
Once done, the grumpy client stared at his new tattoo, his lips curling into a proud smirk. He was pleased by my work.
“Perfect,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly, tinged with an accent.
He tipped me off generously and left, his boots clicking away.
Lani was already dozing off on the couch, snoring with her head on the armrest. Her right leg was slung carelessly over the headrest, arms across her chest.
I scoffed, shaking my head, then began cleaning up. The city was abuzz outside: wailing sirens, belly laughs, and that annoying bass thumping from the Bratva club across the street. Neon lights filtered in through the studio windows, casting electric shadows across the floor.
Maybe I was tripping, but I could swear that I felt it—that feeling of being watched. Beneath the calm exterior, there was a tension rising within, one that I couldn’t quite shake. I felt a prickle at the back of my neck, and I straightened, eyes squinting in alarm.
My gaze swept across the studio, then out the window. There was nothing out of the ordinary, just the bustling city and a few drunks chattering and laughing loudly.
Then, my phone rang, snapping me back to the present. I dug a hand in my pocket and withdrew the buzzing device. The caller ID was unknown, a private number. My jaw clenched, brow furrowing softly. I answered the call after a moment of hesitation. “Hello?”
Silence.
I glanced around, my sharp eyes drinking in every detail outside the shop. “Hello?”
Still no response. Just someone breathing on the other end. Slow. Measured.
Before I could warn them not to call this number again, the call ended. I lowered the phone from my ear, my pulse quickening, but I remained as calm as I was. I wasn’t one to panic or scare easily. But this was the third time this week that the same private number had called me and said nothing.
Someone was watching me—following me.
