Page 132 of Fractured Allegiance
Satin. Open back. High neckline—too much skin for this kind of meeting.
Sheer panels, high slit—too overtly sexual.
Fitted. High neck. Long sleeves. Structured but not severe.
I take the third one and head to the changing room without waiting for his approval.
Inside, I strip fast.
The mirror isn’t flattering — intentionally. It’s lit from overhead, so everything looks severe. That’s the point. This room was built to make women question whether they’re beautiful enough to survive the next interaction.
I zip the dress, adjust my hair, keep my makeup minimal.
When I step back out, Drazen is finishing his drink.
He glances at me, nods once. "Good."
"So who's the guest?" I ask.
He sets his glass down. "Garrett Ravik. Mid-level player. Enough connections to be useful, not enough backbone to be dangerous."
Standard profile. I've handled this kind of meeting dozens of times.
"What's the angle?"
"He's been asking questions. About the operation. About who does what." Drazen's tone is casual, but I catch the edge underneath. "I want to know if he's fishing for himself or if someone's pulling his strings."
That's slightly different. Usually, I'm there to deliver a message or soften someone up for negotiation. This is more about reading him—figuring out what he knows and who he's working for.
"You want me to feel him out."
"Exactly." Drazen steps closer, adjusts the collar of my dress with the same clinical precision he uses for everything. "Charm him. Make him comfortable. Then see what he gives up when he thinks he's winning."
I've done this before. Dozens of times. It's not glamorous—it's work. Psychological warfare dressed up as conversation.
"And if he already knows who I am?"
"Then we'll know how deep he's been digging." Drazen's eyes narrow slightly. "Which tells me everything I need to know about his intentions."
Fair enough.
"Anything else I should know?"
"He thinks he's smarter than he is. Use that." He steps back, satisfied. "You know how this works."
I do.
"Let's get this over with."
He smiles—not warmly, just the practiced expression of a man who's already three steps ahead.
Then he turns toward the door, and I follow.
The club’s lower floor is quieter than usual. That’s how you know something real is happening.
No girls on poles. No curated chaos. No soundtrack to soften the sound of deals being made.
Drazen walks ahead, flanked by two men I haven’t seen before. They don’t speak, which means they’re not here for diplomacy. They’re here to carry whatever needs to vanish.
