A Pet For The Two Mafia Dons
“Not Ferrero’s crest. Not the family I was born into. Yours.”
Her lips trembled. “That’s permanent.”
“Exactly,” he said, his grin erratic, hungry. “So every time I bleed, every time I fight, it’s your name the world will see.”
The tattooist looked nervous, his hands trembling as he approached. Alessio stood behind him, arms crossed, gaze sharp. “Don’t shake. If you falter, you won’t have hands left to work with.”
The man swallowed, steadied, and began.
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