Chapter Thirty - Tattoo's & Pain

Dante doesn’t say anything at first.

He just stands there, eyes still dark from whatever passed through him when he walked in and saw me dressed like this—like I belonged in his world.

Then his gaze shifts.

Not to my face.

To my back.

I feel it immediately, like a touch that never happens.

“The scars,” he says finally. Not accusing. Not gentle either. Just… steady.

“What happened?”

The question lands heavier coming from him than it did from Danika.

I turn slightly, enough that he can see them clearly. There’s no point hiding them. They’re part of me whether I like it or not.

I turn just enough to face him. “Which one?”

“The scars,” he says. “Who did that to you.”

“My brothers,” I answer. “All of them. Together.”

His jaw tightens.

“It was tradition,” I add. “The girls were marked. Identifying scars. The boys got tattoos instead.”

“Tattoos,” he repeats, like the word tastes wrong.

“They’re symbols,” I say. “Rank. Loyalty. Ownership.”

“And you?” he asks quietly.

I hesitate, then lift my hand and touch the scar that curves from my shoulder toward my neck — the one that never quite fades, no matter how much time passes.

“I asked for one,” I say.

His eyes snap to mine.

“A tattoo,” I continue. “Just like my brothers. Something small. Something I could hide.”

My fingers trace the edge of the scar.

“My father said tattoos made women look undisciplined. Improper. He said they gave the wrong impression.”

Dante’s expression darkens.

“So instead,” I say flatly, “he gave me this.”

Silence crashes down between us.

“He said it would remind me who I belonged to,” I finish. “Said pain was more honest than ink.”

Dante takes a step closer before he seems to realize he’s moving.

“That wasn’t discipline,” he says. “That was cruelty.”

“It was normal where I grew up.”

“That doesn’t make it acceptable.”

I let out a slow breath. “I wanted something that was mine. He made sure I understood nothing ever would be.”

For a moment, Dante doesn’t speak.

Then he says, very deliberately, “Your father forfeited the right to make rules for you the moment he put a bounty on your head.”

I look at him. “That doesn’t erase what he taught me.”

“No,” he agrees. “But it does end his authority.”

I shake my head slightly. “Those rules are carved into you. They don’t just disappear.”

Dante’s gaze sharpens — not angry, not soft. Certain.

“They do when the man who enforced them is no longer in control.”

The words settle somewhere deep in my chest.

“You’re not his daughter anymore,” he continues. “You’re not his weapon. And you’re sure as hell not his tradition.”

I swallow.

“And what if I still want one?” I ask quietly. “A tattoo.”

Dante’s mouth curves, slow and dangerous.

“Then you’d be choosing it,” he says. “Not being punished for it.”

The room feels different after that.

Like something old has cracked open.

“And Aria?” he adds.

“Yes?”

“Your life didn’t end when your father outlawed you.”

He meets my gaze, steady and unyielding.

“It finally started.”

I don’t respond.

I just stand there, fingers resting on the scar that was never meant to be beautiful — and imagine, for the first time, what it might mean to choose my own mark.

“You’re not his property,” Dante continues. “Not his weapon.”

I swallow. “You make it sound simple.”

“It’s not,” he says. “But it is real.”