Page 67 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

"You should’ve stayed in your little cage, girl," he sneers at me. "Could’ve lived a long, quiet life in my bed."

I’m in his face before I know I’ve moved, squatting down so we’re eye level. He smells like sweat and iron and rot.

"You were the cage, Zano," I hiss. "And I was the fucking match."

His smile falters just for a second. That’s enough.

Zano spits blood, eyes locked on me with that same smug bitterness. “You refused to marry me and escaped! In front of five families. You humiliated me. You disgraced my name.”

I meet his glare without pulling away. “No. I exposed it.”

Lazaro moves around him like a predator, but there’s nothing quiet about it. His steps are deliberate, the sound of his shoes echoing in the space, bouncing off the steel walls.

"You sent people to my house. You carved up her brother. You delivered pieces in boxes like some fucking game. You threatened my entire operation."

Zano lifts his chin, still clinging to that last thread of pride. "You’re standing on ground I bled to build, Virelli. This world was mine before you ever learned to tie a tie."

I’ve heard enough.

I grab his chin, digging my nails into his skin hard enough to make him freeze. "You know what your world is now? Ash. And you? You’re just a stain we haven’t wiped up yet."

His lips curl. "You think this ends with me?"

I smile, but there’s no warmth in it. Just teeth.

"No. This ends with you pissing yourself in a prison cell while everyone forgets your name."

Lazaro’s had enough too. He doesn’t say a fucking word—just pulls his gun and fires. The shot cracks through the warehouse like a whip, sharp and violent. Zano screams—no, shrieks—as the bullet rips through his thigh, tearing flesh and shattering bone.

He drops like dead weight. There’s a sickening thud when his body hits the concrete, followed by a wet squelch as his blood pours out in a thick, dark pool. He writhes, legs jerking like a dying animal. His scream turns into this ragged wheeze, echoing through the empty space like a dying siren.

His pants are soaked red, the fabric already clinging to the gaping wound in his leg. Blood gushes in pulses, splattering the floor with every twitch of his body. It smells like iron and rot and maybe fear. Or cowardice.

He tries to move. Not smart, but desperation makes people do stupid shit. He grits his teeth, clawing at the floor with trembling fingers, dragging himself forward inch by inch. His good leg kicks, slipping in his own blood, flailing like it still thinks it can save him.

His hands slap against the floor, nails scraping concrete. I hear the sound of skin tearing. I see blood smear across his palms, see pieces of grit and dirt dig into the cuts. He's not crawling—he’s dragging. Like a fucking busted roach after someone stomped its spine.

Every movement is pain. He groans with it, curses, spits blood as he tries to keep going. His shoulder bucks. His hips twist. He’s not going anywhere, but it’s almost impressive how hard he’s trying not to die on his knees.

His breaths come in short, choked rasps. His face is soaked with sweat and blood, eyes wide and wild, looking for an exit that isn’t there.

He’s not a Don anymore. Not a predator. Just a bleeding, crawling sack of bones.

And fuck, it’s beautiful.

I walk over, reach for Ethan’s belt, and pull his pistol free. It fits in my hand too well.

"Calista," Lazaro warns. There’s a thread of steel wrapped in care in his voice.

I ignore it.

I aim for the shoulder.

Bang.

Zano jerks violently. His scream this time is pure agony—raw, wet, almost inhuman. The bullet tore through muscle. He slams face-first into the floor, spitting teeth and blood, clawing at nothing.

"FUCK!" he bellows, voice cracked and strangled. "FUCK YOU! You filthy, inked-up WHORE!"

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