Page 14 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

"She was mine before she was yours," Zano hisses. "You think a suit and a ring will erase history? You think a woman like her will ever really belong to you?"

"She doesn’t have to belong. She just has to obey. And I don’t need her past—I own her present."

There’s a pause, and then his voice lowers, venomous. "Keep her close, Virelli. Because when I take her back, I won’t be so gentle."

I clench my fist around the phone. "Try it. See how far you get."

"War is coming, Lazaro. I hope your empire’s built to bleed."

"Then you better sharpen your knives, Zano. Because I’m not letting anyone else put their name on what’s mine."

The line goes dead.

I stare at the screen for a moment, then shove the phone back into my coat.

She’s mine now.

And there’s no way I’m going to let anyone else put a claim on her.

Chapter 7 – Calista

The dress is too soft. Too light. It clings to my skin and looks like it’s meant to be worn by a woman who still believes in freedom. I’m not her.

The sundress had been laid out for me this morning, along with a pair of delicate sandals that feel ridiculous on my feet. But I put it all on anyway. What choice do I have? Rebellion isn’t always loud. It isn’t fists and fury. Sometimes, it’s showing up stone-faced—refusing to flinch.

I tell myself I couldn’t give less of a damn—not about the dress, the fake hospitality, or the asshole who ordered it. Lazaro’s face flashes in my mind. The blood on his arm. The way he stood in front of me. The way his eyes found mine across the ballroom.

I bite my lip in frustration. I don’t care. I couldn’t care less.

Now I’m walking through what looks like a place out of a luxury magazine—except I know better. The Virelli gardens are manicured to perfection, all roses and jasmine, climbing ivy and stone fountains. But beneath the surface, everything feels hostile. It’s the kind of place where a body could vanish under a flowerbed and no one would ever know.

Lucrezia walks beside me, her heels barely clicking on the cobblestone path. She’s in a cream silk blouse and tailored slacks, gloves on her hands and that sharp, elegant smile on her face. The kind that makes you wonder what she’s hiding behind it.

"In our world," she says smoothly, not even looking at me, "beauty is a distraction, charm is a blade, and silence is the loudest threat."

"So I’m supposed to smile and bat my lashes while I gut someone with a metaphor?" I ask dryly.

She glances at me, amused. "If done right, they won’t even feel the blade until it’s buried."

I cross my arms. "Great. Just what I wanted. Killer etiquette lessons."

"This is survival training, Calista," she says, turning down a shaded path. "And survival isn’t enough anymore. You want to win, you learn to dominate. Think of last night as a lesson—just the beginning."

I hate that the words resonate. That somewhere deep inside, I already know she’s right.

We stop near a wrought-iron gazebo covered in flowering vines. She pulls a file from her handbag—because of course she has a file—and hands it to me.

"You’ll start by learning to read a room," she says. "Body language. Voice control. How to tell when someone’s lying without them even realizing they are."

"So I’m becoming a mafia therapist now?"

"You’re becoming a queen," she replies evenly. "But only if you stop wasting your fire on petty defiance. You have the potential to own the room, not just survive it."

I stare at her, unsure whether to laugh or curse my heart out.

"Tell me something," I say, flipping through the file. "Why do you even care?"

Lucrezia’s eyes light up.

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