Chapter 93 One month with the Mafia boss: Day six
9:12 p.m.
Ink & Sin Tattoo Studio, old district
The sign outside is unlit, just a single red neon snake coiled around a dagger.
Inside, the place smells of green soap, incense, and hot metal.
The walls are black, covered in flash sheets that look like crime-scene sketches: saints bleeding, wolves with human eyes, roses wrapped in barbed wire.
Only one artist works tonight.
Dante “Saint”, sleeves of cathedral windows and screaming seraphim, silver rings in every finger, eyes the color of absinthe.
He is Kazimir’s personal ink master, the only man alive allowed to put a needle to the boss’s skin.
Tonight, he is here for her.
Nyra is already naked on the padded table, lying on her back under a single surgical lamp.
The light is merciless, turning her skin porcelain and every tiny tremor visible.
Leather restraints circle her wrists and ankles, holding her spread and helpless.
A rolled leather bit is between her teeth, not for silence, but because Kazimir knows she will scream.
Kazimir stands at her hip in a black wife-beater and low-slung jeans, arms crossed, watching Saint prep the machine.
The buzz of the coil warming up is obscene in the quiet.
On the steel tray: black ink, a magnum needle, a tiny stencil no bigger than a silver dollar.
The design is simple, brutal, perfect, a crowned wolf snarling, teeth bared, the letters K.V. worked into the negative space.
It will sit exactly one inch above her clit, low enough that every pair of lace panties she ever wears again will rub against it.
Low enough that when she’s on her knees, any man who sees it will know who owns the cunt in front of him.
Kazimir leans down, brushes her hair from her sweaty forehead.
“Color?” Saint asks, professional, almost bored.
“Jet black. And scarification on the crown. I want it raised. I want her to feel it every time she breathes.”
Saint nods once. No questions. He’s done worse for Kazimir.
Nyra’s chest rises and falls too fast. Kazimir cups one breast, rolls the nipple between gloved fingers until she whimpers around the bit.
“Eyes on me, malyshka.”
She obeys. Tears already pool, but her pupils are blown wide with lust.
Saint wipes her skin with alcohol. Transfers the stencil.
The purple lines look obscene against her pale mound. He presses the pedal. The machine roars to life.
The first line is fire.
Nyra screams into the leather, back arching off the table, restraints creaking. Kazimir’s hand shoots to her throat, pinning her gently but firmly.
“Breathe through it.”
Saint works fast, merciless. The needle drags over the tender skin just above her clit, every vibration shooting straight into her swollen nerves.
She has been soaked since Kazimir strapped her down and told her exactly what was about to happen.
The pain is white-hot, exquisite, blending with pleasure until she can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
Halfway through the crown, Kazimir nods to Saint. The artist pauses, wipes blood and ink, and steps back without a word.
Kazimir strips off the gloves, unbuttons his jeans, and climbs onto the table. He straddles her ribcage, cock heavy and leaking against her sternum.
“Look at me while he finishes,” he orders.
Then he slowly, deliberately inserted his cock in her mouth, letting her taste the salt of his skin.
She moans around him, the vibration making him hiss.
Saint resumes.
The needle bites deeper for the scarification pass, carving tiny raised ridges into the crown.
Nyra’s muffled screams turn into desperate, wet sobs around Kazimir’s cock.
He fucks her throat in shallow thrusts, never deep enough to choke, just enough to remind her who decides when she breathes.
Tears stream down her temples into her hair. Her hips try to rock, seeking friction that isn’t there.
When the final dot of ink is placed, Saint wipes the fresh tattoo clean, smears it thick with second-skin, and quietly begins packing his kit.
He never once looks at her cunt, he was professional to the end.
Kazimir pulls out of her mouth, saliva bridging her lips to his cock for a filthy second before breaking. He moves down the table, settles between her spread thighs, and just looks.
The wolf is perfect, snarling, regal and permanent.
He leans in and drags his tongue over the fresh ink tasting blood and adrenaline and her.
Nyra jerks so hard the restraints groan.
“Still,” he growls against the raw skin.
Then he eats her like a man possessed, his tongue lapping at her clit, careful to avoid the bandage but merciless everywhere else.
The pain from the tattoo radiates with every lick, every thrust, turning her into a sobbing, begging mess.
He edges her four times, bringing her to the brink, then stopping completely until she’s crying and trying to fuck his face with bound hips.
On the fifth, he sucks her clit between his teeth and snarls, “Come.”
She detonates so hard her vision blacks out.
Her scream is raw, echoing off the black walls.
She squirts over his tongue, his chin, the table, her thighs shaking uncontrollably.
Kazimir rises, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and finally frees her from the restraints.
She collapses forward into his arms, trembling, the new tattoo throbbing in time with her pulse.
He lifts her carefully, cradles her against his chest like something precious and breakable.
Saint is already gone. Kazimir carries her to the long leather couch in the back, lays her on her side so nothing touches the fresh ink.
He strips fully, slides in behind her, and pulls her back against his chest.
One hand cups her breast, the other splays possessively over the bandage.
“Six days,” he murmurs into her hair, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“Six permanent marks. Twenty-four left to make sure you never forget whose name is written on your skin.”
Nyra turns her face into his throat, kisses the steady pulse there.
“It already hurts to breathe without you,” she whispers.
Kazimir’s arms tighten until she can barely draw air.
“Good.”
Outside, the red snake keeps flickering.
Inside, the wolf is finally home.