Three: The Price of Escape

Lillium Roosevelt 

“Lu,” Dominus said, his tone darkening. It wasn’t a request. It was a command, laced with a threat so potent it made my bones ache. "I said run."

Something in me snapped. I turned on my heel and bolted—down the sidewalk, past the rusted fence, across the wet asphalt that shimmered under the streetlights. I didn’t care that he and his men watched me flee. I didn’t care that it made me look weak. I just ran. I could practically feel Dominus’s eyes boring into my back, the weight of his disappointment, or maybe it was anger, a heavy cloak around my shoulders. about him.

Each step echoed in my ears like gunshots, my breath clouding in the freezing air. I didn’t stop until I was blocks away, lungs burning, the weight of his voice still coiled around my spine.

I stumbled into a side street, leaned against a cold brick wall, and doubled over, trying to steady my breath. My hands were still trembling. The lunch box Tom gave me was crushed against my chest, the warmth from it long gone. 

Suddenly, I heard footsteps—fast, heavy—coming from the mouth of the alley behind me. Voices, too. Sharp. Urgent. Dominus’s men. I should have known he wouldn’t let me go so easily. He never did.

Panic surged through me again. Without thinking, I sprinted forward, weaving through trash bins and crates, my shoes slapping against the wet concrete. My breath came in short, desperate bursts as I kept glancing over my shoulder. They were still there—three of them—dark silhouettes gaining on me. They moved with a terrifying, coordinated efficiency.

Shit, they’re fast. I'd underestimated them. Underestimated Dominus. Again.

I turned sharply into another street, nearly losing my balance, when a black, sleek car screeched to a halt just ahead. Its tires hissed against the pavement, sending a spray of dirty water across the sidewalk. The passenger-side door flew open, and a man in a dark suit leaned across the seat.

“Get in!” he barked, voice urgent and sharp.

I froze. Confused. He was a stranger—clean-cut, late-20s, blonde, face unreadable, but sharp-eyed and alert. He looked like he’d stepped out of a movie, his tailored suit a stark contrast to the gritty reality of the alleyway.

“Now!” he repeated, more forceful this time. He glanced over his shoulder, then back at me, his brow furrowed with impatience. “We don’t have time for this.”

My mind raced. Who was he? Was this some kind of trap? Was he working for Dominus? But something in his eyes, a flicker of genuine urgency, told me this wasn’t a setup. This felt… different. Desperate.

Behind me, the silhouettes of Dominus’s men were getting closer, their footsteps pounding on the pavement. They were less than twenty feet away now.

Hesitation was a luxury I couldn't afford. I made a split-second decision, fueled by adrenaline and a desperate hope that this stranger was my only chance. I lunged forward, diving into the car, crumpling onto the leather seat. Before I could even close the door, the driver slammed his foot on the accelerator, and the car roared to life, screeching away from the curb.

For a moment, all I could hear was my own breathing—shaky, erratic. The adrenaline still coursed through me, a bitter taste in the back of my throat. Dominus' men had vanished behind us, swallowed by the labyrinthine streets of the city. Inside this car, though, the air wasn’t much easier to breathe.

The man’s grip on the steering wheel was firm, his expression unreadable. His eyes, the color of wet asphalt, were fixed on the road ahead, focused and unwavering. 

“Why were they chasing you?” he asked, his tone calm but edged with something harder. His eyes didn’t leave the road. It wasn’t polite curiosity; it was an assessment.

I swallowed, chest still rising and falling. “Those men… they work for Dominus Vane.” Just saying his name sent a fresh wave of fear prickling across my skin.

That got his attention. His jaw tightened just slightly. The change was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

“Dominus Vane,” he repeated, like confirming a bad suspicion. “You in business with him?”

I hesitated. The truth felt like acid on my tongue, but I knew I couldn’t lie, not now. “No. Not exactly.”

He glanced at me for a second before turning his eyes back to the road. “Not exactly usually means yes.” The corner of his mouth twitched, a hint of sardonic amusement.

“I owe him something,” I admitted, the words scraping against my throat. “Something big.”

