Page 22 of Fractured Allegiance
She knows what room she’s in.
She knows who’s watching.
But she doesn’t know I’m watching.
Not like this.
Not yet.
I pause the feed, lean in, study the frame. Her eyes aren’t looking at anyone. Not even Dom. Not this second.
But I remember when they did look at me.
And that’s when the wire inside my spine pulls tight again.
Because I know I’m supposed to be writing a report.
I should be following money. Finding guns.
Instead, I’m here.
Staring at a woman I’ve only traded a handful of words with, but who's already gotten under my skin in a way I can't quite explain.
Her face lingers. Not just the look, but the absence of one. Like she saw through me without blinking. Like she catalogued the shape of me and deemed it unimportant.
But I saw something else.
Not fear. Not seduction.
Something she hides even from herself.
I fast forward the feed to the present. Look out for her in the live feed.
I want to see that she’s still in the club, then I close it.
I shut the laptop and slide it back into the floorboard.
This isn’t enough.
I need to see how she moves in real space. On real streets. Not through a camera lens padded by distance.
I need to know what kind of woman dares walk alone in a city built to eat people alive.
I pocket the essentials—jacket, Glock, burner phone—and move.
No mask, no wire, just instinct guiding me forward. I lock the door behind me, descend the stairs two at a time.
And head for Dom’s.
Dom’s club smells different on the outside.
Not perfume and champagne and bloodlust wrapped in velvet.
Out here, it smells like diesel, burnt rubber, and something old in the sewer system that no one wants to fix.
I stand half a block down, leaned into the mouth of a dead alley like I’m waiting for a dealer or a fight.
No one notices me.
