Chapter 5
Keisha tasted metal, sharp and bitter, before the needle touched her skin. She shifted in Sergei’s backroom chair, vinyl clinging to her thighs. Antiseptic and ink stung the air, each breath a choice.
She shouldn’t be here like this. Too much was at stake, but watching Sergei tattoo another client had made her wonder what it would feel like to be in his chair. Her sleeve rolled up, scars bared—jagged lines from seizures, falls against unforgiving edges.
Sergei loomed, shoulders blocking the bright light overhead. He mixed ink, movements sure, machine parts gleaming on the table. “Ready?” His voice cut through the air conditioner’s hum.
She nodded, throat dry.
He leaned close, hip against her knee, gloved fingers tracing her deepest scar. “I’ll start here.” His touch lingered, warm through latex. “You have good skin for ink.”
“How do you know?” Her voice slipped, sharp.
His mouth quirked. “Educated guess.”
Keisha fixed on the bare wall—peeling paint, sketches, a photo tucked in the mirror’s corner, too small to see. Sergei wiped her arm, alcohol cold. “Breathe normally.”
She exhaled, slow. The needle buzzed, pain biting her scar. His hand steadied her, breath grazing her neck. Heat flared low in her belly, unwelcome. Her cunt clenched, aching, as his fingers shifted, splaying across her arm. A response she hadn’t expect at all.
“Okay?” he asked, eyes on the ink.
“Fine,” she gritted, nails biting her palm.
The needle carved short strokes, pain a steady burn. Sergei’s focus locked, jaw set, a faint scar under stubble. Her tremor spiked, metal taste flooding. Not now. Tiana’s trust anddefiance—held her steady.
“Stop tensing,” Sergei said, thumb on her wrist, pulse racing.
“I’m not.” A lie.
His free hand adjusted her skin, palm warm. “Tattoos are usually personal but not always,” he wiped away unneeded ink, touch soft. “Is this one?”
Her throat closed. Her foster sister’s face, lost to the system, flashed before her eyes. “Something like that.”
He didn’t push, just worked. The needle faltered as her hand drifted to his thigh, nails digging. His muscle tensed, breath sharp. He resumed, strokes slower, rougher.
“Keep touching me like that,” he growled, voice low, “and I’ll fuck this up.”
She didn’t move her hand. Her cunt throbbed, soaked. His jaw clenched, eyes meeting hers, loaded.
He set the machine down, silence heavy, hot. “You’re shaking.”
“Fatigue.” Another lie.
His gloved hand slid to her elbow, holding her. Her nipple tightened, begging through her shirt.
“I should stop,” he murmured, unmoving.
“Don’t,” she whispered, then louder, “Please finish it.”
His gaze burned. He picked up the machine, resuming with rigid control. The final strokes curved around her scar, a brand of trust. He cleaned her skin, gloveless, fingers dragging ointment, gentle, intimate.
“I have epilepsy,” she blurted, trust breaking free.
Sergei stilled, hands on the machine. He faced her, no pity, just steady gray eyes. “How long?”
“I was diagnosed at sixteen.” She gripped the chair, tremor spreading. “Stress triggers it.”
He nodded, absorbing. “Should’ve told me.”
“Would you have inked me?” Her voice sharpened.
“Not about that.” His jaw twitched. “People hide what they think’ll change things.”
Her foster sister had, pulling away after a seizure. “They do,” Keisha said, bottle crinkling in her grip. “Everyone who knows watches, waiting for me to break.”
Sergei stayed silent, eyes unflinching. “Do you take medication?”
“Yes. I always keep an emergency dose in my bag.” She patted it.
“Good.” He cleaned the needle, methodical. “Anything else?”
The simplicity undid her. “No. That’s it.”
Silence settled, heavy but not strained. His acceptance, no pity, no distance shook her. Tiana’s photo in the mirror—younger, smiling—challenged her. Trust Sergei, save her.
“You don’t ask much,” she said.
“I’m not most people.” His eyes held hers, serious.
No, he wasn’t. From that first moment—tattooed arms, shielding her—she’d known. “Will it mess up finishing?” she asked, nodding at her arm.
“Depends.” He set down the parts. “If you’re stable. If you trust me to stop when you’re not.”
“I told you because I do,” she admitted, heat lingering.
His eyes flickered, full of respect. “We’ll finish when you’re ready.”
Her tremor eased, relief or trust. “Thanks,” she murmured. “For not making it a thing.”
“Scars are scars, Keisha.” His mouth quirked. “Some just show.”
He finished the rest of the tattoo in silence. She watched as he cleaned the tattoo before placing a protective covering on it.
Then his phone buzzed on the table. Sergei grabbed it, jaw clenching. “Tiana,” he said, reading. “Kryvaya Stal enforcers took her from the community center. Hour ago.”
Her heartbeat increased. Tiana’s socks flashed, defiant. “No. She was safe. Jalisa—”
“Jalisa’s in the hospital. Concussion. Tried to stop them.” Sergei typed, thumbs quick. “My contact ateo saw Mikalai’s car, Calle Ocho warehouse.”
Jalisa—Mrs. Rossi, Coastal’s broker, caught in her scam. Keisha’s mind flicked to Amara—another insider? “We go now.”
“You’re shaking.” Sergei nodded at her hand. “Sit, Keisha.”
“I’m fine, Sergei. We can’t wait.”
There are four enforcers inside,” he said. “We need a plan.”
“Tiana’s my responsibility.”
“Mine too.” He stepped closer. “We do this smart, or she’ll pay the price.”
“Your plan,” she said, pride stinging. “How do we get her?”
“Mateo’s tracking her.” Sergei typed. “Nadia’s bringing weapons. We need one hour.”
“That’s too long.” Keisha grabbed her bag, fingers clumsy. “They sell kids like her.”
“I know.” His voice roughened. “We don’t go blind.”
“How long for backup?” Her voice cracked.
“Hour, maybe less.” He met her eyes. “Nadia’s close.”
“I can’t wait.” She moved to the door, legs unsteady.
Sergei blocked her, body a wall. “We are not going in alone.”
“Then come.” Her eyes challenged. “Now. Us.”
“That’s a suicide mission,” he growled.
“Tiana’s chance.” Her tremor spiked.
His jaw clenched, decision made. He unlocked a cabinet, pulling a gun, checked it, tucked it under his shirt. “You follow my lead. No arguments.”
“Okay.” Relief and dread mixed.
“And you tell me if a seizure’s coming.” His eyes bored into hers. “Right away.”
She nodded, slipping her bracelet on—metal cool, a vow. “Nothing heroic, I promise,” she said.
Sergei opened the door, arm brushing hers, heat sparking. “Stay close. They don’t leave witnesses.”
Little Havana’s neon faded, streets quiet. Tiana counted on them. Her foster sister’s loss drove her forward, a promise she’d keep, no matter the cost.