Chapter 9 – Lydia - Red as an Answer
I don’t remember walking home. I can’t even explain how I got home.
Only that my hand wouldn’t stop shaking when I unlocked the door.
It’s not my first time being in a shootout.
But something about this one feels off, like the fear didn’t stay outside.
Now I’m standing in my apartment, the red dress clinging to me like wet paint.
I don’t kick my heels off.
I don’t pour a drink either.
I just walk straight to the mirror.
The tall one, opposite the windows. The one I keep telling myself isn’t for vanity but for symmetry, even though I know that’s a lie.
I face it.
And the woman staring back doesn’t look like someone who survived something.
She looks like someone who started to burn and never stopped.
Hair pinned up, loose now. Stray curls sticking to the sweat at my temple. Lipstick gone. One strap of the dress nearly off my shoulder, dusted with smoke and grime and god knows what else from the warehouse floor.
There’s blood on the hem.
I crouch slightly. Fingers shake the fabric loose from where it clings to my thigh.
The blood isn’t mine.
At least, I don’t think so.
I stand again, stepping closer to the mirror.
That’s when I see it.
A thin, jagged scratch just below my collarbone. Barely noticeable unless you’re looking. But it’s there. An angry pink line about two inches long, traced like someone meant to leave it.
I tilt my chin, bring my fingers to it.
It stings—mean and real. But I don’t remember how I got it.
That’s the part that sits wrong in my ribs.
Because I remember everything else. The way the smoke curled through the rafters. The sound of the gunshot that dropped the first man. The way Dom’s fingers bit into my wrist when he pulled me toward the exit. The flash of movement. The silhouette in the haze.
Him.
His eyes.
Like they were cutting through the world just to land on me.
But this cut?
No idea.
I walk to the bathroom, snap the medicine cabinet open.
Bandages. Antiseptic. Cotton pads.
My hands are steadier than they should be.
I clean it methodically. The alcohol bites harder than expected. I don't wince. I just keep going. Dab. Wipe. Press. Seal.
When I’m done, I lean both hands on the edge of the sink and look up again.
Back into the mirror.
This time, I don't study the dress. Or the bruise forming low on my ribs from when I hit the pillar. Or the smear of something dried and foreign under one eye.
I look into my own eyes.
And ask the question I’ve been avoiding since the moment I locked eyes with him across the smoke.
Why did he move like that?
Not just efficient or tactical, but also intentional.
He wasn’t reacting to a threat.
He was eliminating it.
For me.
He saw the man flanking me and moved without hesitation or orders, just pure instinct.
That's not loyalty—that's something else entirely, something closer to possession.
Or worse, protection. And neither makes sense.
I press my fingers to the scratch again. Feel it throb once beneath the bandage.
That’s the real message of tonight.
No matter how keen you think you are… something always cuts deeper.
I change to something casual, and move to the bathroom and start rinsing out the blood from my dress, I’m halfway into rinsing the blood when the knock comes.
Two short raps.
Then one.
Only one person knocks like that.
Because I know exactly who it is, I don’t answer right away. Instead, I take my time hanging the wrecked dress over the back of a chair and wiping my hands with a dishtowel. The floor feels cool under my bare feet as I walk across the room, tension already pressing behind my eyes like a warning.
I’d say I’m hoping he’ll just fuck off, but I know better.
Like clockwork, there’s another knock. Same rhythm. Relentless man.
I finally open the door with a sigh, too tired to pretend I even have a choice.
Dom stands there in his usual rumpled blazer, bottle in hand, smile already peeled across his face like he’s carved it there.
“You’re not dead,” he says.
“No thanks to you.”
He lifts the bourbon. “I come bearing apologies.”
“You’re not the one who shot at me.”
“No. I just brought you to the place where it happened.”
I stare.
He grins wider.
“I figured you’d be nursing a few bruises. Thought I’d offer something smoother than ice packs and accountability.”
I don’t invite him in. But he steps across the threshold anyway.
He always does.
Dom has that way of walking into a room like he built it, even when he’s uninvited.
He glances around, takes in the half-washed dress, the faint smell of antiseptic, the half-closed curtain near the window.
His gaze lingers there for a beat too long.
“You expecting someone?” he asks, nodding toward it.
“No.”
“Mm.”
He drops the bourbon on the counter. Doesn’t open it. He just leans against the fridge like he’s settling in.
“Drazen’s pleased.”
