14. LYLA #2
My shift was almost over when the front door swung open, letting in a cold gust of wind that curled around my ankles.
I glanced up from taking an order just in time to catch a change in the room—a ripple that started at the door and moved across the cafe.
Conversations stuttered. A spoon clattered to the floor. Someone let out a cough, sharp and dry.
And then…silence.
The man who stepped inside wasn’t tall or particularly burly, but somehow, he sucked the air out of the room merely by existing.
He was stocky and broad-shouldered, his wool coat buttoned tight over a barrel chest. Deep scars cut across his face, and he glared at me with cold, dead eyes. The sneer on his face made every nerve in my body stand on end.
Carmine stepped out from behind the counter, calm but alert. “Can I help you?”
The man didn’t answer right away but looked around the shop as though he was scanning for trouble.
Then he pointed—at me.
“I need a word with that one,” he said, his voice low and rough. His hispanic accent carried that clipped, gritty edge I’d heard from gang members on the news—Central American, maybe? “Dollface in the apron,” he growled, stepping toward me.
My heart stopped.
Carmine moved between us before I could blink. “She’s working. You’ll need to come back another time.”
The man, totally unfazed, opened his coat slowly and gave Carmine a glimpse of the handgun tucked into his waistband.
I darted behind the back counter. Carmine didn’t even flinch. He glared at the man for a moment but then stepped aside.
A few patrons grabbed their bags and rushed out. One woman pulled her friend out the door by the arm. The man didn’t even glance at them. He came straight for me.
I tried to breathe.
He stopped inches from the counter and leaned in just enough for me to smell the nicotine on his breath.
“Mr. Delgado expects to see you tonight,” he said softly. “You will not be late.”
I stared at him. Swallowed. “I—I wasn’t planning to—”
Calmly he reached into his pocket and pulled out a photo, then dropped it onto the counter and pushed it toward me.
I didn’t want to take it, but my hand moved anyway, bile already rising up my throat.
I picked it up and unfolded it. It was a glossy color image of a long line of women. Naked. Kneeling on concrete. Their hands bound behind their backs. Their heads down.
They were in some kind of holding area—bare walls, metal piping overhead, puddles of water on the floor. It looked like a warehouse or a basement. One of the women had what appeared to be blood smeared down her thigh.
My hand started to shake.
I looked up. The man was still watching me.
One corner of his lips raised, and he grunted as he plucked the photo from my hand, folded it, and slid it back into his coat.
“You please the boss,” he said, tapping the side of his jacket, “your life stays easy.”
Then he leaned closer.
“If not…” He tapped the gun. “You’ll be relocated.”
He pulled back and smiled—just a twitch of his lips.
“Keep your mouth shut, mi muneca.”
Then he turned and walked out.
As soon as the door shut behind him, all the air in my lungs I hadn’t realized I’d been holding in whooshed out.
I stood frozen.
Carmine reacted quickly.
“Office. Now,” he said, already heading toward the rear of the shop.
I followed on autopilot, my feet barely working. He opened the office door and let me step in first, then closed it behind us.
“Mind telling me what the fuck that was about?” he asked.
I tried to find words. Failed. My throat was dry.
“Lyla,” he said, stepping in closer. “Look at me. Who the hell was that?”
“Just—just someone from my other job, I guess,” I croaked. “He was reminding me about something I had to do tonight for the boss.”
Carmine’s brows drew together. “What other job?”
I hesitated, looking down at my feet.
His voice dropped, all gravel and steel now. “Where else do you work?”
My stomach turned. “The Sacrifice.”
Carmine went still.
“What?” His tone wasn’t harsh, but the question still stabbed me in the heart. “You work at The Sacrifice strip club?”
I nodded, shame heating my cheeks. “It’s not what you think. I don’t even strip. I just perform. Like…aerial routines. That’s all.”
“And you think that matters?”
He was pacing now, muttering under his breath in Italian.
