Page 4 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

She scans the document again, her eyes narrowing as she crumples the paper in her fist. "That doesn’t make it mine," she snaps. "I want nothing to do with this fucked up legacy."

"I don't give a damn what you want," I say flatly. "You’re leverage. That’s all that matters."

She opens her mouth to argue further but I put the second case I brought with me on the counter. A smaller box. Velvet-lined inside.

She winces when I lift the lid.

I smirk. "Don’t worry, darling," I say, voice cool and cutting. "I’m not going to hurt you—well, unless you deserve it."

Her disgusted glare cuts through me sharper than any scream. Not fear—contempt. And being the bastard I am, that excites me. A severed finger wrapped in silk lies inside.

Her breath catches—then a sound between a gasp and a choked sob escapes her throat. She steps back instinctively.

"He’s alive—for now," I say, my voice cool and detached, like I’m reciting the weather forecast. "That was just a warning. Next time, they’ll send his heart."

She glares at me with fire now, fury replacing fear. "You sick son of a—"

"Don’t confuse the messenger with the butcher," I cut in smoothly. "I’m the one keeping him alive. For the moment."

She swallows hard, eyes locked on the finger before snapping her gaze back to mine. "So what now? You came to threaten me into playing puppet?"

I step forward again, invading her space. "No. I didn’t come to play savior or to pretend you matter more than you do. Your brother handed you over the moment he fucked up. You’re just a bargaining chip. And I intend to use you as such."

"I’m not going anywhere," she states.

"You think I’m giving you a choice?" I murmur.

The shadows shift behind her. As if summoned by instinct, Riven and Elio emerge through the back door—silent and lethal. One moves toward the exit, the other toward her like a predator closing in. Riven draws a blade, gleaming beneath the studio’s light. Elio carries the cuffs.

"Don’t you fucking touch me," she snaps, grabbing the nearest thing—a tattoo gun. She jabs it into Riven’s neck, the needle sinking in with a mechanical hiss. He grunts, staggering back, one hand flying instinctively to his neck. Blood beads at the puncture, slipping down his collar.

Without wasting a moment, Elio lunges at her. His hand tangles in her hair and he slams her against the wall, hard enough to make her gasp. The impact echoes through the room. He wastes no time—pulls the cuffs from his belt and snaps them around her wrists behind her back with practiced precision. They suit her—restrained, defiant, beautiful in her fury.

I watch, arms crossed, expression blank. But I'm impressed. The girl knows how to fight.

"You’re not a lamb," I say quietly, almost to myself. "Good. I hate breaking fragile things."

She glares up at me, breathing hard, defiant even through the haze of pain. Her eyes burn, not with fear—but fury. There’s no submission in her body, only fire fighting its cage.

Blood spatters on the floor—her own, from where her head struck the wall—as Calista thrashes in Elio’s grip, her boots dragging across the concrete. She kicks, and curses, her voice sharp and venom-laced. "Let me go, you fucking cowards! I swear, I’ll rip you all apart!" she snarls, fighting against the restraints with every ounce of fury she has. Even with her wrists bound behind her back, she twists violently, teeth clenched, spitting fire with every breath. Her resistance is more than instinct—it’s war. Rain lashes against the sidewalk in heavy sheets, soaking her hair and clothes until the fabric clings to her body like a second skin, every curve outlined beneath the wet fabric.

Riven wipes the blood trickling down his neck and chuckles low. "She’s a fighter," he mutters, half in admiration, half in annoyance.

I glance down at her—shoulders tense, lips curled in defiance, fire burning in her eyes even through exhaustion.

"Yes," I say quietly, almost to myself. "She is."

I stand in the doorway, rain trailing down the sharp lines of my coat, cold and cleansing. The scent of blood, ink, and iron hangs heavy.

"Bring her," I command, voice low and final. "The De Corsi won’t get her first."

Chapter 3 – Calista

The door slams behind me with a soft finality that’s worse than any prison lock. No clang of chains, no metal bars—just silence, velvet, and polished marble.

I stumble forward, wrists raw and stinging from the cuffs, every muscle in my body aching from the rough transport. My head throbs, a reminder of the hit against the wall back at the studio. I haven’t spoken a word since they shoved me into that black SUV. I haven’t looked at any of them—not the other men, and certainly not him. Lazaro Virelli.

That slick bastard. Everyone knows who he is. Even if my family didn’t have ties with the mafia, I’d know Lazaro Virelli.

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