Page 49 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

“Tell Lazaro I want hazard pay.”

The sound of polished shoes on broken glass cuts through the aftermath like a blade.

Lazaro steps over debris and shattered plastic, fury carved into every line of his face. His coat sweeps the floor, boots crunching over bloodied tech parts and bullet casings.

He doesn’t speak. He sees the blood soaked through my shirt, the burn marks singed into my coat. His eyes flick to Aaron’s wound, then back to me. There’s a feral heat burning behind that stare.

He walks straight to the captured De Corsi soldier.

The man snarls, still trying to fight even with arms restrained, blood pouring from his mouth.

Lazaro draws his gun without a word.

“You tried to touch what’s mine.”

One shot. Point-blank.

The man’s skull snaps back, a mist of brain matter painting the floor behind him. His body drops like a discarded puppet.

No one speaks. No one moves.

Lazaro holsters his weapon and finally looks at me again—rage cooling just slightly, but that storm in his eyes still simmering.

And for the first time, I don’t feel like the chaos. I feel like the reason it exists.

Cain limps toward us, his leg soaked in blood, dragging behind him like a dead weight. Aaron braces himself against a shattered counter, still holding pressure to his side with one hand, the other gripping his pistol like he’s ready for a second wave. The Virelli soldiers start sweeping the building, barking orders and dragging away bodies. The scent of scorched plastic and singed flesh mingles with the metallic tang of blood—thick, cloying, stifling.

Lazaro turns back to me. The sharpness in his expression doesn’t soften, but his hand rises, fingers surprisingly gentle as they brush a smear of blood from my cheek. I wince slightly when he steadies me by the arm, and that’s all it takes—he notices the tremor in my hands, the way my muscles won’t stop twitching from the aftershock.

"I told you I can handle myself," I mutter, trying to sound stronger than I feel. My voice is hoarse, my body a collage of bruises, smoke, and adrenaline.

Lazaro’s hand lingers, his thumb smoothing over a smear of grime near my temple. His eyes stay locked on mine, low and lethal. “And I told you—if they touch you again, I’ll burn their whole legacy to the ground.”

The words aren’t empty. They burn hotter than the gunfire that just tore this place apart. It’s not just fury. It’s possession. Promise. A vow dipped in violence.

"You’re so dramatic," I say with a shaky laugh, though it comes out weaker than I intend—half teasing, half clinging to whatever normalcy I can scrape together in the wreckage around us.

He helps me toward the SUV, one arm around my waist, guiding me through the shattered remains of the battlefield we left behind. Each step crunches over glass, charred wires, and broken lives. People still cry out inside the store—bystanders dazed, injured, carried away on stretchers by paramedics now flooding the scene. But for me, everything narrows to the blood drying on my shirt and the heat of Lazaro’s touch.

The SUV door slams shut behind us. The engine rumbles to life, muffling the chaos outside. I slide into the seat beside Lazaro, the MacBook box still in my lap—blood-spattered, cracked at the corner, a sharp edge pressing against my knee like a reminder of everything we just survived.

My fingers ache from how tightly I balled them into fists. Like if I let go, I’d fall apart. Like I was holding on to the last thread of whatever part of me hadn’t been swallowed by this world.

There’s blood under my nails. On my boots. Dried along my forearms. And the worst part?

I don’t feel anything.

Not guilt. Not relief.

Just... stillness.

I used to create. My tattoo art was ink and pain, sure—but it healed. It had meaning.

Now, I break things.

Now, I hurt people.

I tell myself it’s for justice. For vengeance. For Noel.

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