Page 41 of Fractured Allegiance
My hand stills.
Naomi moves into my periphery. “You were supposed to bait Drazen. Not cozy up to his prize.”
“I haven’t touched her.”
“Not physically.”
She lets the words hang. Heavy. Intentional.
“She’s not part of your job, Silas.”
“Neither was Dom.”
“Dom got you close. Lydia’s getting you sloppy.”
I finally look at her. “Define sloppy.”
She throws a flash drive onto the table. It bounces once, then spins to a stop near the gun’s frame.
“Surveillance from last night. You followed her home.”
I say nothing.
Naomi steps closer, voice cutting now. “You watched her from a rooftop for two hours. You didn’t gather intel. You didn’t bug her apartment. You didn’t plant a tracker. You watched.”
My teeth grits, but I don’t argue. Because she’s right.
Because I couldn’t move. I stood in the dark with my rifle slung and my hand on the scope, watching Lydia pour herself a drink and pace her loft like she wanted the floor to break open. She kept touching her lips like they tasted wrong. Kept peeling off layers—jewelry, shoes, gloves—like she wanted to claw her own skin off.
She never cried.
That did something to me.
Naomi circles behind me like she’s stalking. “We embedded you for one reason—”
“Leverage Drazen’s inner circle. I remember the mission brief.”
“Then follow it.”
I nod once, more muscle memory than agreement.
Naomi leans in, voice down to a needle. “You don’t get to keep things, Silas. Not her. Not even the idea of her.”
Then she’s gone.
The door clicks shut behind her, and for a full minute, I just sit there staring at the parts of the gun like they might rearrange themselves into answers.
But they don’t.
So, I rebuild.
Each piece locks into place with a sound I can trust.
I leave the safehouse just after midnight.
The city has that washed-out sheen from earlier rain, like its skin’s too thin. Miramont never feels clean. Even the luxury looks borrowed, like a costume worn too long. I walk through it with my collar turned up and my thoughts jammed between two opposing walls: Naomi’s warning and Lydia’s eyes.
I keep thinking about the way she sat in that room. Her expression didn’t flicker, but her whole posture was restraint, pretending to be in control. There’s a difference. I know it because I live it.
