Ink & Blood
They move in shadows, counting stacks in blood.
Their kingdom built on powder, guns, and bleak secrets.
But she walks bold where big men freeze!
A Tallant expressing what gangsters veil.
You think omertà buys the endless night?
The press still prints, each word an indictment.
For every life taken, a headline blows,
What death conceals, bylines expose.
Feuds roll on, names crossed off the list,
More fresh-cut graves, more wrists in Garda cuffs.
Shooters brag, then beg her for the pen,
Like ink could wash blood from hunted men.
Oh, “kingpins”, your throne’s a cheap hotel!
Your guns can’t stop truth, her podcast tells.
You own the block? She owns the front-page.
Your lead flies hot, but her words raise the dead.
Just across the ocean, the DEA stalks.
No safe haven in Spain, no sand in Dubai.
The cartel’s curse? The press became your hell.
When they grip you, she’ll craft your jailhouse tale.
“This is exactly the kind of information people need! I recently published an article related to this—let’s talk!”