Page 17 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

Today’s training was supposed to make me feel empowered. But now, I feel hollow.

He opened the door to his pain—and slammed it shut again.

I’m not sure what scares me more—that I’m starting to understand him… or that part of me wants to.

Chapter 8 – Lazaro

The grand dining hall inside the Virelli penthouse is a masterpiece of calculated opulence—crystal chandeliers reflecting off mirrored walls, the table set with bone-white porcelain and gold-rimmed goblets. The scent of truffle oil, seared meats, and aged wine saturates fills the room, cloaking everything in decadent warmth. Conversation weaves through clinks of glass and the soft scrape of utensils against fine china. It’s a performance—and every person here is playing a role.

I walk in late. By design. Power doesn’t rush.

The room quiets slightly when I enter. Eyes lift, half in greeting, half in calculation. These are men who’ve slit throats while sipping champagne, who’ve negotiated peace over the corpses of rivals. Capos, arms dealers, political intermediaries—everyone here carries blood beneath their cufflinks.

But it’s not them I’m looking at.

It’s her.

She’s stunning and she damn well knows it. The dress I had sent up to her suite this morning clings to her in all the right places—a white midi dress, square neckline, back entirely exposed. Her tattoos spill down her arms and shoulder blades like inked fire, bold and unapologetic. I know exactly why I chose a dress that would put them on display. I want them to see she’s not just another pretty face. I want them to see that this woman carries steel beneath silk—inked stories that don’t beg for acceptance but demand respect.

Her hair falls in soft waves, loose and untethered, and her makeup is barely there—just enough to highlight the sharpness in her eyes and the curve of her mouth. She looks untouchable. And dangerous.

Lucrezia, across the table, is draped in navy velvet and diamonds, her silver chignon glinting beneath the lights. Always the strategist, always the quiet observer. Riven isn’t here. I haven’t seen him all day. He’s likely at the estate. Or avoiding this. It doesn’t matter.

I take my seat beside Calista. She keeps her eyes forward, but I catch the faint flush in her cheeks. She’s tense—body rigid, like she’s bracing for impact.I rest my hand gently on her thigh beneath the table, firm but calm. It takes a moment, but I feel the shift—her shoulders drop slightly, her breath slows. She relaxes just a little. Our eyes meet, and I want this moment to last forever. But she blinks away before the eye contact can last too long. And maybe that’s for the best—because even looking at her right now feels like playing with fire.

Dinner begins. The first course is a wild mushroom bisque, garnished with crème fraîche and tiny curls of black truffle. Calista’s spoon moves gracefully—she eats slowly, the picture of practiced elegance. I taste mine—earthy, rich, smooth on the tongue. The kind of dish meant to impress, not comfort.

Next comes roasted duck breast, glazed with cherry and port wine, served over sweet potato puree and wilted kale. The meat is tender, the skin crisp. Calista cuts hers with precision, pausing between bites to nod at the appropriate comments, smile at the appropriate compliments.

"You’re playing the part well," I murmur without turning.

She smirks, her voice low. "So are you."

A toast is raised. One of the capos leans forward, a gleam in his eye. "When is the wedding, Don Lazaro? You’ve always been a man of swift decisions."

Another voice joins in. "What was the moment you knew she was yours?"

Calista’s hand slides beneath the table, fingers finding mine. They’re ice cold, but steady. She squeezes.

"Tell them,” she says sweetly, smiling wide.

"The moment I saw her. She tried to fight me. She actually managed to take a jab at Riven."

A few heads turn, surprised. Someone chuckles, disbelieving. "She did what? Riven?"

"Oh, yes," I say, leaning back with a slow smirk. "Caught him off guard."

The surprise grows. Riven’s reputation precedes him—ex-military, brutal in hand-to-hand combat, a fortress in human form. The idea of Calista landing a clean hit on him is almost absurd.

I glance at her. She’s looking right at me, lips curled into that same smug grin. And before I can stop myself, I return it.

Lucrezia watches us with that infuriatingly smug expression of hers. I know exactly what she’s thinking—this little performance is working too well.

More wine is poured. The third course is risotto—creamy, laced with saffron and parmesan, topped with charred scallops. The richness coats my tongue. Calista rarely speaks, but when she does, it’s with pointed sharpness that makes a few men shift in their seats.

One of the capos from the Eastern faction, Vincent, a man known for his collection of rare blades and sharper words—asks about her tattoos. Calista smiles, slow and thoughtful, then lifts her arm and taps the rose inked along her shoulder. "This one’s for my mother," she says, voice softer but no less steady. "She loved roses. Said they were proof that something beautiful could still carry thorns."

There’s a quiet stretch where everyone shifts uncomfortably, until the Greek syndicate leader raises her glass. “A strong woman, just like her daughter. A rare match for our Lazaro.”

---