Page 10 of Fractured Allegiance
I nod like it makes sense.
And maybe it does.
Maybe this is nothing.
Maybe it’s not the man from last night.
Maybe it is.
I close the folder slowly, my fingers suddenly cold against the paper. The weight of his name sits heavy in my hands, and for a moment I can't tell if what I'm feeling is dread or something far more dangerous—anticipation laced with the edge of fear. Because if this is him, then nothing about last night was coincidence. And I've learned the hard way that coincidences in this world are just lies waiting to unfold.
“Address?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.
Dom taps the corner of the folder. “Back page.”
I don't look at it just yet. I just hold the folder in my lap like it might detonate if I open it again, his name burning through the cover and into my palms.
Dom watches me longer than he needs to, and I can't tell if he sees it or not.
I stand.
“I’ll handle it.”
“I know you will.”
His voice follows me as I leave.
Always polite.
Always lethal.
The building isn’t a front.
That’s the first surprise.
It’s not some shady halfway point between legal and illegal. It’s an actual logistics firm. Mid-size. On paper, thriving. In person, boring.
Which makes me more suspicious, not less.
Everything about the outside says nothing to see here. Neutral signage. Open blinds. A few clean-looking delivery trucks with a corporate logo that doesn’t try too hard. Workers moving inside with coffee cups and clipboards and tired shoes.
Normal.
Which is never normal.
People like Drazen don’t waste time on small businesses unless something’s humming under the floorboards.
I park one street over and walk the rest of the way, calm and confident. I’m in my fitted blazer. Silk blouse. Boots that don’t announce me. My hair’s still pinned. I wear scent today, but only at the wrists. Jasmine and smoldering oud.
Enough to linger.
The man at the front desk barely looks up when I enter. He’s too busy watching a YouTube video on his phone, pretending to check stock numbers.
“I’m here for Silas Ward,” I say.
He looks up then, blinks twice, and offers a shrug that gives away nothing.
“Back office. Right hallway. The door's open.”
