Inked by the Mafia King

The two mezcal cocktails felt heavier than they should have as I made my way through the crowded VIP section of Neon, Austin's newest rooftop bar. The bass from the DJ booth below vibrated through the glass floor panels, and the city lights stretched out like scattered diamonds beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Three years together. Derek had insisted on celebrating here, said it was 'our place' now, even though we'd only been here once before.

I'd spent forty minutes getting ready—the black slip dress he'd bought me for my birthday, the one that made my tattoos look like deliberate art instead of rebellious mistakes. My hair fell in loose waves past my shoulders, and I'd even worn the delicate gold necklace his mother had given me last Christmas. Anniversary effort.

The narrow hallway leading to the private booths was dimly lit, purple neon strips casting everything in an otherworldly glow. I could hear Derek's laugh echoing from around the corner—that easy, confident sound that had first drawn me to him at a gallery opening two years ago. He was probably charming the waitress again, or showing off his new promotion to whoever would listen.

I rounded the corner, cocktails balanced carefully in my hands, ready to surprise him with his favorite drink and the news that I'd finally gotten the call about the gallery space downtown. The words were already forming on my lips when I saw them.

Derek's hand was sliding up a woman's thigh. Her dress—neon pink, barely there, the kind that screamed 'look at me'—had ridden up as she pressed against him in the booth. His mouth was on her neck, and she was making soft sounds that cut through the music like broken glass.

That's my boyfriend's hand. And that's not my body.

The thought came with startling clarity, clinical and detached. I should have been screaming. Should have thrown the drinks. Should have done something dramatic and satisfying that would make a good story later.

Instead, I felt something inside me go perfectly, crystalline still. Like water turning to ice in an instant, everything sharp and clear and cold.

I set the cocktails down on a small table against the wall with deliberate care, the glasses making soft clinks against the marble surface. The sound seemed impossibly loud in my ears. My hands weren't shaking. That surprised me.

I turned to leave, my heels clicking against the polished concrete floor, each step measured and precise. Get out. Get to the elevator. Process this somewhere private, somewhere I could fall apart without an audience.

I made it exactly three steps before I collided with a wall of black silk and warm skin.

My palms hit his chest as I stumbled backward, and I found myself looking up into dark eyes that seemed to catch and hold the neon light. He was tall—taller than Derek—with black hair that looked like he'd run his fingers through it and sharp features that belonged in old paintings of dangerous men.