Page 13 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

The shooter shakes his head, sobbing now.

"Another finger," I order.

At the back of the room, Ethan stands silent, a hammer resting over his shoulder—his presence like a silent threat waiting to be unleashed. Then, without a word, he strides forward. The shooter sees him coming and his body jerks with renewed panic.

Ethan grips the man's hand, pins it down on the armrest, and raises the hammer high. The shooter thrashes, begging incoherently now, but it's useless. The first strike comes down with a dull thud—bone fractures, splinters. The man screams again—a high, piercing wail that echoes through the warehouse.

Another blow. Another. The finger finally gives way, mangled flesh and shattered bone left in its place. Blood spurts and spatters across Ethan's arm, pooling at the base of the chair.

The shooter sobs uncontrollably, gasping between cries. The room smells like copper and sweat and terror. But there’s still more to break.

Ethan doesn’t retreat. He swings the hammer again—not for precision, but for pain. The next blow lands on the shooter's shin with a solid, meaty crunch. A howl tears from his throat, hoarse and wild, as his leg convulses under the impact. He’s trembling now, eyes rolled back, face soaked in blood and sweat.

Riven circles behind him, grabbing his hair and yanking his head upright. "Still want to keep quiet?" he sneers.

The shooter’s breath rattles, lips trembling with broken resolve. Teeth chatter. Spit clings to his chin.

"Zano!" he finally gasps. "It was De Corsi—Zano sent me!"

A chill shoots down my spine. My grip braces the blade.

"Then he should’ve sent someone better."

I raise my gun and shoot him point-blank in the head. Clean. Final.

Blood pools across the concrete.

No hesitation. No remorse. Just business.

I turn to Riven. "Burn the body. No traces."

"Yes, sir."

I pause, my eyes still on the corpse. "Does he have family?"

Riven nods. "A wife. No kids."

I glance at Ethan. "Tell Lucrezia to send a hundred-thousand-dollar check to the wife. Should be enough."

As the cleanup begins, I walk to the far corner of the room and stare at the blood-streaked floor.

But in the back of my mind, I see Calista’s face. The way she looked at me today, when our eyes first met—striking, defiant, wrapped in a dress that clung to every curve with elegant cruelty. The deep wine hue set off the fire in her hair, the sharpness in her eyes. She looked regal, untouchable—a woman carved from fire and steel. Beautiful, yes, but more than that... dangerous. And it had been hard for me to look away.

Outside now, I walk slowly across the gravel, my shoes crunching softly beneath me. I pause near the edge of the lot where the floodlights fade into shadows, staring into the empty street beyond. The night is still, but my thoughts aren’t.

There’s a dull ache where my wound is, persistent and dragging. The cloth Calista tied around my arm is still there—soaked in blood now, clinging to my skin. Her hands had been steady when she wrapped it—eerily calm, practiced. Years of tattooing had trained her hands to be precise, unshakable. It wasn’t the tenderness that struck me. It was the efficiency, the exactness behind each movement—a reminder that control isn’t just in cruelty. It lingers more than the ache, an imprint of calm dominance where I expected defiance.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Unknown number.

I answer.

"Lazaro," comes the familiar purr of Zano De Corsi’s voice. "Tell me, how’s my bride enjoying her stay?"

I tighten my grip on the phone. "She’s not yours. Not anymore."

A low chuckle vibrates through the line, darker this time. "You forget who had her first," Zano growls. "That vow was sealed long before you ever touched her."

"That vow is dust," I snap. "She's mine now."

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