When I left the coffee shop, the downpour had, thankfully, already stopped.
The sidewalks were wet and, under the light of streetlamps, traffic lights, and car headlights, they shimmered with different colors.
After the rain, a cold wind was blowing, and I pulled my hood up over my head, trying to shield myself from it.
I should have been heading home by now.
Preparing for tomorrow’s classes.
Instead, I did something that didn’t matter at all right now.
I walked four blocks and stopped in front of a two-story building.
No lights were on inside; the doors were locked.
The house looked so quiet and empty it seemed completely dead.
But I climbed the steps and gently laid my palm against the door.
Very soon this house would become everything I had dreamed of.
I suppose every person has their own aspirations.
They don’t always appear right away.
Sometimes they end up reflecting the meaning of a life.
I think I was about fourteen when I realized exactly what I wanted to do.
It was a rather strange desire for a teenager—probably looking like some kind of rebellion.
I wanted to become a tattoo artist.
I can’t remember exactly when those thoughts first started forming in my head.
At first they seemed like nothing more than simple interest.
Of course they came from my love of drawing.
Unable to walk and constantly lying in bed in my room, I occupied myself by reaching for a sketchbook and markers.
I think I wasn’t bad at it, but for some reason what interested me most were drawings on people.
And among my father’s employees there were many who had tattoos.
I often found myself staring at them.
Probably at the beginning it really was just curiosity.
But after Don De Rosa gave me to the Mariani family and the feeling that I was needed by no one grew stronger and stronger, another realization came with it: I had to take care of my own future.
Finish school, find a job, earn money to support myself.
Because sooner or later I could end up on the street entirely.
That was when I started asking myself what I wanted to become.
Which professions would bring me a stable income.
By that time I had already managed to switch from homeschooling to regular school.
In other words, I had started attending classes.
After graduating, I enrolled to study architecture.
A good profession—but still not the right one.
So what influenced my choice when I was fourteen?
I found out that Carlo Greco lived in Naples.
I had heard the name before.
More than that—I considered the man who bore it my god.
Carlo Greco was truly the god of tattoos.
Members from every single clan came to him for his craft.
He worked exclusively for the mafia, but even though he restricted his clientele to organized crime, getting an appointment with him was nearly impossible.
I’d go so far as to say it was harder than anyone could imagine—even if you happened to be a Don.
On top of that, his pieces cost a small fortune.
But they weren’t just ink on skin; they were mesmerizing, breathtaking works of art that shook you to your core.
Greco was a deeply revered figure—a living legend.
And despite refusing to align himself with any single clan, every single one of them was ready to jump at his every whim.
Realizing that I lived in the very same city as my idol- this living legend- I swore to myself that I would become his apprentice.
I’d already heard rumors that Greco never took on students, but that reckless, stubborn voice inside told me that maybe—just maybe—I could stand out.
That I could prove I was special.
Driven by that delusion, I tracked down the address of his parlor and showed up at his doorstep.
The moment I laid eyes on Carlo Greco, two things became immediately clear.
First, he was much older than I had pictured.
He looked to be in his sixties, though I later learned he was actually eighty-four at the time.
Second, I finally understood why some people called him the Butcher.
He looked the part.
Despite his advanced age, he was massive, well-built, and dressed entirely in black.
There was an intimidating, sinister aura about him that made your blood run cold.
During that first encounter, I was equal parts awestruck and terrified.
And as our brief exchange unfolded, I discovered another undeniable truth: my god possessed an absolutely atrocious personality.
Freezing on the spot, I stammered through my words, struggling to introduce myself while blurting out how much I admired his work.
I considered telling him that I had first seen one of his tattoos when I was just a child—etched onto the forearm of my father’s consigliere—but I gritted my teeth and kept quiet.
To the rest of the world, I was a nobody.
My own family treated me like garbage, and the last thing I wanted was for my idol to see what a pathetic loser I was.
Flustered and burning with embarrassment, I managed to explain that I wanted to be his apprentice.
Carlo didn’t say a word the entire time.
He just stared down at me as if I were a speck of dirt, then grabbed me by the collar and tossed me out the front door.
He barely put any effort into it, yet I went flying across the pavement.
He uttered only a single sentence: to get the hell out and never let him catch sight of me again.
I think he also called me a brainless child who had no idea what she was asking for.
But I did know.
I was asking a god to lower himself to a useless, unwanted nobody like me.
Over the course of the following year, I showed up at his parlor several times a week like clockwork.
Every single attempt was a disaster, occasionally ending with me having to run for my life.
Our interactions grew increasingly heated until we were openly screaming at each other.
After one particularly rough toss out the door, I stood outside the shop and shrieked at my god that he was a senile bastard and a wrinkled old bitch.
I yelled that he’d be dead soon, and that eventually, everyone carrying his artwork on their skin would die off too.
Time would move on, and he’d be completely forgotten.
Looking back, I probably crossed a line.
Probably.
So a week later, when I finally mustered the courage to return, I brought along a fresh batch of pastries.
I called it a peace offering to appease my god’s wrath, even though I knew he couldn’t care less about baked goods.
But I was too young to buy cigarettes or liquor, and it wasn’t like Carlo would accept anything from me anyway.
Yet when I knocked on the door and he stepped out, my entire body braced for impact.
I fully expected to go airborne once again, but instead, the old man just fixed me with a weary, exhausted look.
Then, he told me to step inside.