Chapter 32
32
GIANNA
I take a deep sip of my hot chocolate, savoring the rich sweetness as I flip the page of my prep book. My eyes jump over the text, but I’ve been at it for so long the words are starting to blur together, my head throbbing with each attempted paragraph.
With a sigh, I set my half-empty mug down on my brand new desk and push myself up from my brand new chair. As I stretch my back—hearing the satisfying pop of my spine—I admire the study area, taking a much-needed break to walk around my old bedroom.
When we got home from my hospital last week, I asked Michael for a laptop and immediately registered for the NCLEX-RN test. My ATT (authorization to test) finally came in last night, and I scheduled my exam for three months from now.
It’s been a year since I graduated from school, and I haven’t touched a textbook since, so I need all the time I can get to prepare properly. And beneath that practical concern lies something deeper—an intense, almost desperate need to impress Michael with my test scores and subsequent work ethics. The thought of disappointing him makes my stomach knot.
I’m heading back to my desk when there’s a soft knock on my bedroom door. Before I can answer, it swings open, and in walks my husband, carrying a tray.
At first, I assume he has brought me snacks, but when I look closer, my stomach flips. That’s not food. Those are… instruments.
My pulse quickens as I recognize the sleek, black machine I know to be a tattoo gun nestled among several other mysterious things I don’t know the names of but suddenly seem very, very ominous.
“Well? How’s studying coming along?” he asks, setting the tray on the bed as he approaches me. But I barely hear him. My eyes stay locked on the equipment, drawn by morbid fascination and growing dread.
When Michael stops in front of me, he places his thumb and index finger beneath my chin and lifts my gaze to his. Amusement dances in his blue eyes. “You didn’t answer my question, love.”
I blink, shaking off my daze. “Oh. It’s… going okay, I guess. First day, so nothing’s really sticking yet.” Still, I’m getting a kick out of remembering everything we were taught back in school again. “What are those?” I nod towards the bed as much as I can with his grip on my chin.
“Oh, those?” He barely spares a glance back. “Just the tools I’ll need for your tattoo. Would you like to take a break from studying to get it done now? I promise it will be quick.”
I had already suspected as much, but hearing him confirm it sends a dull thud through my chest, and a sliver of panic crawls down my spine. “Oh, so soon?”
He reads my fear with unnerving accuracy and runs his thumb across my cheek. “Can’t risk you changing your mind—like I can see you considering right now. Besides, it's been a week.”
A week since I foolishly offered to let him mark me permanently. What the hell was I thinking?
I bite my lip nervously. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s get it over with,” I concede, knowing there’s no escape. “What design did you decide on?”
His hand slips from my chin and he presses a soft, chaste kiss on my lips as he steps back. “You’ll see. Now, come.” Then he picks up the tray and heads for the door.
After a moment of paralyzed indecision—during which I consider locking myself in the bathroom—I follow him. “Shouldn’t I change out of this outfit?” I ask, partly because I don’t look all that good in my pajama shorts and his oversized shirt, but mostly because, well… I really wouldn’t mind delaying the inevitable pain for a few more precious minutes.
He glances back at me briefly. “You’re fine.”
Once we’re at the foot of the stairs, I expect him to lead me to the front door, to the car, and for us to drive to some upscale tattoo parlor where professionals will handle this delicate procedure. Instead, he takes a sharp turn towards the back of the stairs—towards the rooms there that I haven’t had time to explore. I had assumed they might be security rooms or something.
But then he opens one of the doors, and my lips part in surprise.
The room itself is pretty spartan; there’s only a black, oversized leather chair with cushioned armrests and a footrest pushed against one side of the wall, with two wheeled stools beside it. On the other side, a neat workspace is set up with clean tools laid out on the desk—but what really catches my eye are the designs fixed to the wall above it.
Some of them I recognize.
Because they’re inked on his body.
It’s his private tattoo room.
