Page 18 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

Calista’s smile sharpens. "He didn’t tame me," she replies. "He just knows when to let fire burn."

The woman’s eyes drop to the half-finished tattoo along Calista’s forearm—the coiled blade, smudged and incomplete.

"And that one? What’s its story?"

Calista glares at me before answering, her voice clipped. "Don’t blame me. Blame him for this."

More laughter. More veiled praise. But behind the polished smiles, I see it—the way eyes flick toward her, toward me. This is more than a dinner. It’s a declaration.

She’s mine. And I want the world to know it.

But the illusion cracks slightly when one of the Capos—Don Sergio—leans back in his seat, eyes challenging. "Beautiful, yes. But a distraction. A pawn dressed in silk."

There’s a flash of confusion on Calista’s face, just for a second—brief, subtle—but I catch it. Then it’s gone, replaced by a much harder expression. She lifts her wine glass, smile like ice. "Careful, Don Sergio. Men who underestimate me tend to bleed out unexpectedly."

Fury brews inside me. How dare he say that? The urge to stand, to slam my fist into the table, to remind this room who exactly she is —it takes everything in me to keep my face calm. But inside, I'm seething.

A ripple of unease moves through the room. I stay silent. There’s no need to speak—her words are enough. More than enough. But I know Don Sergio needs to be taken care of. He needs to be reminded of who is in power here. I’ve saved his ass more times than I can count, and maybe he’s starting to forget his place.

Hours pass, and as they do, I drink more wine. I know it’s best for me to stop, but it feels good to just get a little drunk and forget about my responsibilities—even for a few moments. The burn of the alcohol is a welcome distraction.

Eventually, the guests begin to leave, one by one. I nod at them, exchange slurred goodbyes in a drunken blur. Their faces blur, their words a fog. By the end, it's just me and Calista left in the grand room. Both of us are still standing in the grand room after having said goodnight to Lucrezia, who was the last one to leave. As the doors close behind her, there’s a hush. I look at Calista. Her cheeks are pink, her lips rosy, and she’s clearly drunk. There’s a lazy softness in her posture, a slight sway to her stance. Her eyes meet mine as she sways slightly.

"Why didn’t you defend me in there?" she asks.

I blink, confused. "What? When?"

She arches a brow. "Don Sergio. You just sat there. Didn’t say a word."

The memory stirs sluggishly through the haze of wine. I vaguely recall the insult, the unease, her sharp retort.

"You handled it," I mutter.

"Yeah, I did," she snaps. "But that doesn’t mean you get to sit there and let them take shots."

I scowl. "You didn’t need defending. You made him bleed with words."

"That’s not the point," she says, voice low and sharp. "The point is, you were supposed to have my back. Even if I didn’t need it. Even if I didn’t ask."

Her words hit harder than I expect. And suddenly, I feel a sobering clarity wash over me.

I stop, turn to face her. "Because you didn’t need me to. You handled it better than I would’ve."

She laughs bitterly. "You’re not as unreadable as you think. I see the cracks. You’re not stone, Lazaro. You’re just scared."

I step forward, grab her wrist. "Say that again."

"You’re scared," she repeats, eyes locked on mine. "Of me. Of what I make you feel."

I scoff, trying to deny her, trying to hold onto the mask I’ve worn for years. But then I look at her, and hunger punches through my chest like a fist. She’s standing there, proud and fierce and infuriating, and I can’t resist her. Not now. Not with the fire she has started lighting in my blood.

Instinctively, I pull her toward me and press my lips to hers with a force I don’t bother to hold back. At first, she almost resists, caught off guard by the force of it, but then she melts against me, softening as her body yields. My fingers slide into her hair, tightening just enough to remind her that I’m no gentleman, and I will never pretend to be. Her scent is intoxicating—wine, roses, and a scent uniquely hers that makes my pulse quicken.

She moans into the kiss, her fingers twisting into my hair, clutching me with more force than I thought she’d have. Her nails scrape my scalp, and it only fuels the fire between us. I deepen the kiss, tilting her head with a rough grip on her jaw, sliding my tongue past her lips in a battle for dominance I already know I’m losing. She tastes sweet and addictively dangerous.

My hands roam, one gripping her waist, the other flattening against her lower back to keep her pressed tight to me. I can feel every curve of her, every trembling breath. Her dress does little to keep me from feeling the warmth of her skin beneath my fingers. Her hips arch against me instinctively, her body betraying whatever protest might be forming in her mind.

I break away just long enough to kiss down her neck, teeth grazing her throat before I reclaim her mouth again, this time slower, deeper. Her body molds against mine with perfect friction. She kisses back with equal ferocity, lips bruising mine in a frenzy of fire and desperation. It's chaos. It’s war disguised as a kiss, and neither of us wants to surrender first.

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