Inked in Lies (The Fallen Men 5)

I would do it for me because they’d all raised me to be the kind of person who wouldn’t let injustice lie like a sleeping dog.

I’d do it because I was Dane Meadow’s sister, and he would have done the same.

“One more thing,” I repeated, wet in my eyes, a vise around my throat robbing me of breath so my words were threadbare and weak where my intention was not. “I’m doing it, Zeus.”

He blinked at me, those silver eyes so clear I felt I could fall into them like the surface of a depthless lake under clouds. The magnitude of his mourning poured over me as I continued to stare, but I bore the weight because alone in prison, he’d been bearing it too long.

“Yeah,” he said, the word like air through a puncture wound, pained, breathy, explosive with relief. “Yeah, we do it together.”

“You’re inside,” I countered.

“A caged monster is still a monster,” he quipped with a raised brow. “Still got the power’a fear in my name and connections, Lila. If I’m sendin’ you into that stickin’, fuckin’ hellhole, you best believe I’m not sendin’ ya alone.”

“But I’m going,” I confirmed, heart thumping so hard in my chest it hurt. “It’s already done. I took the job with Irina two weeks ago. Told her I needed to work out my notice at Eugene’s, but I’m starting at Wet Works.”

He winced. “Fuck, Li, the thought’a you there turns my fuckin’ stomach.” He growled under his breath as he ran a hand over his long hair.

“Does the same to me when I see you here,” I told him honestly. “It’s done, Z. I’m in. And I’m going to do whatever it takes to bring them down.”

“Won’t bring King back,” he whispered hoarsely. “Lose you too? Couldn’t stand it.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“You think King wasn’t?” he countered, not cruelly, but sharp, like a slap to the face so I’d wake the fuck up.

“I know he was.” I leaned forward, face so close to the partition it fogged up the glass. “But they had eyes on King. He was the new Prez, the heir to Zeus Garro. Who am I? No one. They won’t see me coming.”

And I had to believe that was true.

Otherwise, I’d be dead.

NOVA

Street Ink Tattoo Parlour was my home more than anywhere else ever I had lived. I knew every inch of motor and brick in the 1500 square foot space I’d bought with cold cash at the tender age of twenty-four. I’d known since I was five when I saw a man in the park with beauty inked into every inch of his skin from neck down to fingertips, that I wanted to be responsible for that kinda tangible, breathable art. Didn’t hurt that when I picked up a pen, a crayon, or even a fuckin’ stick to draw in the dirt, that I had some serious talent.

Parents were anxious about my artistic streak ’cause who the fuck made a livin’ outta their passion, especially if it was creative? But then a teacher of mine in grade school who’d gone to some fancy institute in Paris called École des Beaux-Arts told my parents I had some serious, genius-level talent for a ten-year-old, and they’d changed their tune.

A genius in the Booth family?

We were hardy stock, fishermen from my father off the brutal shores of the Canadian west coast to our ancestors on the Algarve peninsula. We were men with large hands thick with muscle over big bones, clumsy with somethin’ so delicate as a pen, but fuckin’ mighty with twine, rope, and wet, dangerously edged hooks.

I say we, but I meant them.

Sure, my hands were as wide and strong as theirs, but after Mr. Larson told my parents about the potential of my art, I was saved from goin’ out on the boat with the rest of my three brothers.

When they woke up before dawn to accompany Dad out on the boat, swaddled in thick layers of wool and waterproof overalls, I was sitting down at the kitchen table with a dozen blank pages and my collection of pens.

They hoped I’d be a 21st century Picasso or Bertolucci.

But I didn’t like the mess of paint in oil or water.

I preferred the sharp precision of ink, the exactin’ nature of its pigmentation. I loved detail, craved the tiny twists and turns of pen over paper that made a leaf seem like an entire world of topography.

It was my obsession, and soon, paper wasn’t enough.

I drew on the warm wood grain of the kitchen table, down the carved legs, and up the pale oak dinin’ room chairs. I painted the cabinets in elaborate Moorish patterns ’cause my father’s mother had been Moorish, and I painted my mother’s little parlour in an Alice in Wonderland motif ’cause she’d always been obsessed with Through The Looking Glass. My brothers demanded their own rooms be done, and I delivered, though, I didn’t follow their directions.