Inked by the Mafia King

The drive back from Rhett's house should have been peaceful. East Austin's tree-lined streets gave way to downtown's familiar chaos, but my hands wouldn't stop trembling on the steering wheel. Not from fear—from something else entirely. The memory of his thumb brushing behind my ear made my skin burn.

My phone buzzed through the car speakers, Derek's name flashing on the dashboard display. I almost declined the call, but curiosity won.

"You went to HIS house? Are you out of your fucking mind?" His voice cracked through the speakers like shattered glass, so sharp I flinched.

"I was working. A commission." I kept my voice level, professional.

"Bullshit." The word came out strangled. "I saw the TikTok. I know who lives on that street. You went to a fucking drug dealer's house?"

My blood went cold. Derek had been tracking me. Find My Friends—I'd forgotten we still shared locations. He'd seen exactly where I'd been for the past three hours.

"Derek—"

"Do you have any idea what you've done? What people are going to think? Jesus Christ, Sloane, I'm trying to protect you from yourself here."

The word 'protect' hit me like a slap. "I don't need your protection."

"You need somebody's protection if you're stupid enough to walk into a cartel house alone!"

I hung up.

My hands were shaking harder now, gripping the wheel until my knuckles went white. Not because Derek was right—but because he wasn't entirely wrong. I had walked into a dangerous world tonight. The question burning in my chest wasn't whether I should have done it.

It was why I wanted to do it again.

---

The next morning brought Austin's typical September heat, the kind that made the asphalt shimmer like water. I'd barely unlocked the studio door when I spotted Derek across the street, leaning against his BMW with a bouquet of white lilies in his hands.

White lilies. The flowers I'd told him a dozen times reminded me of funerals.

He crossed the street with the confident stride of a man who'd never been told no and meant it. The lilies looked expensive, probably from that pretentious florist on South First that charged fifty dollars for arrangements that died in three days.

"Sloane." He said my name like a prayer, all soft edges and wounded sincerity. "Can we talk?"

I propped the studio door open with my hip, not inviting him in but not slamming it in his face either. "You're talking."

"I made a mistake." He held out the flowers like an offering. "One mistake. And you run to some criminal? That's not who you are, Sloane."

"How would you know who I am?" The words came out sharper than I'd intended. "You've spent three years telling me who I should be."

His face crumpled with practiced hurt. Derek had perfected the art of looking wounded when he didn't get his way. "I love you. Everything I do is because I love you."

"You love controlling me. There's a difference."

"This isn't you talking." He stepped closer, and I caught a whiff of his cologne—too heavy, too sweet. "This is whatever poison that man put in your head. You're not thinking clearly."

"I'm thinking clearly for the first time in years."

Derek's mask slipped for just a moment, revealing something uglier underneath. "Really? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're having some kind of breakdown. Running to criminals, throwing away everything we built together."

"We didn't build anything together. You built a cage and convinced me it was a home."

The words hung between us like a challenge. Derek's jaw tightened, and when he spoke again, his voice carried a different edge—sharper, more calculated.

"You can't survive without me, Sloane. You know that, right?" He gestured at the studio with the flowers, the movement dismissive. "This little art project of yours? You can't even afford next month's rent. Without me, you have nothing."

The familiar shame tried to crawl up my throat, but something had changed. Maybe it was the memory of Rhett's fingers in my hair, or the way he'd looked at my art like it mattered. Maybe it was just exhaustion from three years of being made to feel small.

"Watch me," I said.

Derek's face darkened. He stepped forward, reaching for my wrist. "Don't be stupid. You know I'm right. You always come back because you know—"

That's when I noticed the black Escalade.

It was parked across the street, windows tinted so dark they looked like mirrors. I'd seen it when I'd arrived this morning but hadn't thought much of it—Austin was full of expensive cars. But now, watching Derek's face go pale as he followed my gaze, I realized it had been there all along.

Watching.

The driver's door opened with deliberate slowness. A man stepped out—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black suit despite the heat. He didn't hurry across the street. The measured pace was somehow more threatening than running would have been.

Derek's grip on my wrist loosened.

"Ms. Avery." The man's voice was professionally neutral, but his eyes—cold, assessing—never left Derek's face. "Mr. Caraveo wants to know if the tattoo needs a touch-up session. He's free tonight."

It wasn't about the tattoo. We all knew it wasn't about the tattoo.

Derek dropped his hand entirely, taking a step back. The expensive flowers scattered across the sidewalk, white petals already wilting in the heat.

"I see." Derek's voice was tight with barely controlled rage. "So that's how it is."

The man in the suit said nothing, just stood there like a wall of quiet menace. His stillness was more effective than any threat.

Derek looked between him and me, and I saw the exact moment his wounded-lover act transformed into something more dangerous. His eyes went flat, calculating.

"You're going to regret this, Sloane." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "You have no idea what you're getting into."

Then he was gone, walking back to his BMW with quick, angry strides. The engine roared to life, and he peeled away from the curb with the kind of dramatic flair that would have embarrassed me six months ago.

Now it just looked pathetic.

The man in the suit watched until Derek's car disappeared around the corner, then turned back to me with something that might have been approval.

"The offer stands," he said simply, then walked back to the Escalade.

I stood there on the sidewalk, surrounded by scattered white petals and the lingering scent of Derek's cologne, watching the black car pull away. My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Unknown number. Not Rhett—I'd memorized his contact by now.

The message was a photo: me, standing at Rhett's front door last night, the timestamp clearly visible on what looked like security footage. Below it, a single line of text that made my blood turn to ice water:

*The Caraveo family destroys everything it touches. Ask his last girlfriend what happened to her.*

My hand tightened around the phone until the edges bit into my palm. I looked up at the empty street, suddenly aware of how exposed I was standing here. How many people were watching? How many cameras?

I thought about calling Rhett, but my thumb hovered over his number without dialing. What did I actually know about him? That he was dangerous, that he had money, that he made my pulse race in ways that probably meant trouble.

That might not be enough to trust him with whatever game I'd just walked into.

But as I stood there, staring at the anonymous threat on my phone screen, I realized something that should have terrified me:

I didn't want to walk away.

I wanted to know what had happened to his last girlfriend.

And I wanted to prove I was different.