“I was going to quit,” I said, desperation clawing its way up my throat. It killed me to disappoint him. “After tonight, I swear, I’ll tell them—”
“You don’t just quit a place like that,” he said sharply, turning to me. “You don’t tell men like that guy ‘no.’ Don’t you get that?”
“I—I needed the money. And I—”
“You need to leave the city,” he hissed. “Now. Today. I’ll buy you a bus ticket myself if that’s what it takes. You’re not safe.”
“No,” I whispered. “I can’t. I have a theater role I just landed, and—”
“Lyla!” His voice cracked like a whip. “You don’t understand what you’re caught up in.”
“I do,” I lied.
He stared at me for a long second, then shook his head and looked away.
I untied my apron with trembling fingers, hung it on the hook beside the door, and grabbed my hoodie and backpack.
“I have to go.”
“Lyla—”
But I was already rushing out, pushing past the counter, out the door and into the street, where the cold drizzle felt like punishment.
I walked fast, pulling on my hoodie and trying to ignore the brisk wind buffeting me as I headed home.
The look on Carmine’s face wouldn’t leave my mind.
He was a great boss, and he’d even treated me a bit like a daughter, which was why I’d felt like a little kid being chastised when his face had twisted in disappointment, when he’d said I couldn’t just walk away from The Sacrifice.
My life had flipped upside down so fast.
But this wasn’t as bad as the wreck—the one that had taken everything from me—so I knew I could handle it.
Nothing would ever shatter my heart like losing my parents and sister had.
Nothing was going to destroy me; I’d already suffered the worst life could throw at me, and I’d come through it stronger.
That didn’t stop me from being frustrated beyond belief though. What a shitty situation to be in! My life had been looking up. I’d landed a part in an actual Off-Broadway show. I should’ve been glowing. Happy. Instead, I felt like I was choking on glass.
I turned the corner onto my block and slowed just enough to glance behind me.
Nothing.
Still, a prickling sensation crawled up the back of my neck.
I adjusted one of the straps of my backpack, ducked my head down, and crossed the street—then changed my mind and crossed back again, keeping my movements unpredictable like Nat had taught me, just in case.
I ducked into the corner bodega, pretending to browse, then quickly stepped out the side entrance.
That was when I saw him.
Same stocky build. Same dark coat. Same scar-covered face.
Not my Russian stalker—the man from the cafe.
He was following me.
But just as I turned, ready to confront him, he vanished, melting into the crowd like he’d never been there. I whirled around and headed straight home.
My pulse was still jackhammering when I finally reached my apartment door.
Once inside, I dropped my bag and leaned against the wall.
Breathe. Just breathe.
I wasn’t going to let this scare me. I was smarter than that.
Okay, maybe not smarter, but I was determined.
I had my first City Song rehearsal tonight. There was a brand new world waiting for me at Playwrights Haven. Lights, music, dancing. Real people who believed in me.
I wasn’t going to give that up.
Not because some greasy enforcer had shown me a picture of bound, captive women and threatened to “relocate” me.
I just had to get through tonight.
Keep my head down.
Play the part.
And figure out how to escape The Sacrifice before it swallowed me whole.
I showed up twenty minutes early.
I couldn’t help it. I’d barely been able to catch a little nap, and I was still struggling to get control of all the emotions running through me.
Between the excitement of my first rehearsal and the adrenaline from this morning, I could hardly sit still.
But when I stepped through the glass doors of Playwrights Haven, it all fell away like dust.
This was it.
My dream.
The expansive lobby buzzed with familiar creative chaos—people bustled around with canvas totes slung over their shoulders, stood chatting and bouncing on their toes, or sat shuffling through scripts.
A hint of hairspray and mint tea wafted through the air.
Laughter echoed down the hallway, and the rhythmic thud of music pulsed from the rehearsal space.
A tall guy with tousled brown hair and kind eyes spotted me from across the room and headed toward me.
“You Lyla?” he asked, tossing a half-eaten granola bar into the trash as he approached.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
He grinned and stuck out his hand. “I’m Jesse. Part of the ensemble. Welcome to the circus.”
