Page 54 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

He draws in a sharp breath and runs a hand through his hair.

“Calista—”

“No.” I face him fully. “You gave me a seat at your table. I’m not backing down now.”

He watches me for a long moment—silent, unreadable—and then nods. “Then pick a raid. But you stay close to me.”

I already know which one I want. “The storage facility in Brooklyn. It’s a De Corsi front. They’ve been trafficking women through it for months. Maybe longer.”

His expression darkens immediately. “How do you know that?”

“I did my research,” I say, pulling a folder from my bag and slapping it onto the table. “Surveillance logs, shipment manifests, even coded communications. Everything points to that building being more than just cargo. It’s cages. Rotating inventory. They strip IDs, replace them with numbers, move girls like merchandise.”

His hand curls into a fist beside the folder.

“They keep them drugged,” I continue, voice low but firm. “Some don’t even remember their own names by the time they’re sold.”

Lazaro doesn’t speak, but I can see it in the stiffness of his body—he’s already picturing the bloodshed.

“We shut it down,” I say. “And we don’t just burn it—we make it public. Show the city exactly what Zano’s built his empire on.”

His eyes meet mine. “You’re not just picking a raid. You’re claiming it.”

“Damn right I am.”

A slow, dangerous grin spreads across his face. “Then let’s paint it red.”

XXX

By dusk, the Virelli crew storms the warehouse.

Gunfire erupts the moment we breach the gates—screams follow. Smoke grenades fill the corridors, the sound of explosives ricocheting off steel walls, shaking the entire foundation. The chaos is deafening, but I stay close, gun drawn, pulse racing but steady. I move like I belong here—because I do.

The deeper we go, the worse it gets. The stench is unbearable—filth, decay, chemicals, urine, blood. Chains rattle under our boots, broken padlocks litter the floor. Discarded clothes are soaked in things better left unimagined. Medical waste—used syringes, stained gauze, even bloodied restraints—tell a story far more horrifying than words ever could.

I round a corner and freeze.

The cages are real. And they’re full.

It looks like a scene torn from a dystopian movie—metal bars stacked in rows, bodies crumpled behind them, dim lights glistening over trauma-soaked concrete. I blink, trying to process what I’m seeing, but my mind refuses to believe this is real. This kind of horror shouldn’t exist in real life. Not here. Not now. But it does. And it’s worse than anything I imagined.

Some women are awake—barely. Some aren’t. Some won’t wake up again. Their eyes find mine as Lazaro’s men begin unlocking cells, rushing to check for pulses, to drag survivors out into fresh air. They all break into sobs and cries. One of the girls grips my wrist as she’s helped out of a cage, her fingers trembling, her voice shaking. "Thank you," she whispers.

It’s the smallest thing. But it hits the hardest.

I nearly choke on it.

I want to tell her not to thank me. That I haven’t done anything—not really. I haven’t earned those words, not when she’s the one who survived this nightmare. Not when I’m the one who walked in after the damage was done.

But I can’t say any of that.

So I nod. Because it’s all I can give her in this moment—acknowledgment, connection, maybe even a sliver of hope. Her gratitude slices deeper than any bullet could, and I feel it settle inside me like a vow I never asked to make, but will carry anyway.

A De Corsi soldier lies bleeding near the cages, chest shredded from shrapnel, eyes wide in the final moment he never saw coming. I step toward him, holster my weapon, and kneel beside his corpse. I look at his face—really look—and let the disgust settle deep in my bones.

Then I dip my fingers into the pool of blood seeping from his neck.

It’s still warm.

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