The man didn’t say anything right away. The silence stretched, heavy and charged, punctuated only by the hum of the engine and the whoosh of passing cars. I could feel his gaze on me, even though he wasn't looking. He was a predator, too, of a different kind: gauging my weaknesses, weighing the risk of his involvement.

“He’s collecting now,” I added quietly. “He’s done waiting.” The words hung in the air between us, thick with dread.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, not quite a sigh—more like frustration. “Typical,” he muttered. “He always goes after people with their backs against the wall.”

I looked at him, brow furrowed. “You know him?” The question stumbled out, a desperate hope clinging to it.

His grip on the wheel tightened just enough to make the leather creak. His knuckles were white. “I’ve crossed paths with him. Too many times.”

There was something in his voice—something personal, something wounded. It wasn’t just an acquaintance; it was a history.

“Then why did you help me?” I asked cautiously, suddenly hesitant. Was I safe with him, or just trading one danger for another?

He didn’t answer immediately. He drove in silence for another few minutes, the moonlight casting long, dramatic shadows across his face.

“Because you looked like you were about to be eaten alive,” he said flatly, finally. “And I don’t like the way Dominus feeds.” An awkward silence enveloped us.

“My name’s Conrad,” he said, his voice a low. “I knew someone who used to work in the same circles. He got out. Mostly.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, scrutinizing me like a pawn on a chessboard. "But if Dominus is after you, then you’ve got more than just debt hanging over your head." The words hung in the greasy air, thick with unspoken implications. "I can help you," he said. "But only if you’re willing to do the work."

I shifted in my seat, uneasy. "You can?" I asked, eyes flicking toward him, laced with disbelief—but also a fragile thread of hope, desperately clinging to the edge of the abyss.

Conrad glanced at me, then nodded, a single, decisive movement. "Yes. I can pull you out of this mess."

I leaned forward slightly,"how? What do I have to do?"

He paused. The silence stretched long enough to make my heart stutter, each beat a painful reminder of the consequences that awaited me if I failed. "I don't think this is the right time to talk about it," he said at last, his tone unreadable, a carefully constructed mask. "Not while your hands are still shaking."

"No,” I pressed, ignoring the tremor that ran through me. "I need to know. I need something—anything—that gets me out of this. Please." I had nothing left to lose, no dignity to protect. Dominus had seen to that.

He looked at me again. Really looked. And what I saw in his eyes wasn’t cruelty, or even apathy. It was calculation, cold and precise. Regret, maybe. Or something close to it, a ghost of a feeling buried beneath layers of hardened experience.

“Have you heard of Elysium Club,” he said finally, his voice dropping even lower, almost a whisper. “I owned that place and we cater to clients with… expensive tastes.”

I blinked. His words landed like a slap, jarring me back to the reality of my desperate situation. The passing car lights seemed to flicker, and the background noise intensified, a cacophony of sound against the sudden, stark silence in my own head. “You want me to sell myself?” I asked, my voice low and raspy, the question feeling like a jagged piece of glass scraping its way up my throat.

He didn’t flinch. His gaze remained steady, unwavering. “I want you to survive. You said it yourself—you’re alone, broke, and Dominus is closing in. You’ve got days. No time to flip fortunes the clean way.”

I looked away, unable to meet his eyes. The weight of it crushed into me, the stark, brutal reality of my options. It wasn’t just debt anymore.

"Don't look at it like that," he said softly, his voice a low rumble that was almost soothing in the oppressive atmosphere. "Think of it as taking control. You set the limits. The clients are screened. Protected. One night could pay off a chunk of what you owe him. Two could clear your name. If you get lucky, you might be chosen by one of my VIP clients who pays millions just for a night."

His words painted a picture of gilded cages and calculated risks, a world where my body becomes a currency just to pay off a dept.

"And what about the rest of me?" I muttered, voice hoarse. "What do I lose in the process?"

The city lights blurred past, painting streaks of gold and crimson across his stark features. He sighed, a sound that spoke of weary experience, and ran a hand through his dark hair, the gesture oddly humanizing. "I won’t lie to you. It’s not easy. But neither is being hunted by a man like Dominus. But still, the decision is still up to you."

For a long moment, I said nothing. I stared down at my lap, my hands clenched into fists, the weight of everything pressing against my ribs like a vice. The shame of what I was considering, the fear of what Dominus would do if he found me, the desperation to escape this suffocating existence – it all warred within me.

