Page 61 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

I lean back, arms crossed, a slow grin curling on my lips. "War isn’t always bullets. Sometimes it’s knowing which string to pull."

He nods, impressed. "Then you just became the sharpest weapon in the room."

I don’t blush. I don’t look away. I own that.

Let that sadistic bastard Zano watch it all burn. Let him choke on the ashes of his empire.

He killed Noel. He tried to cage me.

Now I’m burning his world to the ground.

And we’ve only just started.

Lazaro’s phone buzzes with a new encrypted message. He reads it, eyes narrowing.

"Don Iscari just responded," he says. "He’s refusing to sever ties with Zano. Says he owes him too much."

I sit up straighter. "So, he’s choosing a sinking ship."

"Yeah. Are you ready to meet this douche?"

A grin creeps across my face. "Absolutely."

That’s when Ethan barrels back into the room like he hasn’t missed a beat, eyes wild with adrenaline and a fresh energy that makes me sit up straighter.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"We should hit Renzo," he blurts out. "Renzo De Corsi. He’s next in line if Zano falls—he’s the weak spot. The guy’s practically begging to be flipped."

I blink, then look over at Lazaro, a grin already tugging at my mouth.

"He’s right," I say, pointing at Ethan. "Renzo’s the fracture. If we offer him protection and power, he’ll turn on his cousin in a heartbeat."

Lazaro smirks, nodding. "Good job, Ethan."

Ethan lights up like a kid who just got a gold star. "Damn right. Let’s burn ‘em."

Lazaro stands, extending his hand toward me. Fire’s back in his eyes, burning hot and ready.

"Let’s go then," he says. "Let’s finish what we started."

I take his hand without hesitation.

The next move? Ours.

Chapter 25 – Lazaro

I don’t like waiting.

Especially not in the velvet-drenched halls of Don Iscari’s precious little hideout—some overpriced, hush-hush private club in Midtown with leather chairs that smell like old money and secrets. The kind of place that thinks it can buy class with mahogany panels and cigars that cost more than a hitman’s monthly fee.

Calista sits beside me, legs crossed, eyes cool and steady. She’s wearing all black—silk blouse, fitted trousers, hair pinned back in that dangerous way that makes her look like a CEO one minute and a weapon the next. Just hours ago, we were both lounging in sweats at the penthouse, dragging ourselves through espresso and dossiers. But before walking in here, we changed—intentionally. Suits. Power clothes. Nothing casual. Just a silent message to every bastard watching: We’re the ones in charge. She hasn’t said a word since we walked in.

She doesn’t need to.

That iPad in her lap? That’s the knife we brought to this meeting.

The door creaks open.

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