Page 2 of Fractured Allegiance
For a second, it’s quiet. I lower the weapon and walk toward the sink basin bolted to the wall. The water’s murky, probably always has been, but I use it anyway. Wash the blood from my hands, let the water turn rust-brown and swirl down the cracked drain.
Footsteps approach with a steady, deliberate rhythm, confident and unhurried.
Drazen.
He doesn’t speak right away. He just lights a cigarette like this is a cocktail party and not a corpse-stained dock warehouse.
“Do you ever flinch, Silas?”
“Only when amateurs start monologuing.”
He chuckles. A low, hollow sound. He likes that. He likes men who don’t shake. Men who kill without asking why. He thinks that’s what I am.
He walks toward the bodies. The one I shot first is leaking across the concrete in a wide, lazy smear.
Drazen stares at it for a moment. Then turns.
“Leave ‘em. The message needs to linger.”
I nod, already sliding the gun back into my jacket holster. He takes another drag, studies me through the smoke like he’s still trying to see the stitchwork beneath the mask.
“You handled it clean,” he says.
I meet his eyes. “Of course I did.”
There’s a pause. Not long. But heavy.
“I still don’t trust you,” he says.
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”
He nods once. Looks at me like I’ve just passed a test I didn’t know had a second layer.
“Dom said you frequent his club,” he says. “Is that true?”
“I like the noise. Keeps things quiet upstairs.”
He laughs again. Louder, this time. Like he’s found a man he understands.
“Go get yourself a drink,” he says. “Night like this, blood needs rinsing.”
I say nothing. Just walk past him, the scent of gunpowder and regret still clinging to my skin.
Behind me, Drazen turns back toward the mezzanine. Below him, two men lie still on the concrete. No more begging. No more second chances.
There’s just a trail of blood that says He belongs to us now.
But I don’t.
Not really.
Not ever.
And the moment I feel someone truly watching me, the kind of gaze that peels your skin back, I know: this night isn’t over. Neither is the mask I’m wearing.
I breathe through my nose and reach for the cloth I brought in my jacket. I use it to wipe the grip of my gun. Check the cartridge. Every movement is measured, necessary, and perfectly rehearsed. If I stop, I’ll start thinking. And thinking’s a luxury I can’t afford… not when my soul’s on someone else’s payroll.
I take a step toward the exit—and freeze.
