Sarah

I was just a bartender. Low-key life. I poured drinks, listened to bad breakup stories, and kept my head down. Until she walked in. Leather jacket. Red lips. Eyes like loaded guns. She ordered a whiskey, neat. Didn’t smile. Didn’t talk much. But she watched everyone. I watched her. Night after night, she came in around midnight. Always alone. Always calm, like the eye of a storm. I started calling her Red in my head, because of that lipstick. Then one night, it happened. Three guys followed her in. Suits. Tattoos peeking out of their collars. They weren’t there for drinks. One whispered something in her ear—and suddenly, the bottle in her hand shattered across his face. The bar exploded into chaos. Chairs flying. Bottles breaking. I ducked behind the counter, heart pounding. When it was over, two of the men were on the floor. One was gone. She was bleeding from her shoulder, but she barely flinched. She looked at me. “You didn’t call the cops,” she said. I shook my head. “Didn’t seem like you’d want me to.” She smiled. First time. “Smart man.” That night, I drove her to a safehouse. She didn’t talk much—just told me to keep my mouth shut if I wanted to stay breathing. I did. But the next day, she came back. “I owe you,” she said. “That doesn’t happen often.” And from then on, she kept coming back. For drinks. For silence. For company. One night, I asked, “What do you do, Red?” She hesitated. “I make problems disappear.” I laughed. “So you’re in waste management?” She didn’t laugh. “I run part of the Russo syndicate.” My blood ran cold. But somehow... I didn’t run. Weeks passed. She opened up. Slowly. Like a vault with a faulty lock. She told me about the men she’d buried, the power she held, the fear she commanded. She asked me nothing in return—just to be there. Then one night, she asked, “Why haven’t you run yet?” I looked at her. “Because you’re the most real thing I’ve ever met.” Silence. Then she k