Chapter 1 – Lydia - Queen of Ashes
I start the day the same way I end it: on my knees, rag in hand, polishing the floor until the cloth comes back clean.
The apartment isn’t dirty. It never is.
But cleaning it is the only thing that makes my thoughts shut up long enough to hear what I’ve been avoiding.
The floors are pure white—stone composite, seamless, unbroken. I chose them because they show everything. Dust. Hair. Blood, if there ever was any.
There hasn’t been any, at least, not yet.
But I like the threat of it.
I clean because it’s how I rebuild the walls between me and the things I can’t control.
Last night being one of them.
The club.
The men.
The noise.
And then there was him—no name, no introduction, just one long, intense look from across the room that cut deeper than a man’s gaze should. He didn’t leer; he studied, and that’s what unsettles me.
The club is full of people who want something—attention, sex, power. He wasn’t one of them. He looked like he was already full of secrets and didn’t want to trade any of them.
I didn’t expect to remember his face this clearly. I never do.
But I do now.
The set of his jaw.
The drink in his hand.
The way his eyes didn’t flinch when I stared back.
He looked like he’d done terrible things.
And I wasn’t repulsed.
That’s the part I’m still scrubbing off.
I rise, roll the cloth tight, and drop it into the laundry bin beneath the sink. The cleaner I use stings a little where it hits the cuts on my palm—small, shallow nicks from a splintered drawer handle I haven’t gotten around to replacing. I don’t bandage them. I want to feel the sting.
It reminds me where I end.
In the bathroom, I shower under pressure so strong it leaves red trails across my back. The water’s almost scalding, a ritual of reset more than hygiene.
When I step out, I don’t look at myself in the mirror. I never do right after waking. It’s too honest. And I can’t afford to be honest until I’m dressed.
The closet holds three suits: black, dark gray, and another black. I pick the gray one today. It feels the least severe. I don’t need to draw blood with my wardrobe. Just maintain the illusion I have some part of this life by the throat.
I pair it with a structured blouse, unbuttoned just enough to pass without questions in Dom’s world, and smooth my hair back into a tight knot.
My lips are bare, neck clean, and ankles covered.
No part of me is for show.
I sit at the counter and pour a shot of vodka. I don’t drink it. I just hold it. I’ve done this every morning since Drazen forced me back into the fold. It’s not a ritual. It’s a reminder.
This isn’t freedom.
It’s maintenance.
The shot sits untouched.
My phone buzzes.
Dom.
“You’re expected before noon. V’s got something.”
“‘Clean hands. Clean shoes. No eye contact.’”
“His words.”
Of course they are.
I delete the messages.
No point asking what the job is. Drazen doesn’t send details. Just orders.
I down the shot in one swallow, then rinse the glass and return it to the second shelf, left corner, rim down.
It’s only when I go to grab my holster that I pause.
Because I remember the ring.
Not mine.
His.
The man from last night. That silver band on his right hand—plain, old, worn. Not flashy. Not modern. Worn the way a soldier wears something he was told to forget but couldn’t.
Why the fuck do I remember that?
I close the drawer harder than necessary.
This shouldn’t matter.
He shouldn’t matter.
It was one glance. A club full of bodies. A million men in this city who dress like control and talk like nothing touches them.
So why did I look back?
Why do I still want to?
I grab my keys and head for the door, locking it behind me with a satisfying click.
The corridor is sterile and quiet, with no neighbors in sight. Just the faint hum of the elevator system two floors down. I keep this apartment for that reason.
No interruptions. No questions.
I wait a beat before stepping into the lift, checking my reflection in the stainless steel doors.
Everything looks right.
Which is exactly how you know something isn’t.
Dom’s club never sleeps.
The world upstairs might still be coughing into morning traffic, pretending coffee can undo a life of bad choices… But here, underground, the lights never quite go out. They dim. They shift. They hum in red and indigo and heat.
I take the back entrance. The one only about five people in Miramont have keys to.
Inside, it smells of money and distraction. Music oozes from the speakers in low tones, not for dancing, but for conditioning, for control. The tempo is slow, teasing. The bass isn’t loud, but it’s deep, like a hand resting just above your navel, ready to push.
It’s early. The main rooms are mostly empty. A few workers prepping the bar, a submissive cleaning boots in the corner. She doesn’t look up when I pass, and I don’t stop walking.
Dom waits in his private room, where black floors meet chrome walls that gleam like mirrors, only twisted enough to distort the truth. Makes everyone look a little too long, a little too thin. Like the version of themselves they pretend not to be.
