Page 53 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

"This isn’t a war anymore, Calista," I say, my voice low, rough with determination and anger. "It’s a purge."

Her chin lifts slightly, eyes blazing with a fire I recognize—because it lives in me too.

"Then let’s burn it clean," she says, fire woven into every syllable.

Our eyes lock—longer this time. Not just fire meeting fire. Passion. Desire. Pride. It coils in the space between us, intimidating and unspoken, thrumming in my blood like a second heartbeat.

She’s not just standing beside me—she’s standing with me. And fuck, I’m proud of her. Proud in a way that goes deeper than strategy or vengeance. Proud because she’s becoming exactly what I always feared and secretly wanted—a force that can match mine, burn for burn.

But then I see it—just beneath the bravado. The way her right shoulder dips, just slightly. The blood soaking through the torn fabric of her sleeve, slower now but steady. I step in close again, my hand grazing her lower back as I murmur, “You need to let someone look at that. The nurse will be here in ten.”

“I’m fine,” she mutters, but her wince betrays her the second she moves.

“Don’t lie to me.”

XXX

Later, when the noise fades and the adrenaline cools, I find her alone in the back hall—stripped out of her gear, tank top soaked through at the collar. She’s standing in front of the sink, one hand bracing the counter, the other trembling as she tries to peel away the makeshift bandage on her shoulder. Blood streaks down her arm, and she bites down hard on a curse.

I step behind her, slow, quiet. “Let me,” I say.

She doesn’t argue this time.

As I clean the wound, her body tenses with every dab of alcohol, but she stays silent. Still, when I move to apply the gauze, her knees buckle slightly, and she grabs the edge of the sink again for balance.

“You’re not invincible, Calla.”

She lifts her eyes to the mirror, meeting mine in the reflection. “Neither are you.”

“No. But we don’t have to be. Not if we’re doing this together.”

Chapter 22 – Calista

Two days. That’s how long it’s been since Lazaro declared war—and since then, everything’s changed.

The Virelli penthouse refuses to sleep anymore. The halls echo with movement at all hours, meetings bleed into briefings, and the familiar scent of sweat and gun oil hangs everywhere. De Corsi’s safehouses are crumbling, his informants are vanishing, and every night, new flames light up the city skyline—our mark, painted in fire.

And I’ve been at every table.

Not in the shadows, not on the sidelines—but beside him. Lazaro doesn’t introduce me as his fiancée, though technically I am. He lets the silence speak for itself. The way I sit next to him, shoulder to shoulder, pen in hand and questions rolling off my tongue—it says everything. I’ve seen the captains glance sideways when I speak. Some bristle. Some nod with a flicker of respect. But none dare ignore me.

“She’s sharper than most of you,” Lazaro muttered once during a briefing, eyes on a map while one of the older captains fumbled through a territory update.

The room had gone quiet.

I didn’t blink. “That’s why I’m still breathing.”

He smirked. I didn’t miss the pride in his eyes.

Even now, sitting in his office again with half the crew scattered around the table, I catch Ethan glancing at me with a nod of approval when I ask about supply chain redundancies. There’s blood on his knuckles and soot on his collar. None of us are untouched anymore.

And me? I’m not resting.

The ache in my shoulder is dull but constant, a reminder stitched into my skin—but I ignore it. I keep moving.

“You need to heal,” Lazaro says, watching me shrug into my jacket with my good arm.

“I’ll heal when they’re dead.”

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