Chapter One - Lira #2
I freeze. Just enough to stiffen my shoulders.
“Oh, don’t be shocked,” she purrs, waving her hand. “Conrado’s been impotent since the war—or at least that’s the excuse he prefers. But this one… God. He made me come so hard I thought I’d faint.”
I stare at her. I’m smiling. I think I’m smiling.
She sips her wine, fluttering. “He left bruises. I photographed them. Honestly, I haven’t felt so alive since—well, She pauses dramatically. “since before I married Conrado, if I’m being honest.” .”
I nod. Or blink. Or something.
“Anyway,” she sighs, “he had a terrible accident two days ago. Motorcycle. Broke his wrist, poor darling. Needed money for surgery. So I sent it. Cash, of course. I couldn’t risk anything traceable. Conrado checks everything.”
She sets the glass down and clasps her hands over her chest like she’s auditioning for a tragedy.
“I am worried though. He promised to come see me tomorrow. Before Conrado returns. I need to see him, Lira. You understand, don’t you?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to snap.
No, I don’t understand. I don’t fucking care. You’re rich. You can do whatever you want. Sleep with whoever you want. Break your husband’s rules, drink his wine, hire girls like me to smile and listen like it’s a favor.
But me? I’m poor. Everyone watches. Everyone judges. I get fired if I’m late. I get side-eyed if I’m tired. I get laughed at if my shoes squeak or if I don’t look grateful enough to sit in your curated, air-conditioned excess.
I want to say all of that. I want to scream it.
But I don’t.
Because I’m tired. Because I need this job.
Because I just finished a six-hour shift at Piccolo Flame where I sliced my finger on the tomato slicer and bled into my apron and no one noticed.
Because after this, I have to take a tram and a bus and walk two blocks to get to Mirage , where I’ll pour drinks for drunk men and pretend it doesn’t matter when their hands linger.
So instead, I smile. Wider. Hollow.
“Of course,” I say softly, like I care. “That must be so hard for you.”
Her face brightens. She sips again, emboldened. “He called me bella assassina . My little assassin. Isn’t that divine?”
I laugh. Because I’m supposed to.
And I keep listening.
Because I have no choice.
****
Dressing Room, Mirage Bar
By the time I push through the back door of Mirage , the sun’s gone and the city smells like spilled beer and tired ambition. My feet are numb. My head is full. My chest is tight.
I leave Bolina’s perfume behind, but her voice is still in my ears.
Bella assassina. My sweet lover. I hope he comes before Conrado returns…
God, I don’t care.
The dressing room at Mirage is hot and too small for the number of bodies squeezed into it. Glitter dust floats in like toxic pollen. Girls are half-dressed, laughing, yelling, fighting over mirror space. A curling iron burns something—it smells like fried ends and anxiety.
I find Nicola by the lockers, already halfway changed.
She’s pulling on the black crop top, adjusting the hem around her chest. Her bra strap peeks out, red lace against dark skin.
She looks tired but still has that snap in her eyes—the one that tells people not to fuck around unless they’re ready to be outwitted.
She spots me and grins. “Finally. I was starting to think Bolina kidnapped you.”
“Almost,” I mumble, toeing off my shoes with a groan. “She started talking about her lover. Loudly. Graphically. Like we were old friends swapping sexcapades over wine.”
Nicola cackles. “Of course she did. Did she cry about his soulful hands again?”
I slide into my bar top, wincing as the fabric scrapes against a blister on my shoulder. “Worse. She told me about the orgasm he gave her that Conrado couldn’t. Then she told me he crashed his bike and needed emergency money. She wired it, obviously.”
“Jesus,” Nicola says, shaking her head and reapplying lip gloss. “Did you get paid?”
I grab my skirt and shimmy into it, sighing. “Yeah. Angelina didn’t even show, but she still handed me the envelope. Probably guilt. Or pity.”
“Well, then,” Nicola says, raising a brow. “I guess it’s a win.”
I laugh, dry. “Is it? I just want to play the violin.”
Nicola quiets. She leans against the locker beside mine, one leg crossed over the other. “I know.”
