Chapter 15 – Lydia - No One Is Coming
It’s just past six in the morning. The sun hasn’t made it past the buildings yet. Shadows still rule the corners.
I lean against the arm of the couch. My legs feel like they’ve been walking toward the edge of a cliff all night. Still in the same, stale-feeling clothes from last night, I haven’t showered or slept. I couldn’t.
The burner phone he gave me is warm in my palm.
I’ve been holding it too long. The screen is blank, with no missed messages or hope-inspiring dots of response-in-transit to cling to.
Nothing since he walked out of here, nothing since I let him press his body against mine and kiss me like I was the last sin he’d ever get away with.
He left me undone. On purpose, I think.
Left before I could decide what kind of mistake it was.
He took his heat with him, but the ache stayed.
It's not just physical anymore.
It's about trust.
It’s about the way he looked at me right before the call came in. Like someone just ripped a curtain back and showed him the cliff he’s been pretending we aren’t dancing on. His departure was swift, after that.
Since then, there’s been nothing but stifling silence.
Frustration roars in my belly as I toss the burner onto the coffee table and make myself get up. I may not want to, but there’s nothing to be accomplished by being a sitting target.
I don’t like how aware I’ve become of every window. Every shadow. Every reflection that doesn’t move when I do.
I cross to the kitchen and pour water I don’t want. My hands are steady, but only because I’m forcing them to be. On the counter, the paper from the envelope is still lying flat.
You don’t belong to him.
I've read it enough times. What I need now isn't another pass—it's information.
And sitting here waiting for Silas to respond isn't going to get me that.
I pick up my regular phone—not the burner—and scroll to a contact I haven't used in over a year.
Kev. Low-level surveillance, former military, knows how to watch without being seen.
Back when I worked with Elias, Kev was one of the few people I trusted to handle jobs that required discretion over muscle. Clean work. No questions.
I haven't called him since Elias's hit pause.
I text: Need eyes on my building. Front and service entrance. Anyone watching who shouldn't be. 48 hours. Double your old rate.
The response takes longer than I expect. Then: Lydia. Thought you went dark. Still got my number after all this time?
Still got it. You available?
Three dots. Then: For you? Yeah. When do you need me?
Now. Here’s the address: 1847 Ashford Street, building 3. My unit is 2B.
On it. Same drop for payment?
Same drop.
I set the phone down.
Kev won't ask questions. He never did. That's why Elias kept him on retainer for years. If someone's tracking me closely enough to deliver that note, they'll come back. Or they're already watching. Either way, Kev will spot them.
I look at the note again.
Whoever wrote it knows about Drazen. Knows I'm tied to him. And they're making a move—whether to warn me, claim me, or destabilize things, I don't know yet.
But I'm not waiting around to find out.
I grab my laptop—the personal one, not the one Drazen knows about—and my phone. Slip the knife into my jacket lining out of habit, then lock the apartment behind me.
I'm not going anywhere near the club. Not going to any of Drazen's properties. I need space to think, and I need internet access that can't be traced back to me.
Twenty minutes later, I'm settled in a corner booth at a coffee shop three neighborhoods over. The kind of place that caters to freelancers and students—busy enough that no one pays attention to anyone else, but not so loud I can't think.
I order black coffee and open the laptop.
Start with what I can verify.
Silas Ward.
I pull up search engines and start with the basics. Social media, public records, anything that gives me a sense of who he is outside of what he's told me.
There's a LinkedIn profile. Silas Ward, logistics and supply chain management. Based in Miramont. The profile is clean but sparse—generic job description, no recommendations, minimal connections. The kind of online presence someone builds when they need one but don't actually use it.
I dig further. Public records show an address registered to his name—an apartment on the east side. Utilities in his name. A vehicle registration. Everything checks out on paper.
But there's something off about how clean it all is.
No social media activity beyond the bare minimum. No tagged photos. No digital footprint beyond the essentials. For someone his age, that's unusual. Most people leave traces everywhere—posts, comments, check-ins, interactions.
He doesn't.
Either he's intensely private, or this identity was built to look legitimate without being used.
I screenshot the details and move on.
After what seem like forever, I lean back, staring at the screen.
Hours of searching, and I still don't have answers.
I still don't know who sent the note. Still don't know what they want. I can't tell if this connects to Drazen's tightening security, or if it's about Silas, or if it's something else entirely.
