Page 15 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

"Because I see myself in you," she answers quietly. "And because I’ve already lost too many women to this world who didn’t know how to play it."

For a second, she doesn’t look like a queen of ice and strategy. She looks like a woman who’s been through hell and clawed her way out with manicured hands and a sharpened smile.

"There was a time," Lucrezia begins, her voice low and smooth, "when a rival Don thought I was nothing more than decoration. A pretty thing to drape over his arm."

I raise an eyebrow. "He must’ve been blind. You don’t exactly scream ornamental."

"He was arrogant," she replies with a shrug. "Thought he was clever. Thought he had me wrapped around his finger. So I let him think that. I played the role—smiled, whispered sweet nothings, wore the dresses he liked."

"You were his mistress?" I ask, surprised.

"On the surface," she says, a glint in her eye. "But while he was parading me around, I was learning his network—his vulnerabilities, his patterns. I knew who controlled the money, who handled the shipments, who could be bought with the right whisper."

"And he had no clue?"

"None," she says, lips curling slightly. "By the time I was done, his empire was a hollow shell. He didn’t even realize I’d pulled the strings until his own men turned on him."

I shake my head slowly. "You dismantled an entire empire playing dress-up."

She smiles, adjusting her glove. "And when it was done, I poured his favorite wine and watched from the balcony as his men dragged him out in chains."

"Damn," I breathe.

"Exactly," she says. "Now. Pay attention. There’s more to learn."

And just like that, the lesson continues.

Lucrezia turns and walks deeper into the garden, and I follow her down a path lined with marble statues and lanterns shining in the late morning light. It smells too sweet, like jasmine and roses. The path twists until we reach a wrought-iron gate covered in climbing vines. Beyond it, a sprawling estate stretches out—a grand structure hidden from the outside world, tucked neatly behind the garden’s beauty. It's massive, elegant in a quiet, intimidating way. Inside, the halls are cool and polished, lined with tall windows and shadowed corners. A few guards stand at intervals, nodding subtly as Lucrezia passes. Servants move quietly in the background, carrying trays, adjusting curtains, polishing surfaces. Lucrezia nods at a few of them, her confidence commanding the space like she owns it.

She leads me further down a long corridor inside the estate, past more rooms dressed in polished marble and gold accents, until we reach a spacious parlor room. There's a velvet sofa near a large window, soft light filtering in through sheer curtains. "Sit," she instructs, nodding toward the seat. "We’ll go over conversational tactics next. When to speak, when not to, and how to let others underestimate you just enough."

I drop onto the sofa, file in hand, still trying to process everything. I glance at her sideways. "You really think this is going to make a difference?"

She smirks, unbothered. "Let’s see."

Lucrezia settles on the sofa beside me, legs crossed elegantly. Hours pass, marked only by the soft tick of the antique clock in the corner and the shuffle of papers as she layers one lesson over another. Syndicate etiquette, strategic reading, hidden signals, veiled threats—each word drills into my mind. My head is spinning by the end of it, but I grit my teeth and keep listening, trying to absorb it all. Every tactic, every nuance—because I’m done being underestimated.

After what feels like years of training, Lucrezia finally sets the file aside and rises from the sofa. "I think I’ve taught you enough to deal with a negotiation," she says with a small, satisfied nod.

We make our way through the estate. Eventually, we reach one of the estate’s inner chambers where a mock negotiation exercise has been arranged. Two lower-ranking guards are already seated at the table, playing the roles of rival capos, smugness plastered across their faces. The script is simple: I’m supposed to secure a deal using tact, observation, and influence.

I try to channel what she’s taught me—watch the body language, read the tone, study the silence. But I miss a hand signal. A subtle one. A flick of the wrist passed between the two guards. Before I can process what just happened, one of them pretends to pull a gun and “shoots” me.

Without missing a beat, Lucrezia says, “Dead.”

I blink, frozen. The men smirk.

She walks over, arms crossed. "Intelligence without restraint is recklessness."

I grit my teeth. "It was one mistake."

"And in our world, one mistake is all it takes."

She resets the scenario. I try again. This time, I catch the signal—but miss the timing. The guards fake another execution. Again, and again. Each round, I fail a different way. I can feel my heart rate increasing with every repetition. With anger. With frustration.

"Your instincts are sharp, but your pride gets in the way," Lucrezia says flatly. "Control that, or it will get you killed."

"I’m trying," I snap.

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