Page 40 of Forgotten Sacrifice

Getting an idea of the ink I want, I grab a piece of paper and draw out a basic design.

The artist introduces herself, and after our consultation, Olivia’s first in the chair for a minimalist violet tattoo on her ribcage; Violet her middle name.

“What’s your middle name?” she asks me, gritting her teeth as the buzzing sound of the needle fills the room.

“Oh, I don’t have one.” Like my mother couldn’t be bothered with choosing two names for her unwanted child.

“Really?” I’ve never known anyone who didn’t have a middle name.”

“Maybe I’ll drop my last name and go by Luna,” I joke.

“When you become one of those nerdy chess pros,” Olivia ribs.

I shrug. “That’s the plan.”

The artist holds up a mirror, and Olivia checks out her ink. “Looove.”

“So cute,” I agree.

It’s my turn in the chair, and my turn to grit my teeth. “Fuck! Why didn’t you tell me how bad this hurt?” It feels like the needle’s drilling into my bones.

“Because you would’ve chickened out,” Olivia says, snapping a selfie of her new ink.

“You ladies did choose one of the most painful spots to get your first tattoo,” the artist points out.

Mine takes a little longer, but when it’s finished, I’m bouncing in the chair with excitement. “Looks fab,” Olivia comments, typing something on her phone.

I stand and turn sideways, checking out the minimalist, linear moon phases tattoo beginning at my upper ribcage and ending a few inches below my armpit. “I love it!”

Olivia pays, and I thank her for the birthday present as we walk out the shop, giggling with excitement.

Chapter

Seventeen

Vince

I arrive at the social club and enter through the back. “Morning, Vince,” the elderly janitor greets me as he pauses his mopping.

“Morning. How’s your wife doing?”

“She’s still in the hospital, but the doc thinks she might get to come home this week.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Thanks, Vince. Hey, I need a few more days. With my wife’s bills and all.” He rubs the back of his neck.

Sometimes, I really hate what I do. And now is one of those times. “Say no more. Take a few weeks to regroup.”

“Thank you.”

I nod, walking to my office and closing the door. Taking a seat, I rest my head in my hands, thinking of anything I’d rather be doing than calculating odds and shaking down husbands paying for their wives’ cancer treatment.

Vince, Eighteen-years old

I knock on the boss’s door. “Enter,” Uncle Joseph calls.

Stepping into his office, I report, “My book’s are closed. I’m surprised there was so much interest in Philly right before tipoff, but it worked out to my advantage. I needed to shift some action, anyway.”