The realization is kind of wild. But then again, he has so many tattoos on his body that, when I really think about it, it would be weirder if he didn’t have such a room in his house. I mean, imagine having to haul himself to a shop every single time he wanted new ink. That would be a pain in the ass.
Michael heads straight for the workspace, sets the tray down, then gestures towards the leather chair. “Have a seat.”
I make my way over and perch daintily at the very edge, like the thing might bite.
He starts unloading everything from the tray before covering the surface with a paper towel and arranging the items back on it. Then carries the prepared tray over, placing it on one stool while he takes a seat on the other.
“You need to sit all the way back,” he instructs distractedly as he moves things around on his tray, and I awkwardly do as he says. In his current position, he’s close to my left hand, which he lifts gently, pressing a tender kiss against my knuckles. “You ready?”
No . Absolutely not. “I guess.”
Another kiss, this time to my ring finger, before he carefully slides off my ring. I watch him in silent fascination as he takes out a disinfectant wipe and thoroughly cleans the skin. So that’s where he wants the tattoo.
My heart rate skyrockets. “Aren’t finger tattoos extremely painful?”
He glances up at me, looking completely unbothered. “I don’t know about extremely, but yeah, it’s probably more painful than tattooing other parts of the body.”
His honest answer doesn’t help a bit. Would it have killed him to lie? Said, ‘Nah, it’s just a little tickle.’ Something?
As if reading my thoughts, he adds, “But you’ll be fine. You can handle it.” He lifts an unlabeled ointment dispenser. “I got this from a pharmacist I have on retainer. It’s a topical numbing cream he crafted specifically for tattooing parts of the skin close to the bone. It’s still in its early stages and hasn't received any official approval, but he swears by it.”
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, I do , 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 right hand 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 on my ring finger.
He’s laying his claim to me for the entire world to see.
Anybody who recognizes the design—who knows him and his brothers—will instantly associate me with them. With him. I love it.
I move my gaze from the drawing pad to Michael, watching as he works diligently, head bowed in concentration. His furrowed brows make his piercing stand out even more, and the sight is so stupidly beautiful that my fingers twitch.
I can’t stop myself.
I reach out, running a hand over the soft mop of blonde hair at the top of his head, needing to touch him, to connect.
He glances up, and— fuck —those vivid blue eyes gut me.
A thick lump forms in my throat, my heart suddenly pounding for entirely different reasons as three ridiculous, dangerous words bubble up from somewhere deep inside me. I love you.
Oh God, I love him.
I swallow the words back desperately, but he must see something in my expression because his eyes go impossibly soft, and he gives me a smile so warm it threatens to melt the last of my defenses. “Almost done.”
I nod wordlessly and just watch him as he works while inwardly spiraling into full-blown panic. Shit, shit, shit. I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with him. That wasn’t part of the plan.
What the hell is wrong with me and my stupid, traitorous heart? Why can’t I just be a cool and collected person instead of falling in love with the first dangerous man to pay me any attention?
Because he’s not just dangerous , a small voice whispers. He’s brilliant, talented, protective. He sees you—really sees you.
“There. Now you can never escape from my hold.” There’s a dark satisfaction in his voice that somehow, impossibly, arouses me.
“You’re done already?” I ask in surprise as he switches off the tattoo gun and sets it on the tray.
When I finally look down at my ring finger, I suck in a breath.
The skin is angry red and swollen, but even through that, the tattoo is exquisite.
And then I see it.
A detail that wasn’t in the original design he drew.
At the top of the flowers, right below my middle knuckle, are two italicized letters—M.H. His initials.
“Michael,” I scold, but fuck, I just discovered I’m in love with him and can’t nearly work up the same anger I should feel. In fact, my traitorous heart secretly thrills at having his name permanently etched into my skin.
I’m getting as crazy as he is.
“You’re mine, Gianna. Forever. And now anyone who sees you will know this fact as well,” he says unrepentant, and my cunt clenches with arousal at the quiet confidence in his voice.
Michael leans forward to kiss the freshly tattooed skin. Then he cleans the area with gentle care and wraps a bandage around it.