Then finally, I looked up at him—at Conrad. I hadn’t even realized he’d told me his name. Or maybe I had, and my mind had been too busy unraveling. He had sharp features, an almost aristocratic air, but his eyes were surprisingly kind, filled with an unnerving awareness.

"I'll think about it," I murmured, voice rough around the edges. The words felt hollow, a pathetic attempt to buy myself some breathing room.

He gave me a quick glance, his gaze unwavering, then nodded. "Good. That's all I ask. Just… don’t wait too long."

There was no pressure in his tone—just that same measured patience, like someone who'd seen this kind of crossroads too many times before. He understood the agonizing calculus, the slow dismantling of one's self in the face of impossible choices.

He leaned back slightly in his seat and gave me a quick glance. “Where do you live? I’ll drop you off.”

I hesitated. There was a small voice inside me that didn’t want him knowing, that didn’t want anyone this close to the mess I called home. It was a fragile piece of myself I was trying to protect, a kernel of dignity. But then I remembered the shadows in the alley, the look on Dominus’s face, the weight of his hand against my skin. I swallowed the pride. Survival trumped everything.

“South Bronx,” I said quietly. “Near Prospect Avenue. Third walk-up past that busted bodega with the flickering sign.”

Conrad arched a brow. “That’s rough territory, even for New York.”

“Yeah,” I said, trying to laugh, but it came out dry. “It’s home, though.”

He didn’t push, didn’t offer any patronizing platitudes about escaping or the virtues of a better neighborhood. He just nodded, his eyes, usually so sharp and assessing, softening a fraction. He understood the unspoken truth: home, no matter how broken, was still home.

As we drove, the silence between us was thick, but not awkward. Just… full. Full of things left unsaid. Full of the high-stakes game we’d been dancing around all evening, full of the sharp sting of potential and the bitter taste of fear. Full of everything that led me, a man scraping by in the forgotten corners of the city, to be sitting in the passenger seat of his impeccably clean car.

A few minutes later, we pulled up to the curb outside my building. The air reeked of stale garbage and exhaust fumes. I could see the flicker of my apartment light through the window, a pathetic beacon in the urban darkness. Home, if you could call it that. A cramped, roach-infested studio I shared with dreams too big for its four walls.

Conrad kept the engine running, the low rumble a stark contrast to the rhythmic thump of whatever bass-heavy song was blasting from the bodega. He pulled out a small, crimson card. “Here’s my card,” he said, handing it to me. The name ‘Conrad Sterling’ was embossed in elegant gold lettering. “Call me if you make up your mind.”

The card felt heavy in my hand, a physical representation of the weight of the decision I faced. It was a lifeline, or maybe a noose. I wasn’t sure which yet. I nodded, clutching the door handle. “Thanks… for earlier.” For pulling me out of that alley, for intervening before things got any uglier. For the almost unbelievable proposition that followed.

He gave a small, tired smile. It didn't reach his eyes. “Don’t thank me yet." There was a world of warning behind those three words.

I stepped out, the cold biting at my face again. It always felt colder here, closer to the ground. I turned to shut the door, but paused. “Hey, Conrad.”

He looked over, his expression carefully neutral, his posture radiating an almost tangible aura of power.

“If I say yes… do I lose who I am?” The question hung in the frigid air, vulnerable and raw. It was the crux of my fear, the reason I’d hesitated all evening, despite the obvious advantages of his offer. I’d built a life here, brick by painful brick. It was a life of struggle, of grit and resilience, but it was mine.

His face didn’t change, but his voice was soft, almost unexpectedly so, when he answered. “No. But you might finally see who you’re capable of becoming.”

And with that, he drove off, the taillights disappearing into the grimy cityscape, leaving me in the quiet flicker of a busted streetlamp, standing alone with a decision that could change everything.

The red card burned in my palm, a silent promise of a future beyond the confines of the South Bronx. A future where I might finally escape the limitations of my birth, but at what cost? The question echoed in the empty street, unanswered, as I turned and walked toward the flickering light of my apartment, toward the uncertain future that awaited me behind its peeling paint and broken windows.