The fluorescent light above us flickers, buzzing like it might finally die.
“You know,” she adds gently, “you don’t have to do this.”
I stop mid-motion, my boot halfway on. I glance at her. “Don’t go there.”
She exhales. She doesn’t push. But she doesn’t back down either.
“I’m just saying… you have an option. You don’t have to work this hard, Lira. Not like this.”
The laugh that slips out of me isn’t amused. It’s brittle.
“What options? My family’s gone. I have no savings. I dropped out of school, remember? I flamed out. I disappeared for a year and came back to nothing but the debt I was in after losing my scholarship.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, steady.
“Mico would give you the world in a heartbeat.”
The name cuts sharper than I want it to.
“Well fuck him,” I snap.
Nicola doesn’t blink. She just shrugs and reaches for her hoops.
“Okay,” she says simply. “But you’re still bleeding, babe. Doesn’t matter who you blame.”
I don’t reply. I just tug my hair up into a ponytail, lips tight, chest heavier than it should be.
Mico was my brother’s best friend. The first man I ever loved. Older, serious, kind in the way that made me feel like I was made of glass and poetry. My mother adored him—used to say, “That boy will protect you long after your brother’s gone.”
And I believed her. I believed him.
But when I crumbled, Mico didn’t stay.
He arranged the rehab. Signed the forms. Paid the deposit.
And that was the last time I saw his face.
I called. Texted. Emailed. Sent letters. I even went to the naval base he was posted at, stood outside for hours until someone finally came out and said, “He doesn’t want visitors.”
But each month, right on time, five thousand dollars arrived into the family account I had. From him. No note. No name. Just money.
Like I was a mess he felt obligated to clean up after.
He didn’t want me. He pitied me. He paid to forget me.
I don’t need him. And I don’t need his money. I never touched a penny of it.
Nicola turns toward me. Her expression softens into something private, something only we understand.
She cups my face with both hands, warm and grounding. Then she kisses the tip of my nose.
“It’s okay, my feisty cat,” she says gently. “Fuck the promiscuous housewife, fuck the spoiled teenager, fuck Mico. ”
A laugh punches out of me—quiet, bitter. “Fuck you.”
She grins, feral and loving. “Fuck me and fuck this shift. Let’s go make as many tips as we can, okay?”
I nod. We link arms and push out into the night.
****
Somewhere between Mirage and nowhere – 4:03 AM
The street is dead quiet at this hour. Just wind, neon bleed on the pavement, and our tired feet slapping in uneven rhythm.
My boots are murder. The heel wore down halfway through the shift, and now every step feels like walking on one raw nerve. My tights are ripped at the knee. There’s sticky syrup on the side of my arm from a spilled cocktail tray I didn’t dodge fast enough.
Nicola doesn’t look much better—her gloss is faded, her bun half-collapsed, the neckline of her crop top slipping off one shoulder. She holds her heels in one hand and walks barefoot on the concrete, eyes squinting against the wind.
Still, she smiles. Because she always does.
“You sure you don’t want to spend the night at my place?” she asks, voice scratchy with sleep and smoke. “My air conditioning’s finally working again.”
I let out a yawn so wide my eyes water. “I’d love to, but I’m not mentally ready to pretend I can’t hear your neighbors fucking.”
Nicola bursts into a laugh, loud and tired. “It’s not that bad!”
“It’s like amateur porn with bad sound design,” I mutter, dragging my sleeve over my forehead.
She giggles and bumps my arm with hers. “Okay, yeah—it’s bad. But I’m saving. Seriously. I’ve got a budget app now and everything. I was thinking—maybe when the lease is up, we find a place together?”
The question hits soft, but somewhere deep.
I want to say yes. I want to say God, yes, please. But rent isn’t just rent when your bank account is a battlefield of overdue bills, debt, and the ghost of who you used to be.
I start to speak, then hesitate.
“I can’t always cover rent,” I say quietly, eyes down. “My bills are still a mess.”
“I know,” Nicola replies instantly. Like she was waiting for the excuse. “We’ll figure it out.”
