Page 51 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

I knew sending her out—even with protection—was a risk. I knew it, and I did it anyway.

She’s trying to hold it together. Still breathing through the pain, still sitting tall like she’s not shaken. But I see the tremble in her spine. I see how hard she’s fighting to stay in control.

And fuck, it guts me.

Because she’s not made for softness—but she deserves it. Deserves something untouched by violence. And all I’ve ever given her is war.

I want to be her peace.

But I only know how to burn.

The doors of the Virelli penthouse slam open before me. I move through without pause. Every step down the corridor is thunderous. Men scatter from my path, stepping aside like shadows peeling away from fire. The rage rolling off me is a living thing—feral, consuming, deadly.

Behind me, Calista walks soundlessly, her shoulder wrapped in a blood-soaked makeshift bandage. She’s pale but steady, chin high, spine straight. Strong. Fierce. Everything I don’t deserve, and everything I will destroy the world to protect.

The doors to my office swing open before I reach them. Ethan must have warned them.

They’re already waiting.

Ethan leans near the windows, arms crossed, eyes darting from one person to another. He’s my right hand for a reason—ruthless, sharp, a strategist when I need precision and a blade when I want blood. His mind works as fast as his trigger finger, and I know when the chaos starts, he’ll be the one steering it.

Lucrezia sits at the head of the table, elegance carved from ice, her black dress like mourning armor wrapped around a soul that’s colder than most men I’ve killed. But where the rest of us are loud, she’s lethal in silence. Her mind is a weapon all its own, and I trust her to see every angle I might miss. If there’s a political crack to exploit, she’ll find it. If there’s someone to manipulate, she’ll have them bleeding loyalty before they realize they’re bleeding at all.

Aaron’s slouched in the chair, his shirt clinging to sweat and blood, the bandage at his ribs still blooming red. Every shift makes him wince, one hand pressed tight to his side like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will. He reaches for a file and grunts—low, sharp, the sound of someone pushing past pain that won’t let go. Someone should’ve stitched him properly. Or maybe he wouldn’t let them. Either way, he’s here. Wounded, sure—but never out. He’s a soldier carved from grit and iron, and I’d take one of him over ten men with clean jackets and clean consciences. Loyalty like his isn’t bought—it’s forged in fire. And I never forget that.

Quentin and Barone stand alert by the far wall, eyes scanning everything. Rossi’s my firestarter—aggressive, fast to act, never asks twice. Quentin balances him out with caution and detail, his sharp memory a vault for names, locations, and patterns that most overlook. Together, they’re my hammer and chisel.

A few other high-level operatives line the perimeter—men and women who know their roles, who I summoned because I don’t believe in half-measures. There’s Costa, my intel spider, always ten steps ahead in the web of information. Cain is sitting quietly, despite the wound in his leg. He knows I need him right now, and he’s here—silent, steady—even though the pain behind his eyes is impossible to miss. He also knows I never let loyalty go unrewarded—and he’s not the kind to let opportunity pass him by. Crivelli’s here too—my eyes on logistics, my watchdog for anything slipping through the cracks.

I scan the room once and nod inwardly. Good. Everyone’s here. Everyone who matters. Everyone I have a use for. Because war isn’t won by one man with a gun—it’s won by the ones who can carry fire through every corridor of the enemy’s house and leave nothing standing behind them.

I don’t sit.

I plant both hands on the table, leaning forward, letting the silence stretch. Everyone’s watching me—expectant, waiting.

"Zano didn’t just declare war," I say. "He asked for extinction."

Ethan straightens, eyes glinting with a fire that borders on feral. "Then let’s hit every one of his distribution points tonight. Fire for fire."

I notice the way his eyes darken, the meaning pulsing beneath his words like a barely restrained explosion. He’s too eager—too wired. And I know why. He’s been waiting for this moment, sharpening his rage into a weapon ever since De Corsi’s men gunned down his father in a crossfire two years ago. The bastard wasn’t even a target—just a casualty caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Ethan never forgot. Never forgave. He’s been biding his time ever since, waiting for blood to balance the scales.

And now I see it. That glimmer of vindication behind his fury. This isn’t just war to him—it’s personal. It always has been.

"No." My voice becomes even deadlier. "I don’t want retaliation. I want eradication."

Ethan chuckles darkly. "Extinction has a nice ring to it."

"If you burn too fast, you burn blind," Lucrezia says, her voice calm, sharp as a scalpel. "Precision, not chaos."

"Precision can still bleed."

I glance toward Calista. Her eyes are locked on me. There’s admiration and fire in them. I feel it like a current under my skin.

I nod to Ethan. He steps forward and tosses a thick file onto the table—intel, maps, surveillance.

"We hit three targets tomorrow night," I say. "Queens—distribution warehouse. Bay Shore—dock contacts. Harlem—apartment safehouse. No warning. No survivors. I want smoke still rising by sunrise."

"Strike teams?" Rossi asks.

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