Page 11 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

He leans in, brushing his lips near my ear. "You play the role well."

I keep my eyes ahead, smile sharp. "I’ve had practice pretending I’m not drowning."

Every time our eyes meet, there’s a challenge in his gaze—like he’s daring me to stumble, to falter. But I won’t give him that satisfaction.

Lazaro clicks his champagne glass gently, the crystal chime cutting through the room like a command. Conversations hush, and the music fades. Everyone looks at us with anticipation.

"Thank you all for joining us tonight," Lazaro says smoothly, voice ringing with practiced charm. "It's a celebration of new beginnings—and of family."

He turns to look at me and his expression softens into something that almost looks loving. Almost believable.

"My darling Calista," he adds, raising his glass toward me. The crowd echoes his motion in a sea of toasts, smiles, and cheers.

Midway through the applause, there's a sharp crack of a gunshot, slicing through the air. One of the chandeliers above us explodes, scattering glass in all directions. A scream follows instantly—a high, panicked sound that breaks the elegant veneer of the night. Then a glint from the far mezzanine—something metallic catching the light.

A rifle.

Before I can react, another shot rings out. My body jerks instinctively, but Lazaro moves faster. He lunges in front of me, his arms wrapping around me.

The bullet rips through the air, grazing his arm. Flesh tears, fabric shreds. Blood blooms on his sleeve.

Chaos erupts.

Screams, overturned champagne glasses, guards rushing in from every corner. Someone pulls me back and shields me behind one of the marble columns. I can’t even tell who.

Lazaro doesn’t react. He stands tall, blood soaking through his arm sleeve.

I break free and rush to him, before I can stop myself. "You got shot..."

He smirks through gritted teeth. "Only because you're too valuable a commodity to replace."

My heart clenches—against my will. "So sweet. A real romantic."

"Romance isn’t my thing. I do strategy."

I roll my eyes at him and rip a strip of linen from a nearby tablecloth and press it to the wound. "Well, strategist, can you not bleed on the centerpiece?"

He hisses when I tighten the knot.

"You didn’t have to tighten it so much," he mutters, a hint of irritation laced beneath the pain.

I glance up at him, expression flat. "I could think of worse things I’d like to do to you."

He chuckles under his breath, leaning in slightly. "Careful, sweetheart. That almost sounded like foreplay."

"Ugh," I mutter, rolling my eyes, but my stomach twists. We fall into silence, just staring at each other, locked in a moment neither of us knows what to do with.

But the moment passes when I hear footsteps. Riven walks toward us, his steps clipped and eyes sharp, snapping us both back into reality. Lazaro’s unhurt arm, the one wrapped around my waist, suddenly slips away—and I hate that I notice its absence. That I miss its warmth.

Riven stops in front of us, his voice low but urgent. "Looks like the De Corsis have gotten wind of the engagement."

Lazaro barely blinks, like he was expecting this. "Well then," he says coolly, "let's prepare for war."

Chapter 6 – Lazaro

The car rumbles through the slick Manhattan streets, headlights cutting through sheets of rain. I sit in the back, silent, watching the city blur past the tinted windows. Lucrezia presses a gauze against my wound while Riven speaks low and steady from the front seat.

"It wasn’t difficult," he says, glancing at me in the rearview. "The Plaza’s security locked down seconds after the shot fired. Shooter didn’t stand a chance. The guards cornered him before he even cleared the terrace."

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