Izz ducks his eyes, shame colouring his cheeks. Another display of vulnerability over what others think of your actions.
It’s of little concern, so long as his boy serves, that’s all that matters.
“Come, we’re leaving,” Sinn'ous commands, and prowls to the door without waiting for his boy’s reply.
He can hear Izz wrestling his last shoe on, and stumbling to catch up.
“Where to?”
“You have a tattoo to receive.”
“W-what? No—” Izz stutters, and fumbles over his words, in that flustered way that seems to be normal for him.
It’s easily ignored, and spoken over, “you want one, don’t you.”
One more link to add to the growing chain I will lock around your neck.
The reluctant, “yes,” is the only correct answer.
A tattoo is now happening, with or without Izz’s direct consent.
What I want, I will get.
~~~
His boy trails along like an obedient puppy, right behind Sinn'ous, down the centre of the yard.
They’re going to the gang that has claimed the eastern benches. A grouping of three metal tables cornered by benches. In the winter they’re good at attracting the heat to warm your ass. In the summer they’re a death trap that burns through your clothes.
This is the gang the best artist in this slice of prison rolls with. And he will not have a second best, amateur artist inking his boy.
Part of the Russian mafia, they’re run by a notoriously ruthless man by the name of Alexiel, the underboss of the entire organisation. If Sinn'ous had to guess, it would mean that he is in here for a purpose. Considering how high in the organisation he is, money would have bought his freedom, had he wanted it. Whatever he’s doing here, it’s of little concern to Sinn'ous.
He stops at the edge of the group, Izz’s heat pressing up against his back. Every set of eyes is on them, and Sinn'ous scrubs them away. Insignificant as they are.
They’re waiting on bated breath for trouble. For a go-ahead by their boss to attack or to make themselves scarce.
Sinn'ous shouldn’t hope for an attack, but then again, he lives for blood.
Alexiel is front and centre, even when he is partly obscured from view by all the bodies coalescing around the tables. Sitting on the central table, feet resting on the bench, hands hanging by the wrists off his knees. In a way that screams casual confidence.
Sinn'ous has to respect him. If the rumours are true, Alexiel is just as blood thirsty as Sinn'ous. And someone he knows isn’t afraid to take him on. A challenge he respects.
Sitting at the underboss’s feet is a slim young thing, short blond hair, deep blue eyes, and a thin air that filters resignation.
Alexiel’s deeply accented voice cuts past the men half standing in front of him. Watch dogs at his beck and call.“What can I do for you, Sinn'ous?”
Outwardly to anyone who isn’t as observant at Sinn'ous, Alexiel would give off the vibe of relaxed and unbothered. But the signs are there, the tightening of muscle, the sharpening of eye, all ready for the conversation to turn confrontational.
“Matvey.” You don’t need to say more. Everyone knows why you ask for him. It’s a waste of words explaining further than a simple name drop.
Alexielgives Sinn'ous an appraising once over, eyes flicking back to check out Izz who is glued to his back. Tucked behind him in a way that pleases him greatly. It screams ownership.
“You gift wrapping?”
A term to ask if he is selling Izz’s sexual services.
“No.”
