Page 3 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

"It looks like he pissed off the wrong kind of devil," Oliver whispers before shutting his eyes again. Malissa throws me a questioning look, her brows furrowed with concern, but I keep my gaze elsewhere—because the truth is, I have no answer to give her.

Noel. He's done something worse than before, and as I drag Oliver inside, I can feel a storm approaching. Noel didn’t just vanish. He pulled hell with him—and now it’s at my door.

Later, when the adrenaline ebbs, I sit at my desk upstairs, trying to steady my breath. My fingers brush over an old USB drive buried beneath a stack of receipts and ink orders—a backup I haven’t touched in a while.

Curious, I plug it in. There’s only one file—an old voice message from Noel.

His voice crackles through the speakers, jittery and low. "Calla... I found a way out. Someone promised protection—said if I delivered a document, they’d get me clear. I didn’t think it meant anything—it’s just old paper, right? Just paper..."

I freeze, bile rising in my throat.

"I’m doing this for both of us," he continues, words unraveling into panicked mutters before the message cuts out.

I grip my laptop like it’s the only thing keeping me together. He didn’t understand the danger he’d walked into. He thought he was saving us—finding some backdoor escape from the world that swallowed our childhood whole.

He didn’t betray me intentionally. But his desperation damned us both.

I exhale slowly, the adrenaline still rushing under my skin, and glance down at my arm—at the half-finished tattoo of wings coiled around a blade, the one I had started earlier. The ink is smudged slightly at the edges from where I brushed against the counter. I run my fingers over the outline, the incomplete lines a stark reminder that peace is a fragile thing. And today, it fractured.

Chapter 2 – Lazaro

Rain taps against the rusted windows of Ink & Iron, a steady rhythm echoing like a slow countdown. The scent of sweat, old ink, and antiseptic greets me as I step through the door. The place is small and cluttered—chaotic in a way that borders on artistic disorder. Tattoo designs plaster every inch of the walls, overlapping sketches and half-finished stencils creating a collage of inked rebellion. A few worn chairs are scattered across the floor, their vinyl cracked and stuffing exposed, looking more like interrogation seats than anything meant for comfort.

The front desk is empty. No clerk, no buzzing chatter— just the distant hush of waves beyond the walls. I step in deeper.

The back-room door swings open.

And then I see her.

Calista Rourke. She steps out with gloves still on, smudged with black ink. Her gaze locks on mine. I already know her face—every angle of it. And I wouldn't call it unattractive—I might be a heartless bastard, but I know beauty when I see it. Just this morning, Riven laid out everything I’d need to destroy her: photos, files, a full dossier marked with syndicate precision. Her past, her habits, her vulnerabilities—all gift-wrapped and delivered to my desk. I know who she is before she even utters a word.

Her red hair is pulled into a messy bun, wild strands curling at her temples. She is wearing a fitted black t-shirt hugging every curve, and a short black mini skirt that barely conceals her legs. The contrast between the softness of her skin and the hardness of her clothes is enough to tell me everything I need to know about her. She was born into elegance but chose a wilder lifestyle.

Her eyes narrow the moment I step closer, and her fists flex—a subtle clench, automatic and unconscious.

She knows.

Probably not who I am. But she feels the shift that comes when someone lethal steps into your world.

And she’s right. I didn’t come with pleasantries. I came to dismantle. To drag her into a storm she has no idea how to survive. I am not a warning—I am consequence. And she’s about to find out just how brutal I can be.

I step toward her workstation and drop the sealed envelope on the table. The weight of it thuds against the metal.

"This belonged to your brother," I say, voice low, sharp as a blade slipping between ribs.

Her eyes flick to the packet, then back to me. "Who the hell are you?"

"The one cleaning up the mess he made," I reply.

She peels off her gloves and rips open the seal. The crimson-stamped contract slides free, the De Corsi crest etched in gold filigree gleaming under the light.

"What the hell is this?"

"Spare me the innocence act," I say with a grin. "That’s the first page of your binding contract—signed in blood and legacy—tying you to Zano De Corsi, whether you like it or not." A dark look shadows her face as she scans the gold-etched crest again. "He stole it. And in doing so, dragged you into a war older than you can imagine."

She shakes her head, voice sharp. "I didn’t sign anything. Not the marriage contract. Not any other document."

I tilt my head, watching her unravel. "But your name’s on it."

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