Chapter 24
Elise's POV
Wednesday night, seven o'clock.
I unlocked the iron gate of the tattoo studio, just like I always did.
The moment the lights flickered on, familiar warm yellow industrial light flooded the entire space—concrete floors, exposed brick walls, the workbench against the wall, design sketches pinned up everywhere. Everything was there. Everything was exactly as I'd left it.
This was my place.
The only place that truly belonged to me.
I pulled my toolkit out from the cabinet and ran through a quick inventory check.
Tattoo machine, needle cartridges, ink bottles, sterilization packs—all accounted for.
Then I settled into the chair at my workbench, flipped open the appointment book, and scanned through today's schedule.
Three clients.
The first was a regular—small touch-up work on the inner forearm, routine job that would take maybe half an hour at most.
The second was a new client who'd booked last week, wanting a full back piece. Those kinds of commissions usually required three separate sessions to complete; today would only be the first.
The third... I stared at that entry for a long time.
The appointment had been made three days ago. The name field contained only a single letter: "K." The notes section read: "Friend's referral."
I hadn't thought much of it at the time.
Friend referrals were common in the tattoo world, especially for large-scale, high-ticket work—plenty of people came through intermediary recommendations.
But now, looking at that solitary "K," something gnawed at the edges of my mind, a vague sense that something wasn't quite right.
Eight o'clock sharp, the first client arrived right on time.
A woman, somewhere around thirty, dressed well but not flashily. She wanted a butterfly placed just below her collarbone—small size, sensitive location.
I had her lie down on the work table, sterilized the skin with alcohol, and began sketching the outline.
Her skin was very pale, her collarbone beautifully defined. She'd chosen the placement well.
I brought the needle down for the first line.
She sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth but didn't cry out.
The session went smoothly.
Forty minutes later, I collected the final payment and saw her out.
The second client didn't show.
Sent a message saying something came up, asked to reschedule for next week.
I replied with a simple "okay" and crossed out that time slot in the appointment book.
Then I waited for the third.
Eight-forty.
No one.
Nine o'clock.
Still no one.
I pulled out my phone, found the contact information for "K," and sent a message: "Are you here yet?"
No response.
Nine-thirty.
The alley outside the studio was quiet, punctuated only by the occasional passing car, distant dog barking somewhere in the night.
I started tidying up, preparing to close for the evening.
That's when someone knocked on the door.
No—not knocked. Pounded.
Three heavy blows that made the entire iron gate shudder in its frame.
I tightened my grip on my phone, walked to the door, and peered through the peephole.
Four men stood outside.
All of them large.
The one at the front was particularly tall and broad-shouldered, buzz-cut head, neck crawling with tattoos, wearing a black leather jacket. Behind him stood three more of similar build—shaved heads or dreadlocks, visible tattoos and scars, the kind of men who clearly weren't here for anything legitimate.
My fingers hovered over the door handle.
I didn't open it.
"Who is it?" I called out.
"Open the door." The tall man's voice was rough and coarse, carrying an edge of impatient menace. "You Elise?"
I said nothing.
"So what if you are," he continued. "Someone sent me to find you."
Find me?
My mind raced through possibilities—Liam's friends? A client I'd somehow wronged? Benjamin's people?
"Who sent you?"
"What do you care who sent me?" His tone shifted, taking on a nasty, amused quality. "Open the door, sweetheart. Don't make us wait too long."
My hand froze on the handle for two seconds.
Then I made a decision.
I stepped back two paces, grabbed my phone from the workbench.
At the same time, my other hand reached beneath the counter for the emergency button—a wireless alarm that connected directly to the convenience store across the street, something I'd installed as a precaution for situations exactly like this.
"How many of you are there?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Four. Why, scared?"
"I operate alone here at night."
"That's exactly why we came." A shorter, stockier man behind him laughed, revealing a mouthful of yellowed teeth. "More fun with a crowd."
I pressed the alarm button.
A red light blinked on.
Signal sent.
But I had no idea how long it would take for anyone to arrive. This was the old district—the police station was at least fifteen minutes away.
And they were already right outside.
"So you're not opening the door?" The tall man took a step forward, his shoulder nearly touching the iron gate. "I can help you with that."
His hand reached for the door handle.
I stepped back, grabbed a tattoo machine from the table, and pointed it toward the door.
"Touch it again and see what happens."
My voice wasn't loud, but it was cold enough.
The space outside went silent for a second.
Then the tall man laughed.
Not the laugh of someone frightened.
The laugh of someone genuinely amused.
"Oh, packing heat, are we?" He pressed his face close to the peephole, peering at me through the gap in the doorframe. "Interesting. I like the ones who don't listen."
He straightened up and gestured to the men behind him.
"Pry it open."
He said.
The three others immediately sprang into action.
Two began searching for tools while the third simply threw his body against the door.
The old iron gate let out a piercing screech under their assault, screws around the frame popping loose one by one.
My hand trembled around the tattoo machine.
These men weren't here for tattoos.
They were here to cause trouble.
And I'd locked myself in this cage with them.
On the second impact, the iron gate groaned under the strain, the frame visibly warping.
I retreated to the workbench.
Pressed my back against the wall.
Four men in front of me.
Behind me, nothing but cold brick and a door about to give way.
All I had was a tattoo machine.
"Don't be so tense." The tall man stepped inside, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor. "We're not going to eat you. Just here to have a chat."
"Chat about what?"
"About you." He approached the workbench, casually picked up a bottle of ink, glanced at the label, then tossed it aside. "Heard you've got good skills. How about a demonstration?"
"I work by appointment. You don't have one."
"Appointment?" He snorted. "This shithole requires appointments?"
He turned, surveying the studio's interior, his gaze landing on the design sketches hanging on the wall.
"Not bad artwork," he said, his tone shifting to something that felt uncomfortably appreciative. "You draw all these?"
"Yes."
"Then draw one for me."
He pulled a thick stack of bills from his pocket—at least a dozen hundred-dollar notes.
He slammed them down on the workbench with a sharp slap.
"That enough?"
I didn't respond.
"Not enough? I'll add more. Name your price."
He took another step toward me.
I could smell him now—cheap cologne mixed with sweat and something sharper, more acrid.
Alcohol.
And something else.
He was closing in, his eyes growing more naked in their intent with each passing second.
I gripped the tattoo machine tighter, keeping it aimed in his direction.
"Don't come any closer."
"You really dare point that thing at me?"
"This is my shop."
"Your shop?" His grin widened, revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth. "A mistress like you—this place could actually be yours?"
Mistress.
The word drove into my ears like a spike.
My breathing stopped for an instant.
He knew.
He knew whose mistress I was.
Or rather, he'd come here specifically because of it.
"You're wrong," I said. "I'm not anyone's 'mistress.'"
"Not a mistress?" Another man chimed in, his voice sharp and grating. "Then how come you're living in the apartment Liam bought for you?"
"Liam?" I froze again.
They knew Liam?
No.
More than that.
They knew far too much.
My apartment address, my school, my tattoo studio—this wasn't information regular clients would have access to.
Unless someone had told them.