“Is that what this is about?”
“Partly. He said you made an impression. That your performance tonight was—” he winks, “—effective.”
I cross my arms.
Dom’s eyes narrow, reading me.
“He also said something interesting,” he adds. “Said you weren’t the only one who reacted… intensely.”
The word hangs.
I say nothing.
Because he’s looking for confirmation. Or denial. And I don’t feel like giving him either.
Instead, I say, “Is that why you’re here? To deliver vague compliments and fish for names?”
“I’m here because I thought you might need a drink and a little context.”
“Context for what?”
“For how close you’re flying to the center of things now.”
Dom straightens.
He’s smiling, but not like before. This one has less charm. More weight.
“You’re visible, Lydia. That’s what happens when you stop being an ornament and start being an asset. You start showing up on people’s lists.”
“What kind of lists?”
“The kind you don’t get taken off of.”
I move to the counter. Pick up the bottle. It’s already warm from where he held it too long. I don’t bother with a glass.
Dom watches me drink, then tilts his head.
"You did good tonight," he says. "Too good. Drazen's not just impressed. He's… considering."
"Considering what?"
He shrugs. "How to make sure you don't go anywhere."
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and set the bottle down harder than I mean to.
"I'm already here. What more does he want?"
"You already are," he says quietly. "And the question isn't whether you want to go anywhere. It's whether he'll let you."
I walk past him. Toward the window. My eyes scan the rooftop across the street, empty now. No silhouette. No shadow.
Dom speaks again, quieter this time.
“There’s a difference between being useful and being owned. Just… remember that.”
I turn to look at him.
His smirk is gone.
He opens the door without waiting for a goodbye.
And just before he closes it behind him, he says:
“He saw you.”
Then the door clicks shut.
He saw you.
Dom’s parting words echo even after the door shuts.
I stand by the window long after he’s gone, arms folded, eyes scanning the rooftop that gave nothing back. My reflection wavers in the glass, the bandage peeking out beneath the robe I threw on after the mirror. I look like someone pretending they weren’t caught off guard.
I don’t like pretending.
My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter.
I cross the room to check it, expecting Dom again. A second wave of cryptic warnings. Another breadcrumb tossed from a man who’s never once said what he really means.
But it’s not Dom.
It’s Drazen.
No greeting.
Just a time.
"Upstairs. One hour."
Nothing else.
But that’s enough.
Because Drazen doesn’t text. He summons.
And when he summons with those few words, it’s never about logistics.
It’s about control.
I stare at the message for a full minute before locking the phone and setting it face-down. The weight of it doesn't go away. It sits behind my ribcage, familiar and heavy.
Upstairs.
Not the public part of the club. Not the bar. Not the booth in the back where deals are whispered and drinks are poisoned with intentions.
The private floor. The one with velvet walls and low music and secrets disguised as decadence.
He never asks twice.
But that’s not why I go.
I go because I won’t let him wonder if I’m afraid.
Because control, in this world, doesn’t come from saying no.
It comes from showing up like you own the room — even if you’re the one being sold.
I walk to the closet.
The red dress is still draped over the chair. Smoke-stained. Dust-flecked. Ruined.
I don’t even hesitate.
I shove it into the laundry hamper, walk to the back of the closet, and pull out the other one.
Deeper red.
Darker cut.
Fitted like it was stitched for sins.
I slip it on without music, without mood, without any romantic delusion that this is about beauty. It’s about war paint. About choosing what weapon you bring to the table when you already know the table’s rigged.
I do my makeup again. Not polished — defined. Black liner, pressed lips, high contour to catch the light only when I want it to.
No perfume.
Drazen doesn’t get that part of me.
Not tonight.
When I slide the dagger-toed heels on and check the mirror again, the woman staring back doesn’t ask who she is anymore.
She already knows.
She’s the answer to a question no one was brave enough to voice.
The entrance to the upper lounge has no sign.
Just a narrow staircase tucked behind the velvet partition near the private booths. Most people don’t even know it exists.
Drazen’s men don’t search me. They don’t speak. They lead me to a door at the end of a narrow hall lined with red velvet and closed cameras.
Inside, Drazen is alone. There are no guards, no ledger of demands; there’s just a bottle of whiskey and two untouched glasses.
For a moment, I don’t understand.
“This isn’t a deal,” he says, gesturing at the chair across from him. “It’s a pause. Even storms need an eye.”