Page 50 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

But what if it’s not?

What if I’ve stopped running from the world I feared—and started becoming it?

Aaron’s in the back seat, reclined slightly, his side wrapped in fresh gauze, a grimace carved into his face. Ethan hands him a bottle of water, then leans back casually, glancing at me through the rearview mirror.

“I give it... two days before she shoots someone again,” Ethan says, not even trying to whisper.

Aaron snorts through the pain, taking a slow sip. “Two days? That’s generous. I say by tonight.”

They both glance at me. I’m cleaning the blood off my fingers with a torn napkin, my gun already resting in the seat beside me. I don’t look up—but the corner of my mouth twitches.

“You boys betting on me now?” I ask coolly.

Aaron raises a brow. “Just respecting your consistency.”

Ethan laughs. “We’re impressed, not scared.”

I finally glance over my shoulder, one brow arched. “Be scared.”

Lazaro smirks, but it’s faint—more tired amusement than real laughter. “Shut up, both of you,” he says without looking back. “Try resting your eyes for once instead of running your mouths.”

Aaron mumbles something under his breath about sore ribs and bullet magnets, while Ethan chuckles and leans his head against the window.

But Lazaro’s gaze is already back on me.

And now, there’s no humor left.

He watches me with a different kind of heat—low-burning and dangerous. Not lust or anger. He looks protective, possessive, like every inch of me belongs to him and he’s memorizing the damage. His eyes trace over the blood on my shirt, the scrapes along my jaw, the stiffness in my shoulders like he’s committing it all to memory—like he wants to held onto the shape of my fury.

“We’re in this together,” he says, voice low—lower than a whisper. It’s not rage. It’s devotion. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Not now. Not ever.”

And maybe it’s the warmth of his grip, or the steadiness in his voice, but I feel steadier as well. Just a little.

Aaron shifts in the backseat with a sharp grunt, one arm clutching his side. “You’d think with a shootout in broad daylight, we’d have had a goddamn SWAT team in five minutes.”

Ethan, riding shotgun, snorts. “You still believe in fairy tales?”

Lazaro keeps his eyes on the road. “Detective Molina’s on the payroll. Has been for years.”

I glance at him, surprised. “And he’s just... okay with all of this?”

“He’s not okay. He’s paid,” Lazaro says flatly. “And paid well. As long as we don’t touch schools or cops, he looks the other way. He even buries reports when it suits him.”

Aaron exhales hard. “So basically, we’re ghosts until someone makes too much noise.”

Lazaro’s hands tighten around the steering wheel. “Exactly. Which means we’re on borrowed time.”

I sit with that for a second, staring out the window as the city blurs past in streaks of sirens and neon. I knew Lazaro had power—I’ve seen what he’s capable of—but this? Bribing law enforcement. Making chaos disappear. Bending the rules until they break. It’s more than I realized. More than I was ready for.

There’s a storm brewing within me but outside, New York simmers under a haze of smoke and flashing sirens, but the city barely flinches. People keep moving—hurrying past the chaos, stepping over broken glass like it’s just another Tuesday. Horns blare. A food cart vendor keeps shouting about hot dogs three blocks away.

Because this is New York—violence echoes, sirens scream, and yet the world keeps spinning.

Chapter 21 – Lazaro

Calista’s blood stains my collar—a jagged smear of red slicing through the white cotton like a brand. It burns hotter than any gunshot wound ever could. She bled on my watch.

And I knew better.

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