Page 155 of The Enforcer

A lifetime loyalty pledged to Cosa Nostra before he even took the oath.

Carlo got his ink down the long line of his spine, from the base of his neck all the way to the curve of his back.

Nova’s was on his right side, the oath staining the most vulnerable part of any fighter, from under his arm to the curve of his hip, though their people considered themselves above ink.

And these weren’t pretty tattoos.

They were done in big black street-gangster lettering. Dirty, his father told them later when he beat the fuck out of Tino despite the fact that Tino was still recovering. Making Nova watch while he did it.

It made them look like trash. Tattooed like street thugs. Like the Russians and the cartel. He called them every fucked-up thing in the book, and it took him a long time to notice that Tino wasn’t crying, and Nova wasn’t flinching, because watching Tino bleed for the greater good obviously didn’t hurt him.

Frankie stopped then, as Nova knelt there in the basement and glared at their father like he was fantasizing about killing him.

“Get the fuck outta here.” Frankie kicked Tino as he said it.

Tino turned and looked at him, even if his back was on fire and his shoulder was hurting like a motherfucker. He’d cheated a little and did blow before he got down here, but he wasn’t too high to miss the flash of fear in Frankie’s dark gaze.

For that one long moment Frankie saw what he’d created.

Then the moment passed, and he kicked Tino again, forcing him to get to his feet despite his injured thigh that wanted to give out. Tino didn’t let it; he stood his ground as he turned around and gave his father the same glare Nova had.

They were both taller than Frankie now.

Stronger.

More cut and disciplined, with black belts and a vendetta.

It was the last time Frankie hit Tino.

No one hit him, not anymore.

Even when Tino started doing the don’s dirty work, no one was able to get the edge on him.

He was done bleeding in basements.

And he would put a motherfucker in a shallow grave in a New York fucking minute if they tried to take them down, because Tino had a ship to fight for and a dark pope to protect, and he took that shit very seriously.

Chapter Thirty-Four

East Harlem, New York

Late November 2008

“Are you very high? No.”

“Oh, come on,” Carina said in a singsong voice as she looked up at Brianna from her spot on the tattoo table. Ass in the air, Carina rested her chin in her hand and said, “Just a little one.”

Brianna shook her head. “No.”

“Chicken,” Tino added from the table next to his sister, with his ass also in the air. “Get a four-leaf clover. ’Cause your ass is good luck.”

She laughed. “No. I’m not getting a leprechaun or a four-leaf clover or anything else tattooed on my ass. Just no. You can’t make me. My mother taught me to resist peer pressure.”

Tino snorted. “Oh yeah, that worked out great for you.”

Brianna let them say what they wanted, but stood steadfast against a wall covered in tattoo pictures and watched Tino and Carina get matching tattoos on their asses to celebrate being out of Brooklyn.

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