BURY

RED

I didn't want to wear red.

I stared at the dress hanging on my closet door. Agatha had left it there at 7 AM with a note in perfect handwriting:

_Mr. Valentino requests red. 8 PM. Dining room. Don't be late. - A_

It was not a dress. It was a weapon. Long, blood-red, silk, slit up to the thigh, backless. The tag said $4,800. More than my rent for six months. Maya would have whistled and said "b***h, you better wear that to rob a bank."

Maya was dead because of the men I was about to have dinner with.

I put it on.

My scar on my left knee - from foster house #2 - showed through the slit. My pistol wouldn't fit anywhere. So I put the small knife Agatha left with the dress - "for the steak," she said - into my bra strap. Old foster habit.

At 7:59 PM, I walked downstairs.

Damon was already at the table. Black suit, black shirt, no tie again. Hair slicked back, wet. He had a cut on his knuckle from last night. When he saw me, he stopped mid-sip of whiskey.

Slowly, he put the glass down.

"Red," he said quietly.

"You said to wear it."

"I said you look good in red when you're angry. You look..." He paused, jaw tight. "Dangerous."

"Good. I feel dangerous."

The double doors opened. Marco walked in, same red tie as the funeral, smile too white, nose still slightly swollen from Damon's foot.

His eyes landed on me and stuck.

"Wow. Cousin, you didn't tell me your assistant was..."

"She is not your concern," Damon cut him, voice ice.

Marco pulled out the chair next to me. Not across. Next to me. Damon watched every inch of movement.

Dinner was served. Steak. Rare. Bloody in the middle.

I couldn't eat.

Marco talked. About money, about clubs, about how Maya was "such a sweet girl, so emotional, you know how girls get when they don't understand numbers."

My knife hand tightened.

"She understood numbers better than you," I said.

Marco smiled at me. "Did she tell you that? In your little foster sister talks?"

"She wrote it. In red pen. HE IS STEALING FROM YOU. IT'S M."

The table went silent.

Damon didn't look surprised. He just swirled his whiskey and watched Marco's face.

Marco's smile didn't break, but his eyes went flat.

"Be careful, Lena. People who read other people's handwriting tend to get their own hands dirty."

Under the table, something brushed my knee.

His hand.

I froze.

It wasn't a mistake. It was intentional, fingers spreading over my bare knee through the slit of my dress, squeezing slightly, a warning disguised as a touch.

I looked at Damon. He hadn't seen. He was looking at his glass.

I could have screamed. In my old life, I would have screamed.

In this life, I picked up the steak knife from my bra strap.

And I stabbed it - not into his hand, into the table - one inch from his fingers, straight through the white tablecloth into the wood.

_Thud._

Both men looked.

My hand was shaking, but the knife stood straight up, pinning the tablecloth.

"Don't touch me again," I said to Marco, loud enough for the whole house to hear. "Ever."

Marco slowly pulled his hand back, eyes wide, then amused.

"She's got claws, cousin. I like it."

Damon stood up so fast his chair fell back.

He didn't yell. He walked around the table, pulled the knife out of the wood like it was butter, and placed it neatly back next to my plate.

Then he grabbed Marco by the back of his neck, the way you grab a dog that bit someone, and slammed his face down toward the steak.

"She said don't touch her," Damon whispered in his ear, knuckles white. "In my house, when a woman says don't touch, you don't breathe near her."

Marco's face was an inch from the bloody plate. "Damon, the staff—"

"I don't care about staff. Agatha!"

Agatha appeared in the doorway, like she had been waiting.

"Mr. Valentino?"

"Mr. Marco Valentino is leaving. He will not be invited to dinner again until Day 90. When Lena decides if he eats or not."

Marco was yanked up, face red, tie crooked. He looked at me with pure hate now, no more fake smile.

"You think he will protect you for ninety days? He couldn't protect Maya. He watched her—"

Damon punched him. Once. Clean. In the mouth. Marco spat blood onto the white marble.

"Get him out."

Two guards appeared from nowhere and dragged Marco out. The doors slammed.

Silence.

I was breathing hard. The red dress felt too tight now, too hot.

Damon picked up his fallen chair and sat back down across from me, straightening his cuffs like nothing happened. Blood from Marco was on his knuckle again.

"You stabbed my table," he said.

"He touched my knee."

"I know. I saw it in the reflection of my glass."

He saw it. He had been watching the whole time in the glass.

"Why didn't you stop him immediately?"

"Because I wanted to see what you would do. Whether you would scream, or run, or—" He looked at the knife. "Stab."

"And if I had done nothing?"

"Then I would have cut his hand off. But you didn't do nothing. That's why you're still here."

He pushed a small black velvet box across the table toward me.

"What's this?"

"Your tip. For Day one."

I opened it. Inside was a silver necklace. A tiny dagger. With a single red ruby at the tip.

"Maya had one just like it," I whispered.

"I know. I gave it to her. Now I'm giving you yours. So you don't have to hide knives in your bra."

My throat closed up.

"You gave Maya a dagger necklace?"

"I give dangerous girls sharp things. So they remember they are dangerous too."

He stood up and walked to me, stopped a foot away, hands in pockets, not touching.

"Go upstairs, Lena. Take off the red dress. You did your job. Day one is over."

I stood up, legs shaky. As I passed him, he caught my wrist - gently this time, not like at the funeral, not like Marco.

"Lena."

I looked up.

"Tomorrow, you start working for real. My office. 9 AM. You will see every file Marco doesn't want you to see."

"Why are you trusting me with that?"

"Because you stabbed a table to protect your own knee. Maya never did that. She let people touch what wasn't theirs."

He let go.

I walked upstairs in the red dress, ruby dagger in my fist, listening to his footsteps behind me - not following, just making sure I got to my door.

At my door, I turned. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs, watching.

"Goodnight, Mr. Valentino."

"Goodnight, Lena Cruz."

I closed my door and locked it. This time I didn't need the chair.

Downstairs, I heard a glass shatter. Damon's.

And a low voice, talking on the phone: "It's started. She wore red. Marco touched her. Yes, I'm sure. She is the one."

He was talking about me.