All I have are fragments—Silas's too-clean identity, nervous chatter on encrypted forums, dead associates and missing players in Drazen's network.
I close the laptop and finish my coffee, staring out the window at the street beyond.
None of it connects cleanly. But all of it feels like pieces of the same puzzle.
I just don't have enough of them yet to see the picture.
I pull out my phone and check for messages.
Still nothing from Silas.
I text Kev: Anything yet?
His response: Quiet so far. One guy lingered near the service entrance for a few minutes around noon, but moved on. Could be nothing. I'll keep watching.
Keep me posted.
Will do.
I pocket the phone, gather my things, and leave the coffee shop.
For now, I keep moving. Keep watching.
And wait for the next piece to fall.
My phone buzzes as I'm halfway back to my apartment.
A text from an unknown number, but I recognize the pattern. Drazen's rotating contact system.
Tonight. 9 PM. Usual place.
No context. No explanation.
Just a summons.
I check the time. Four hours.
Enough time to go home, change, and prepare myself for whatever this is.
I quicken my pace.
By the time I reach my apartment, the sun is starting to dip below the buildings, casting long shadows across the street.
I unlock the door, step inside, and lock it behind me.
Drazen's meetings are never casual. Appearance matters. Control matters. Showing up looking anything less than composed is a mistake.
I pull out a black silk blouse—tailored, professional, just expensive enough to signal I'm not struggling. Dark jeans that fit well without being too deliberate. Low heels that I can move in if I need to.
I change quickly, check myself in the mirror. Hair down, minimal makeup. Not trying too hard, but not careless either.
The knife goes into the lining of my coat. The burner phone stays in my bag.
I grab my keys and head for the door.
Whatever Drazen wants tonight, I'll handle it.
I always do.
The club is dressed for illusion.
That’s what Dom calls it when the staff wear more velvet than armor, and the lights are dipped low enough to hide what’s behind the eyes. Smoke curls in all the corners. The music isn’t loud enough to distract, just persistent enough to numb.
I climb the stairs.
Inside, it’s colder than it should be. Someone replaced the warmth with something polished and antiseptic.
A kind of theatrical menace. There’s a fresh floral arrangement by the reception desk—orchids, not roses—and that alone tells me something’s changed.
Drazen never brings in new flowers unless someone new is watching.
A blonde girl I don’t recognize gives me a once-over and presses the panel to buzz me through.
I don’t bother asking her name.
By the time I reach the third floor, the thud of bass underneath the floorboards is in rhythm with my pulse. Not fast. Just... decisive.
The door is already open.
Drazen's waiting in the inner lounge, leaning one elbow on the back of the sofa. He's wearing dark grey today—no tie, no blazer, just shirt sleeves rolled and collar unbuttoned.
"Lydia," he says, not bothering to pretend he hasn't been watching the cameras.
I nod.
He gestures toward a clothing rack near the window. Three dresses hanging there, all black, all sleeveless, all variations on the same theme.
"Pick one."
This again.
I've done this enough times to know the routine. Drazen likes control, and part of that control is presentation. He doesn't just want me to handle his guests—he wants them to see exactly what he wants them to see. Polished. Untouchable. Dangerous in a way that doesn't announce itself.
I cross to the rack and assess my options without ceremony.
Satin. Open back. High neckline—too much skin for this kind of meeting.
Sheer panels, high slit—too overtly sexual.
Fitted. High neck. Long sleeves. Structured but not severe.
I take the third one and head to the changing room without waiting for his approval.
Inside, I strip fast.
The mirror isn’t flattering — intentionally. It’s lit from overhead, so everything looks severe. That’s the point. This room was built to make women question whether they’re beautiful enough to survive the next interaction.
I zip the dress, adjust my hair, keep my makeup minimal.
When I step back out, Drazen is finishing his drink.
He glances at me, nods once. "Good."
"So who's the guest?" I ask.
He sets his glass down. "Garrett Ravik. Mid-level player. Enough connections to be useful, not enough backbone to be dangerous."
Standard profile. I've handled this kind of meeting dozens of times.
"What's the angle?"
"He's been asking questions. About the operation. About who does what." Drazen's tone is casual, but I catch the edge underneath. "I want to know if he's fishing for himself or if someone's pulling his strings."