Chapter 2 It's His Name

Mia

New York was the same as ever. Expensive as hell, cold as hell, even the air seemed like someone had pre-marked it with prices. The black car drove from Queens all the way into Manhattan, the post-rain Hudson River was gray-blue. The driver didn't ask where I was going. He knew the address, and knew I didn't want to talk.

This made me even more uncomfortable. People arranged by the Moretti family never asked too many questions. They would just deliver you precisely to where you needed to go, like delivering a piece of paid-for cargo.

The car stopped on a narrow street behind Madison Avenue. The Moretti family's private club had no sign, only a dark green door and two security guards in black suits. When I got out, I was carrying my tattoo case. The case was old, corners worn white, completely mismatched with this building.

The security guard looked at me once.

"Mia Hayes?"

I nodded. He didn't search my case, just pushed open the door for me. Inside was excessively warm.

Champagne, cedar, expensive leather, and a faint trace of smoke. The lobby was full of suits and low conversations, women wearing diamond earrings, men laughing like they'd never owed anyone their life. When I walked in, several people turned to look at me. They recognized me.

I knew. Five years ago, the night Nico Moretti called off our engagement, New York high society chewed my name to pieces. Mia Hayes, the girl who almost married into the Moretti family, whose father ended up in prison. Some said I was greedy, some said I was dirty, others said the Moretti family not letting my corpse sink into the river was already merciful. The front desk handed me a tablet.

"Visitor agreement."

I looked down to sign. The screen showed an identity note. Former fiancée of Nico Moretti. Access restricted. A woman next to me laughed.

Her voice wasn't loud, just enough for me to hear: "I thought the Hayes girl was banned from New York."

I finished the last stroke and returned the tablet.

"Apparently not."

The smile on her face froze a bit. I didn't look at her again. When you're very poor, you learn one thing: humiliation is free. Others give it, you don't necessarily have to take it.

But not taking it doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. That line of notes pushed the humiliation from five years ago back in front of me. That year, I also stood under similar lighting, wearing an ill-fitting white dress, hearing a group of people discuss me in similar voices. They didn't need to raise their voices because they knew I would hear. They didn't even need to speak complete sentences, as long as they mentioned Hayes, mentioned the broken engagement, mentioned prison, I would automatically fill in the rest of their malice for them. I switched the tattoo case to my other hand, knuckles pressing against the handle. The case was heavy, inside were needles, ink, disinfectant tablets and a small pack of pain relief candy. It reminded me that I wasn't here to attend a party, nor to beg anyone for forgiveness. I was here to work. As long as I could still work, I wasn't a joke on their table.

"Mia."

I looked up. Nico stood at the stairway entrance. He wore a dark blue suit, hair a bit shorter than five years ago, his eyes still the same, gentle like a belated apology.

I had been fooled by this kind of look before. He walked down, stopped two steps away from me.

"You really came," Nico said.

"I came to work." I lifted the tattoo case to my side.

"I know." He looked at the case in my hand, voice softening, "You've lost weight."

I was almost amused by anger. After five years apart, if the first thing a man could say was "you've lost weight," then he wasn't being affectionate, he was making small talk. Nico used to be good at talking. Before our engagement, he knew when to pull out a chair for me, when to frown slightly when others' jokes went too far, when to call me Mia in that volume only I could hear. Back then I thought this was called protection. Later I understood that Moretti men all knew boundaries. They would hide knives under napkins, and even ask if you wanted water when handing them to you.

He was the same now. Gentle eyes, proper tie, even guilt displayed decently. But him standing in this building, among these security guards and crystal lights, already explained the answer. Back then he wasn't driven out, only I was driven out.

"Where's the client?"

A bit of awkwardness flashed in Nico's eyes.

"Mia, about what happened back then..."

"The client." I interrupted him, "Old tattoo, coverage area, skin condition. I need to see these first."

He was silent for a few seconds.

"You're still so hard," Nico said.

