Page 131 of Fractured Allegiance
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.
