Page 16 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

"Trying isn’t good enough here."

Something in me cracks. I shove back from the table, fists clenched. "Then maybe find someone else to play your perfect little pawn."

Lucrezia doesn’t move. "You’ll never be a pawn, Calista. But right now, you’re not ready to be queen either."

That’s it. I storm out of the room before I say words I’ll regret.

Out in the garden again, I find a bench under a blooming tree and sit. The flowers around me are delicate, soft. A stark contrast to the rage curling in my chest.

I look down at my arms. The straps of the dress leave my tattoos exposed—dark ink against pale skin, defiant and unhidden. They have no place in this world of polished marble and delicate roses. But then again, neither do I. Not with this silk, not with these flowers. But belonging isn’t the point. Survival is. Power is.

Eventually, I stand and head back inside. Lucrezia is still in the chamber, going through that damn file.

I walk straight up to her. "Teach me again," I say, voice low but certain. "This time, I won’t miss."

She looks at me, nods once, and sets the file down.

"Good," she says. "Let’s begin."

XXX

Back at the penthouse, I’m exhausted. The day’s lessons, the failures, the whole mess—it just hangs over me, weighing me down. I try to sleep, but I can’t. My mind won’t shut off. Lucrezia had informed me that the guards stationed outside my door had been removed. "But don’t do anything stupid," she’d said coolly. "They’re still all over the place."

She wasn’t lying.

I feel like even the walls are watching me. Which they are, considering the fucking cameras in every corner of my room.

I go downstairs and wander through the halls aimlessly until I end up in the private gallery. The space is hushed and dim, portraits lining the walls in eccentric and extravagant frames. Old Virelli ancestors stare down with glassy eyes and painted power.

One portrait catches my eye—elegant, poised, serene. A woman with eyes like Lazaro’s. Sharp, but somehow gentle too.

"She died when I was twelve," a voice says behind me. I didn’t hear him approach. Lazaro stands a few feet away, his figure framed by the low gallery lighting. His dark shirt clings to him in places, and there’s a tiredness in his posture that wasn’t there earlier. His hair’s a bit messy, his face hard to read—but he looks somewhat calmer tonight, like everything’s finally starting to hit him. He walks over to me, taking his time, his eyes settling on the portrait I’ve been staring at.

"Poisoned in our estate."

I glance back at the portrait. "How did it happen?" I ask, my voice quieter than I expected. "I’m sorry."

"My father," he says simply. There’s no need for more explanation. The way his tone lands says it all. "Don Corrado didn’t believe in softness. Not even for his wife."

I know that name. No one lives in this world without hearing stories about Don Corrado Virelli. Ruthless. Harsh. Even my uncle, cruel and brutal in his own right, admired Don Corrado. That’s saying something. If there’s a blueprint for fear, it’s carved in the shape of that man’s legacy.

"You cared about her," I say softly.

He meets my gaze, and his eyes have softened. I can see the memories playing in his mind. "She used to sing in the evenings," he murmurs, voice lower now, as if admitting it chips away at some armor. "She loved the piano. My father hated music. Said it made people weak."

"That’s not weakness," I say softly.

He lets out a humorless breath, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You try telling that to Don Corrado."

For a second, it feels like we’re not enemies. Just two people haunted by ghosts.

Then he pulls away, the wall snapping back into place.

"Don’t mistake curiosity for closeness," he says, tone sharper now. "You’re not here to fix me."

Suddenly, the distance between us stings. But I keep it buried. Because I know what it feels like to lose a mother. Mine was murdered in front of my father’s eyes—because he was too stubborn to surrender power. The difference was, my father loved her. It destroyed him. That kind of grief never really leaves—it just digs deeper. And maybe that’s why Lazaro’s pain feels familiar.

I return to my room alone.

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