Her voice is warm. Like she believes we will.
I want to trust her. I want to lean in and believe she’ll hold the weight with me. But everyone I’ve ever trusted has broken something.
Not because they meant to. But because they could .
So instead, I fake it. I push a grin through the ache in my chest and turn toward her.
“I’d be a terrible roommate,” I whisper. “I leave the lights on and steal all the blankets.”
She opens her arms dramatically. “Perfect. I sleep like a rock and I am the blanket.”
I laugh. A real one . Then I pull her in for a hug—tight, playful. I kiss the top of her head because I know she likes it, and she squeals like I’ve tickled her soul.
We stand there, girls and ghosts, giggling in the wind like we aren’t freezing, like our knees aren’t shaking from hours of standing, like the weight of the world hasn’t already carved its name into our backs.
“I’d paint my walls pink for you,” Nicola murmurs as we start walking again.
“I’d burn your walls down for silence,” I reply.
She throws her head back, laughing again.
And for a moment, it feels like something real is possible.
****
Lira’s Apartment – 4:34 AM
The key jams halfway in.
“Come on,” I whisper, tootired to fight it properly.
I wiggle the key, twist harder, feel the metal finally click. I push the door open with my shoulder and step into darkness. I let the door fall shut behind me with a groan that echoes loudly..
I blink into black.
Flick the light switch.
Nothing.
No buzz. No dim flicker. Just silence.
“Shit,” I mutter to no one, the weight of exhaustion crashing down all at once. “Great. Power’s out. Or… no, I didn’t pay. Right.”
I sigh through my teeth, dig in my coat pocket for my phone. The screen flash blinds me for a second before the flashlight kicks in. My apartment blinks to life in fragments—cheap wallpaper, chipped paint, the crooked painting I never fixed. Every shadow looks alive.
I head to the kitchen, flashlight beam bouncing over the counter.
I fumble open the drawer with stiff fingers. The wood groans, something inside shifts— loud. I find the candle, squat, dusty, half-burned. It still smells like cinnamon from the holidays. I light it with a match and watch the little flame sputter into existence. A shaky orb of safety.
Back to the living room.
I step slowly, the wax pooling already in the candle’s glass dish. My boots leave little scuffs on the floorboards as I move.
I round the corner and stop.
There’s someone in my chair.
Sitting in my chair.
A man.
I freeze, the candle nearly slipping from my hand. The flame wavers.
At first I think I’m hallucinating. The shape of him. Legs wide. Elbows on his knees. Head tilted slightly, like he’s been waiting. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
“Who—?” My voice holds in my throat.
The candlelight shifts—illuminates the glint of his belt buckle, the edge of a boot, the fabric of a dark jacket.
Adrenaline slams into me.
I spin. Run.
But I don’t make it to the door.
A second pair of arms— from behind —grabs my hair, yanking my head back so hard my neck snaps against the pull. A cry rips from my throat.
Then something wet is shoved over my mouth.
A cloth. A handkerchief. The smell is stinging, chemical, suffocating.
I panic.
I twist my body, swing my elbow back with everything I’ve got. I hit something solid—flesh and bone. A grunt follows. His grip loosens, just enough.
I stomp down, hard— heel-first —onto the top of his foot.
He curses. I turn, grab a lamp off the console table and swing it.
Glass shatters against his shoulder. He stumbles.
I scream—full voice, raw and ripping—as I lunge for the door.
Fingers swipe at my back, catch my coat, but I shrug it off, crash into the door, yank it open—
“ HELP! HELP ME, SOMEONE— ”
My lungs are burning.
I run. Bare feet on cold hallway tile. My vision sways. The edges go soft.
The scent clings to my nostrils—sweet and wrong. I try to keep going but my legs feel heavy and numb. Like they belong to someone else.
I reach the stairs.
Then I fall.
The floor rushes up fast. My shoulder hits first. Then my knee. My temple clips the wall as I crumple, limbs twitching.
The ceiling tilts.
A voice behind me says something I don’t catch.
Then darkness takes everything.