He’s seated, fingers steepled, a glass of something amber in front of him.
“Lydia,” he says. Smooth, unhurried.
“Dom.”
He gestures to the chair across from him, and I sit. My posture is perfect, ankles crossed, hands resting in my lap, every inch of me trained to look composed.
The door clicks shut behind me.
He watches me for a second too long. That’s how he asserts control; with time, with waiting. Until he finally severs the hush and says, “You made an impression last night.”
I don’t blink. “On who?”
“Drazen. He was watching.”
“He always watches,” I brush off.
His mouth curves slightly. “You were calm. Controlled. Beautiful, but not performing.”
“I never perform.”
“No. You command. That’s why he trusts you.”
I let that sit.
Dom doesn’t say things like that unless he’s cushioning a blow.
He reaches into the drawer at his side and pulls out a black folder with paper inside—not digital.
He’s old school that way. So is Drazen. Anything worth protecting doesn’t belong in a cloud.
He pushes the folder toward me.
“Viktor wants this handled today.”
I open it.
No photo. Just names. Notes. A location.
Someone took this by hand. It was probably Drazen himself. It’s too neat, too sparse, to be a field agent’s file.
I skim:
Front business: small logistics firm
Suspected laundering
Four employees flagged
One in particular: Silas Ward
The name doesn’t land at first. It’s just data. Ink.
Then something in my brain… stops.
Silas.
I blink once.
Ward.
No photo. No profile. Just a name.
But it doesn’t matter.
It’s him.
I know it. Some part of me registers it before the rest catches up.
Dom’s watching me. Waiting for a reaction.
I give none.
“What’s the protocol?” I ask.
“Assessment. First. If he’s clean, he walks.”
“And if he’s not?”
Dom leans back. “You’ll know what to do.”
I keep my tone steady. “Why him?”
“New face. Recent activity. Drazen doesn’t like variables.”
I nod like it makes sense.
And maybe it does.
Maybe this is nothing.
Maybe it’s not the man from last night.
Maybe it is.
I close the folder slowly, my fingers suddenly cold against the paper.
The weight of his name sits heavy in my hands, and for a moment I can't tell if what I'm feeling is dread or something far more dangerous—anticipation laced with the edge of fear.
Because if this is him, then nothing about last night was coincidence.
And I've learned the hard way that coincidences in this world are just lies waiting to unfold.
“Address?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.
Dom taps the corner of the folder. “Back page.”
I don't look at it just yet. I just hold the folder in my lap like it might detonate if I open it again, his name burning through the cover and into my palms.
Dom watches me longer than he needs to, and I can't tell if he sees it or not.
I stand.
“I’ll handle it.”
“I know you will.”
His voice follows me as I leave.
Always polite.
Always lethal.
The building isn’t a front.
That’s the first surprise.
It’s not some shady halfway point between legal and illegal. It’s an actual logistics firm. Mid-size. On paper, thriving. In person, boring.
Which makes me more suspicious, not less.
Everything about the outside says nothing to see here. Neutral signage. Open blinds. A few clean-looking delivery trucks with a corporate logo that doesn’t try too hard. Workers moving inside with coffee cups and clipboards and tired shoes.
Normal.
Which is never normal.
People like Drazen don’t waste time on small businesses unless something’s humming under the floorboards.
I park one street over and walk the rest of the way, calm and confident. I’m in my fitted blazer. Silk blouse. Boots that don’t announce me. My hair’s still pinned. I wear scent today, but only at the wrists. Jasmine and smoldering oud.
Enough to linger.
The man at the front desk barely looks up when I enter. He’s too busy watching a YouTube video on his phone, pretending to check stock numbers.
“I’m here for Silas Ward,” I say.
He looks up then, blinks twice, and offers a shrug that gives away nothing.
“Back office. Right hallway. The door's open.”
No vetting. No questions.
I could be anyone.
Which means they haven’t been briefed. Either they don’t know what Drazen suspects—or Ward’s done a damn good job of keeping his hands clean.
I thank the desk clerk with a nod and walk the hall he pointed to. The floors here are linoleum. Clean but scuffed. The walls are lined with company newsletters no one reads. Somewhere, a printer grinds through a stack of paper.
My pulse doesn’t spike. It never does.
Until I reach the last door.
And see him.
The air shifts before I even process why. Same jawline. Same eyes. The recognition hits like a held breath finally released—equal parts relief and ruin.
It’s him.
The man from last night.
Only now I have his name.
Silas Ward.