"If I wasn't hard, I would have died in New York five years ago," I replied.

His face paled. Laughter from the lobby drifted over distantly, glasses clinking together, kept low and bright. I remembered the engagement party from back then. That night I wore a white dress, Nico let go of my hand in front of everyone. He said, sorry.

Then I became a joke in everyone's eyes.

Nico lowered his voice: "Your father wasn't sent in by Dante."

I looked at him.

"Then who was it?"

He avoided my eyes. Very good. Five years later, he still only said half his words.

"Finish tonight's commission first," Nico said, "I'll give you what you want to know."

"You have no right to negotiate terms with me."

He pressed his lips together, like I had stabbed him. But I didn't care. My mother was in the hospital, my father was in prison, I was bought back to New York with Moretti money. Nico's heartache had no weight compared to all this. The corridor walls were hung with black and white photos, all of the hotels, docks, charity galas the Moretti family had opened over the years. The people in the photos were well-dressed, smiling like they'd never touched dirty money, and never let anyone go to prison for them. Every time we passed a door, someone would stop their conversation to look at me once. Some people remembered my face, some only remembered my story. To them, there was no difference between the two.

A waiter carrying a tray passed by, his steps paused, then quickly lowered his head and walked away. The silver plate edge reflected my shadow: black jacket, old tattoo case, rain-dampened hair ends. Mismatched with this place. Good. The more mismatched, the more I remembered why I couldn't bow my head. He led me through the corridor. The temporary tattoo room was at the end of the second floor, door open.

The moment I entered, my steps stopped. The table was set with my usual glove size. The needle model was the kind I liked. The black ink was a brand hard to buy in Philadelphia. There was even a bottle of ginger ale placed next to the ice bucket. I had drunk this brand at Blackthorn House that year.

I had never told anyone.

Nico saw my expression and leaned forward a bit: "I didn't prepare this."

Of course I knew it wasn't him. Nico was never this meticulous. My back slowly grew cold.

The person who paid wasn't looking for me temporarily. He knew what needles I used, what gloves I wore, what I drank. He knew which shop I worked at in Philadelphia, knew my mother's hospital, knew how much money I lacked. These five years, I thought I had hidden well.

My mind flashed to the curtains in that Philadelphia apartment. Gray, cheap goods, edges frayed after a few washes. Every night I would pull them tight, afraid drunks across the street would look in. Now thinking about it, that piece of cloth could block strangers' eyes, but couldn't block the Moretti family's hands. This thought made me severely nauseous. What made me sick wasn't that he knew I was alive, but that he knew so quietly, so quiet it was like someone had always been following behind me, and I only heard footsteps tonight. I hated this belated awakening, and hated that I only understood the full truth now. It turned out he just hadn't reached out.

"Where's the client?" I clicked open my case buckle.

Nico didn't answer. He walked to the innermost door, put his hand on the handle, stopped for a second. In that second, I heard my own heartbeat in my ears.

Not fast, but beating against my eardrums one by one.

Nico pushed open the door. The lighting in the room was dim. A black leather chair was placed in the center, a man sat with his back to me, suit jacket draped over the chair back, white shirt buttons half undone. I saw his hands first.

Slender, nails trimmed short, a light scar on the knuckles. I recognized that scar. Back then, I had bitten it.

My feet couldn't move. The man unhurriedly took off his shirt, revealing his shoulders and back. Old ink ran from his shoulder blade all the way to his spine, black lines pressed into the skin by years. That wasn't the Moretti family mark.

That was a bird entangled by black roses, wings only half spread. Five years ago, I drew it on the back of the marriage cancellation agreement. I thought Dante had thrown that paper away long ago.

He actually had it tattooed on his body.

Nico's voice seemed to come from far away: "Dante..."

Dante Moretti turned around. Five years had passed, he had barely changed. Only his eyes were deeper, and colder.

He looked at me, like looking at something that would sooner or later return to his hands.

"Cover it, Mia."