Page 9 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

Her eyes snap up, and she opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off.

"He’s safe there. I’m keeping an eye on him. Honestly, I’d say he’s having the time of his life—beaches, sun, and probably more naked women than he knows what to do with. So, no, you don’t need to worry about him."

"I want to talk to him," she says, steady but quiet.

I scoff. "You’re not talking to anyone. And don’t even think about going behind my back—because I’ll know."

As I shut the door, the pillow hits the door behind me. She’s not broken yet. But she will be.

On my way back from Calista’s room, I nod at the guards stationed outside her door. They don’t respond, not even to my nod. Good. As I walk down the corridor toward my room, I leave them behind without a second glance. I’m alone now. The sound of my footsteps on the cool marble floor is the only thing breaking the stillness.

I stop to grab a bottle of beer in the kitchen and take a quick swing. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I still see her face. The way it changed. Her body stiffened, frozen in place like prey backed into a corner. I can’t shake it, that look in her eyes. The defiance fading into fear.

That look— it was the same one my father used to provoke in people. It makes my stomach tighten, a bitter realization settling deep inside.

I’ve become him.

The thought hits me like a slap, a curse I can’t escape. Don Corrado Virelli would’ve smiled at the move I just made. He would’ve praised it, said it was exactly what I needed. Power at any cost. Fear over trust.

But I swore to myself I wouldn’t become him. I promised.

Yet, tonight, I took one more step in his shadow.

I try to shove the thought aside, pushing it to the back of my mind where it can’t hurt me. There’s no room for weakness. No space for doubts. The game is bigger than personal feelings.

Chapter 5 – Calista

The ballroom doors loom in front of me like the gates of some decadent prison. I step forward alone—no escort, no arm looped through mine. Lazaro didn’t even bother to accompany me. The bastard. Figures.

The journey here was a blur. My heels click on marble floors that echo with opulence. I could be dreaming—maybe I am. Maybe I’ll wake up back in my cramped apartment above the studio, ink-stained fingers and freedom still intact. But no. This is real. The golden chandeliers dripping crystals from the ceiling, the polished marble columns, the velvet-draped tables glinting under ambient lighting—it’s all real. And beautiful. Disgustingly beautiful.

Even in misery, I can’t lie to myself—the venue is stunning.

A week has passed since Lazaro dropped that bombshell. One week of confinement and powerlessness. I tried to make a plan—any plan. An escape route, a trick, a distraction—anything that would give me even a sliver of control back. But the guards stationed outside my room didn’t budge. Not for food, not for pleas, not even for sleep.

I asked Lazaro once if I could go buy my own dress.

"I'd like to pick it myself," I told him, arms crossed, trying to cling to any small piece of dignity.

He looked at me like I was a child asking for candy. Then he laughed. Actually laughed.

"You’ll wear what I choose," he said with that maddening smirk. "You’re not here to shop. You’re here to play a role—and I’ll decide how that role looks."

The next day, a designer showed up—sleek, clinical, with pins, a tape measure, and a team of assistants who didn’t even make eye contact with me. They measured, they tailored, they styled me like I was some porcelain doll they’d been ordered to dress. Lazaro was there too, sitting in the corner of the room, watching the whole thing like it was some sort of performance curated for his amusement.

"Is this really necessary?" I asked, glaring at him from where I stood in front of the mirror.

"Of course it is," he replied casually, sipping his espresso. "You’ll be on display. You might as well look the part."

"So I'm your decoration now?"

He smiled faintly, eyes cool. "You're whatever I want you to be."

I wanted to throw something at him then—maybe the measuring tape—but I stood still, letting the assistants poke and pin me almost torturously. And he just watched, observing my every move.

Now, I’m wearing a deep wine-colored gown that hugs every curve like it was sculpted onto my skin. The fabric feels light and elegant, a prison stitched in silk. It's, of course, full-length sleeved to cover the tattoos on my right arm, hiding the ink that tells my story. Another reminder that my identity isn’t allowed to exist in his world. Another subtle power play in Lazaro’s book.

The neckline reveals my shoulders and the outline of my breasts, leaving little to the imagination. It’s power and possession disguised as fashion. My hair tumbles in long, styled curls down to my waist—waves molded by someone else’s vision, shaped by decisions that were never mine to begin with.

---