Page 48 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

I glance up.

There’s motion outside the window and a twitch in Cain’s posture. My fingers pause over the keyboard.

Then—everything ruptures.

A thunderous crash. Glass explodes in every direction, raining shards like daggers. A grenade tears through the front display, plowing into the tile with a sickening clang before detonating in a bloom of smoke and shrapnel. Screams split the air.

Chaos. Screeching metal. Alarms blaring.

Three men burst through the ruined front, civilian clothes barely hiding the weapons in their hands. Gunfire erupts, deafening. Bullets slam into walls, displays, and flesh.

“Down!” Aaron shouts, grabbing me by the waist and dragging me behind the counter. I hit the floor hard, ears ringing.

He’s already firing, every shot brutal and precise. Blood paints the floor. A customer falls near us, shrieking, blood pouring from a shredded arm. Glass crunches under Aaron’s boots as he moves to cover me.

Outside, Cain returns fire from behind the SUV, muzzle flashing like lightning as he unloads round after round. One attacker jerks as a bullet slams straight through his neck—arterial spray erupts in violent spurts, painting the concrete in crimson. The man crumples, twitching, blood pulsing from his severed jugular. But before Cain can reposition, another shot rips through the chaos and punches into his leg—just above the knee. He howls, buckling as the impact throws him sideways into the SUV. The side mirror explodes on contact, shards flying as Cain smashes into the metal, leaving a bloody smear on the door. He collapses in a twisted heap, groaning, his leg a mess of shredded flesh and exposed muscle.

A sharp sting slices across my shoulder. My scream tears out involuntarily as blood wells beneath the torn fabric. My fingers go slick with it as I press instinctively to stop the flow.

Then he’s on me.

One of them—a beast of a man in a black mask, thick with muscle, veins bulging in his forearms like cables—lunges from the smoke and grabs me by the arm, yanking me upright so violently my shoulder pops. His grip is bruising, fingers digging in like iron shackles. I can feel the blood drain from my fingers under the pressure. The stench of sweat and gunpowder clings to him, his breathing sharp and animalistic.

He slams me against a cracked wall-mounted shelf, knocking the wind out of me. A cracked monitor crashes beside my head, glass shards embedding into the floor. His face inches from mine, teeth bared behind the torn edge of his mask, he snarls, “Zano sends his regards,” his voice low and full of promise—like death wrapped in a growl.

My pulse explodes with fury. Without thinking, I act. My hand fumbles for anything solid, landing on the jagged edge of a shattered display stand. I grip the metal, rusty and razor-sharp, and swing with every ounce of strength I have.

The stand crashes into his cheekbone with a crack, the impact jolting up my arm. Blood bursts from the gash like a geyser, splattering my face and coat. His mask splits, revealing a twisted mouth, shattered teeth, and a thick gash that runs down his cheek to his throat. He stumbles, dazed, but stays on his feet.

I swing again, harder. The second blow slices open his forehead, skin peeling like wet paper. Blood pours in thick rivulets, coating his chest, dripping onto the floor in rhythmic splats. He bellows in pain, stumbling backward, but his grip tightens again, fingers bruising my arm.

I slam my knee into his groin with a brutal upward thrust. He jerks with a strangled grunt, eyes bulging. I rip free, twist, and bring the jagged stand down on the back of his skull. The crunch it makes is obscene—bone cracking, tissue tearing. He crumples mid-motion, a broken pile of flesh and muscle, convulsing as blood pools beneath his twitching body.

His last breath is a gurgle, bubbling through crimson froth from his split lips. I stumble back, panting, body shaking, hands slick with his blood. And still, my eyes stay locked on him, refusing to look away until I know—without a doubt—he’s not getting back up.

I spin back just in time to see Aaron take a hit—bullet punching straight into his side with a fleshy thud. The force jerks his torso sideways, blood spraying in a sudden arc that spatters the wall behind him. He stumbles, groaning through clenched teeth, and I swear I see a glimpse of exposed bone through the shredded tear in his jacket. But he stays standing. His face contorts in raw pain, but he plants his feet, raising his gun again with a snarl. Another bullet ricochets off a metal display near his head, sending sparks everywhere, but he keeps firing—each shot delivered with savage precision, knuckles white around the grip, blood pouring down his hip in thick, dark streams. The stench of iron and burnt powder is overwhelming, and for a second, all I can hear is the rapid crack of his gun and the gurgled wheeze of the man he just shot in the throat.

Another man barrels toward me, gun raised, eyes feral.

And then—

The front doors explode open again. Reinforcements.

Ethan bursts through, gun blazing. Behind him, Virelli men pour in like a tidal wave of wrath, weapons raised and eyes sharp. The sound is relentless—gunfire echoing like thunder, shells clattering across the tile in a relentless, metallic hailstorm. Screams pierce the air from every direction—customers who just moments ago were browsing laptops now crawling across blood-slick floors, ducking behind fallen shelves and shattered display stands. A mother drags her sobbing child behind a broken checkout kiosk. A teenage boy clutches his stomach where a shard of glass has embedded itself deep, blood seeping through his shirt.

The chaos is complete. Shrieks of pain and panic blend with the roar of gunfire, the acrid stench of smoke and blood thick enough to choke on. Somewhere nearby, a woman screams for help, her voice raw and ragged, as another Virelli soldier guns down an attacker at close range—blood splattering across a terrified employee crouched in the corner.

And through all of it, I feel a sick twist in my gut—not from fear, not even from the pain throbbing in my shoulder—but from the sight of all these people caught in the crossfire. Innocent bystanders, bleeding and broken, trapped in a nightmare they didn’t ask for. I hate that this is my world now. That the war I walked into dragged everyone else down with it.

Two more attackers go down in a spray of bullets—one shot through the eye, the other collapsing with half his ribcage blown open. Blood spatters across the walls, the floor, my shoes.

The last De Corsi thug tries to run, but he’s tackled, pinned, and restrained. He’s snarling, blood running down his arm from a torn bicep, teeth snapping like a rabid dog.

Ethan turns to me, breathing hard. “You good?”

“I’ve been better.” I glance down at my bloodied sleeve and the corpse at my feet. “But hey, got my MacBook.”

He stares for a beat, then shakes his head. “You’re goddamn insane.”

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