Page 232 of Fractured Allegiance
The door shuts. I’m left alone in the hall, the silence pressing down again, heavier this time.
When I finally crawl into bed, I know one thing with a clarity that cuts deeper than Drazen ever could:
This isn’t about survival anymore. Not if I don’t want it to be.
It’s about who I’ll burn for when the fire comes.
Chapter 28 – Silas - Blood in the Walls
The safehouse feels impossibly smaller today. Like it shrinks a little bit more, every hour on the hour.
Elias sits at the head of the table like it’s his throne, one boot propped against the rung, a pen rolling between his fingers. Lydia is beside him, a file spread open, hair pulled back so the line of her neck is exposed. She doesn’t look tired, but I see the strain in her shoulders and the subtle tremor when she flips a page.
And across from me: the three men Elias brought in.
Jax, the big one, comes with a scar that runs from brow to jaw, as if someone tried to map his history with a knife. Ren leans back with a discomfiting nonchalance, especially when its paired with his restless eyes, constantly flitting—door, window, Lydia, table—with the twitch of a man who slept in the clothes he sits in now.
Then there’s Jori. He’s smaller than the other two, thin in ways that look wrong for a man who’s been paid to hurt people. Like he couldn’t possibly be as dangerous as Elias believes. Jori keeps his hands folded and to himself, his only movement the way his fingers keep worrying the hem of his jacket. He smiles too quickly, his sweet boyish smile, when Elias speaks.
His eyes slide past me for a second longer than necessary.
I make a note of that.
These are Elias’s “loyalists.”
I let my gaze drag over them one more time before speaking. “This is the best you can do?” I bait him, letting the words hang like a challenge.
Jax bristles, Ren shifts, but Elias doesn’t even blink. “They’ve bled for me.”
I snort, leaning back, stretching my legs under the table. “Dogs bleed too. Doesn’t mean I hand them a gun.”
Jax glares. Ren’s jaw tightens. Jori half-laughs, too soft, the sound of a man practicing a courage he doesn’t feel.
Lydia’s gaze lifts from the file, the look I’ve come to learn means Stop. She doesn’t have to say it out loud. The glance in itself is a command.
Elias props his mug on the table, watches me over the rim. “You don’t have to like them. You just have to accept that they’re here. Drazen’s moving, and I’m not risking the three of us doing this alone.”
My teeth grind together. “More bodies doesn’t mean more safety. It just means more mouths to cut open when Drazen starts asking questions.”
The pen twirls once more between Elias’s fingers, then stills. He leans back again, looking too damn comfortable. “Paranoia doesn’t win wars, Ward. Men do.”
I don’t rise to it. I sip my coffee, bitter enough to strip the edges off my tongue, and I watch them. Every twitch, every blink, every too-easy smile is a line in a ledger I’m keeping. If Drazen’s already bought teeth in one of these mouths, we’ll find out the hard way.
Lydia snaps the file shut, the sound slicing through the tension. “If you’re done measuring your dicks and comparing, can we talk about Drazen instead of whose paranoia wins medals?”
Elias scowls, but tips his head towards her. “She’s right.”
The maps on the table smell of mildew and printer ink; old blueprints Elias pulled from a locked drawer and annotated until they look like someone’s private bible. Petrov Station sits in the center of our attention, a blocky, windowless thing in theindustrial district. On paper it’s just brick and steel. In practice, it’s a vault, packed with ledgers, payoff lists, and logs of names that can break careers.
Ren leans forward and taps the edge of the blueprint with a bitten-down fingernail. “If Drazen’s tightening his leash, that’s where he’ll do it. He’s got leverage stored there. Judges. Cops. Politicians.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Big claim for someone who can’t sit still for thirty seconds.”
Ren stiffens. Elias cuts in before Ren can mouth off. “He’s right. Petrov’s the archive. If we want to cut him open, that’s where we slice.”
“Cutting his throat requires surviving long enough to get there,” I say, pinning Elias with my gaze. “And with these clowns in the room, we’ll never make it past the gate.”
Jax slams his fist on the table hard enough to rattle mugs and send ash skittering. “Say that again, Fed.”