I smiled. “Glad to be here.”
Two women walked up from behind him to join us—one a petite blonde with a nose ring, the other an athletic girl with waist-length braids.
“I’m Kylee,” said the blonde. “Costumes and chaos.”
“Danika,” the other said with a wink. “I play Dottie. Backup vocals, sass, and endless stage-right exits.”
They pulled me into their orbit as if we’d known each other forever. Before I could overthink anything, I was ushered through the hallway and into the dressing area.
“Changing rooms are basically communal this week,” Kylee said. “Just don’t flash the lighting techs, and you’re golden.”
I switched my jeans out for my black dance pants and then slipped off my hoodie. Beneath it, I wore a plain white tee over a black leo. Sneakers off, dance shoes on. Hair up in a quick bun. I felt more like myself than I had in days.
We walked into the rehearsal room together, and the moment I stepped onto the Marley floor, it hit me—this was real.
In fact, it was all a little surreal —the subtle grip of the smooth floor beneath my soles, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and a row of folding chairs at the front filled with people I’d only ever dreamed of working with.
Marquez stood near the center, black joggers clinging to his carved thighs, sleeveless tee doing nothing to hide the power in his arms. He was giving some feedback to one of the dancers while stretching his own hamstrings.
“Ah, hello Lyla. It’s so good to have you!” a warm voice called out.
A woman in a charcoal blazer and jeans stood from the front row and crossed the room to greet me. “Margaret Gentry. I’m the one who spoke with you on the phone. Welcome aboard.”
“Thank you so much for the opportunity,” I said, trying not to sound like I was vibrating with excitement.
She gestured toward a couple of other women, one at a time. “That’s Kelly—music director. Ava’s our stage manager. You’ll get familiar fast.”
Marquez finally turned in my direction, giving me a once-over.
“You do aerial work well,” he said flatly.
“Yes, sir. Pole and silks. And I’ve done some hoop work too.”
“Good,” he said, crossing his arms. “Ruby’s rooftop number is mostly static rigging. Focus on learning the dance routines for now. You’ll observe tonight and step in next week.”
“Understood.”
But I wasn’t great at sitting still. And it didn’t take long before I was echoing the choreography from the sidelines, matching the movements beat for beat.
Marquez caught it.
“You know the sequence?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.
“I’ve been watching,” I said carefully. “I’m a quick study.”
“Show me. How about you join in this time?”
My heart slammed into my ribs, but my body didn’t hesitate.
I stepped into the center of the floor, mimicking the trio to my left—keeping my movements fluid and my toes pointed, slicing my arms through the air in sync with the music and all the other dancers.
When I hit the turn sequence with perfect timing, I heard a low whistle from someone in the back.
Marquez gave a grunt that could have been a sound of approval. “You’ll fit in just fine.”
The rest of the rehearsal flew by.
We went through a variety of vocal warm-ups and group numbers.
During the short breaks, cast members handed around cough drops and shared jokes.
I was already learning names and personalities—like who was the type to borrow your eyeliner without asking and who always had extra ibuprofen. It felt like a little family.
By the time the director dismissed everyone, I was floating.
“Lyla?” Margaret called as I was packing my bag.
“Yes?”
“Can you stay a few minutes and go over onboarding paperwork?”
“Of course.” But my smile faltered as I glanced at the time.
Shit.
On foot, it took me twenty minutes to get to The Sacrifice, maybe thirty. Tonight, I would splurge on a cab. There was no way I would be late. No, not tonight.
I scribbled through the paperwork with record speed, barely reading it. Smiled, nodded, signed my name.
Then I bolted.
The wind bit at my cheeks as I rushed out into the street and threw my hand up to hail a cab.
No time to think about the threatening man from earlier.
No time to think about the way Carmine had looked at me.
No time to think about Mr. Stalker.
No time to panic.
I was now officially a paid actress.
And tonight, I would play my most important role yet—a girl who wasn’t scared.