He recovered quickly, smirking. “I’ll tell you once we’re on the bus.” He motioned for me to hurry on board and then followed me.

I found a seat in the back and waited until the bus began to move before insisting on some answers. “Spill.”

“Demanding today, aren’t we?” Grinning, he turned his body to cage me in against the window, then unbuttoned his uniform dress shirt. Beneath, a gauzy white bandage was adhered to his chest. He slowly peeled back the tape, revealing an intricate tattoo of an angel inked over his entire left pectoral. The angel’s wings curved around her protectively as she sat naked on the ground, her face shielded by her arms.

“It’s absolutely stunning,” I breathed, in awe of the delicate artistry used to create such a beautiful rendering on human skin. Then I remember how I’d punched him. “Oh my God,” I gasped, hands flying to my mouth. “I’m so sorry I hit you! I had no idea.”

“It’s fine, Sof. Look, it’s not even bleeding or anything.”

I studied the tattoo, taking in each fine line and the intricate detail. “Did you just get it last night?”

He nodded sheepishly. “It’s symbolic of being a part of the bratva—a commitment to thievery.”

“Is it official? You joined?” I gaped at him, stunned he would take that step without saying something to me first.

“Not quite,” he said, resetting the patch over his healing skin. “No matter if I officially join their ranks, the bratva will always be a part of my life because of my father.”

I nodded in perfect understanding. When something like that touched your life, there was no escaping it. Whether in small ways like fearing the police, or in a more concrete fashion like hoarding money and carrying weapons. The mentality of a criminal bled into your subconscious, changing the way you thought.

“Did you show your mom?” She hated that he was involved with the bratva in any way.

His lips thinned, eyes hardening. “No. I know what her response will be, and I don’t feel like fighting with her. That’s just about all we do anymore. I hate it. I know she wants the best for me, but I just don’t see myself in an office job working an eight-to-five for the rest of my life. That’s just not me.”

“You could play piano or do something else legitimate that isn’t a standard job. That way you and your mom could both be happy.”

“I could,” he conceded, eyes drifting out the window. “There’s still time to decide what I’m doing long-term. Despite my mom’s beliefs otherwise, my dad isn’t forcing me into anything.”

“I wish I could say the same. I’m not sure what four years at college is going to do for me when all I want to do is paint for a living, but Dad doesn’t see it that way. He’s adamant that I attend college. At least he’s letting me study art rather than forcing me to get some boring business degree.”