The Tattoo Artist (La Petite Mort #1)

3. Chapter 3

three

Alexander

M y first victim was a man who was stealing from the Hades mafia family. My father ordered me to get rid of him, and I did.

I was only fifteen years old when I learned that I loved the feeling I got when I took someone's life.

The torture of listening to them beg was music to my ears.

Watching their life disappear from their very eyes brought me joy.

My brother, on the other hand, was only fourteen years old when he was forced to kill his best friend. But if it weren't him, then it would have been me or our younger brother after what he tried to do to our little sister.

Since that day, he had been trained to take over when our father retired. He didn't have it easy, especially when his future had already been written.

I guess my story was written in some way as well. I, Alexander Hades, grew up to be the mafia hitman .

The enforcer.

My job was to make our enemies disappear. And in my line of work, you needed a particular set of skills, and I possessed them.

I could hack.

I could kill.

I could fight.

I could fuck.

And I was talented enough to become a tattoo artist as a means to a goal.

I didn't tattoo often, and when I did, it was men and only men until her . Two years ago, I learned that my ticket to her had come into my shop, and that's when my plan began.

I watched her and her friend park across the street from the shop. Thankfully, I had access to the city's security cameras and surveillance since I hacked them years back. She had fiery copper hair, a blend of deep, cool red wine tones with warm orange undertones that were vibrant and flowed like a fiery blaze in the wind. Her beautiful face looked like that of an angel, so innocent and pure—the opposite of me.

I think that's what caught my eye. She looked the opposite of what I did. I was dark covered in tattoos. My face was unwelcoming. I could feel myself getting restless.

The door to my tattoo room suddenly opened, and I heard someone speak.

"Alexander? Right?" Her friend said, but I wasn't interested in her. My eyes connected with her fiery copper-haired friend, and the world seemed to pause at that moment. I could see her innocent soul, a soul I wanted to know more about.

A soul I wanted to own.

It didn't take her long to piss me off when she talked about him. Deimos was a thorn in my fucking life. He was all she talked about, and I had to listen.

"He—he was there the other night in front of my window. He came back. Sophie, after two years, he came back—and on my birthday—" She paused before continuing. "He just stared at me as if I were something he wanted. The look he gave me was—" Her friend interrupted what she was going to say.

"Like he wanted to kill you," She joked, laughing.

I smirked.

Deimos didn't want to kill her. No, the motherfucker wanted to fuck what was mine.

And I don 't fucking share.

My brother disappeared again, and only I knew where he was headed.

KARMA

I probably would have followed him and figured out what he was hiding, but we all had secrets, and some secrets were worth hiding.

Mine was.

My secret was going after someone I should have left behind.

I couldn't, though.

My darkness craved her.

My darkness craved her light.

And because I was obsessed with her, I was headed towards my next target.

I chuckled to myself, thinking about how, by day, I was a tattoo artist, and by night, I was the ruthless, undefeated champion.

The underground fighting we were running was definitely a money-maker. It was a source for the Greek mafia to clean their money before investing it in legal businesses such as my tattoo shop.

Tonight's fight was to be against the Albanian asshole. The Russians had a hate-like relationship with him. They hated his fucking guts, but they both agreed to a somewhat alliance.

We didn't.

And my older brother couldn't wait to destroy this motherfucker.

This fight wasn't like the rest of them. The only rule to this fight was that we both had to walk out of there alive. I was pretty sure if anyone was going to be killing the Albanian prick, it was going to be my brother.

Two hours later, I remained undefeated, and I enjoyed kicking his ass. The Russians loved watching every fucking minute of that fight, and the bottle of the most expensive whiskey he was pouring down his throat proved that. The Macallan Adami 1926 was a bottle worth $2.7 million.