Page 36 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

I sag against him, my body limp, and I let him carry me. His movements are slow, thoughtful, like he’s holding something fragile, too broken to be trusted. As he walks, carrying me toward the waiting SUV, my head lolls against his shoulder. I’m too exhausted to fight him anymore.

I want to scream. I want to break free. But the grief has swallowed me whole. I feel like it’s drowning me, and I can’t breath. The last thing I see is the rage in Lazaro’s eyes, the muscles in his face twitching with fury.

For a moment, I wonder if the rage is for me. Or for Noel. Or maybe for the De Corsi family. But none of it changes a thing. Because no matter how much rage he has, it won’t bring Noel back. It won’t stop the blood that’s spilled. It won’t fix any of this.

The SUV door swings open, and Lazaro slides in with me still cradled in his arms. My body is numb. I’m not sure if I’m awake or not. I’m not sure if I can still feel anything. But as Lazaro starts the engine and the car pulls away from the windy docks, I know one thing:

This is only the beginning.

And as my vision fades, the last thing I hear is Lazaro’s steady, unshakable voice. “I’ll make them all pay,” he whispers. “Every last one of them.”

And I let myself fall into the shadows, where the grief finally swallows me whole.

Chapter 16 – Lazaro

I stand in front of the bulletproof window in the corridor, my eyes focused on the sprawling grounds of the estate. It’s silent outside, almost eerily so. The sky is painted in deep shades of gray, and the wind has started to pick up, biting into everything it touches. But the calmness of the world outside is a lie. Inside, my blood burns with a fury I haven’t felt in years. Rage festers beneath my skin like a poison I can’t purge.

The memory of Calista’s scream from the docks still echoes in my skull. It drills into me with the precision of a blade scraping bone. That sound—it was worse than taking a bullet. Because it pierced something I didn’t know I still had.

I thought I knew what it meant to lose everything. To have the burden of the world on your shoulders. But I had never felt this—never felt like I was being torn apart from the inside out.

I clench my fists, the memory of her crumbling against me burning through my mind. I was supposed to be the one who protected her. The one who kept her safe. But I failed. I let them take her brother, and now, her soul is fractured. She won’t forgive me for that. She won’t trust me the way she once did. And I can’t blame her.

But I’m not done yet. There’s still blood to spill. I will make them pay. Every last one of them.

I turn away from the window. After Calista passed out, I had my men take her to the penthouse while I came to the estate to deal with the mess. The penthouse might be spacious, but it’s in the heart of the city—and for things like bloody interrogations, the estate offers more privacy and a lot less cleanup hassle.

The men who dared to do this—they will regret their actions. No one touches what’s mine. And no one takes from me without consequence.

The door to the interrogation chamber creaks open behind me, and I already know who’s entering without looking. I can feel his appearance even before he speaks. Ethan.

“He’s ready, boss,” he says, his voice flat. No emotion. Just the professionalism I expect from my men.

I nod. “Good. Let’s get this over with.”

The heavy steel door of the chamber groans as it opens, revealing the mess we’ve made of the De Corsi messenger. Zayn—the bastard who thought he could waltz into our territory and deliver that insult—he’s shackled to the blood-stained chair. His face is a brutal mess. His jaw is mottled with bruises, one cheek puffed up and swollen. Two fingers are taped together, jutting at a crooked angle—clearly broken. His body sags in the chair, but even through the damage, there’s defiance in his posture. Like he still thinks he’s going to make it out of here alive.

I circle him slowly, my boots echoing off the concrete floor as I drag a chair behind me with a loud screech. The sound cuts through the air like a knife. He tries to lift his head to meet my gaze, but his body betrays him, and a low groan escapes his cracked lips.

"You’re still breathing," I say, my voice dripping with disdain. "That’s generous of me." My words are calm, controlled—but inside, there’s a storm brewing, darker than I’ve allowed myself to feel in a long time.

Zayn doesn’t respond. He just stares at me, his one good eye flicking between me and the floor. He’s trying to hold on to whatever scrap of pride he has left, but I can see the fear creeping in. He’s realizing, too late, that he made the wrong choice.

"I’m just a messenger," he mutters through gritted teeth, his voice strained, full of pain.

I slam my fist into his gut, the sickening thud of bone hitting flesh ringing through the room. His breath is knocked out of him, and I see his entire body jerk with the impact.

"Then deliver a message to hell," I growl. My words are low, like a warning before the storm.

I don’t waste time. I see the fear in his good eye now. It’s real. But his fear means nothing to me. I need information, and I’ll get it one way or another.

I reach down and pull a pair of pliers from the table beside me. They gleam in the dim light, strong and unforgiving. Zayn’s eyes widen as he sees them, his body trying to retreat even though the chains hold him in place.

“You don’t want to do this,” he gasps, his voice cracking.

I ignore him. Instead, I grab his mouth, prying it open with a firm hand. The pliers I’ve been holding slide into his mouth with ease, and I can feel him quiver beneath my touch. His breath hitches, and the sweat starts to bead on his forehead.

“Who killed Noel Rourke?” I ask, my voice calm but lethal. I take out the pliers just enough to give him a chance to reply.

---