Page 76 of Fractured Allegiance
"Maybe." He leaned back, fingers steepled. "But how long would it take you to prove that? Six months? A year? Two?" His smile was cold. "And that's if you're lucky enough to get a jury that cares about the truth instead of the narrative."
He was right, and we both knew it.
By the time I cleared my name—if I cleared my name—my reputation would be destroyed. Every connection I'd built, every client who trusted me, every shred of credibility I'd earned would be gone. I'd be radioactive. Cancelled. A cautionary tale about the fixer who got too bold and paid for it.
Or I'd be locked up, fighting from behind bars while the world moved on without me.
"You won't use this," I said, voice flat.
"Of course not." He closed the folder gently, almost reverently. "As long as you remember that I could."
That's when I understood. Drazen's kindness is just another form of ownership—he gives you just enough freedom to forget you're in a cage, then reminds you the door was locked all along.
And now he's doing it again.
We don't talk about business. We don't talk about territory disputes or the runner who disappeared last week or the shipment that went sideways at the docks. Instead, he asks about music—what I've been listening to lately, whether I still favour that jazz quartet that plays at the club on Thursdays.
About the club's new lighting setup—whether I think the amber filters are too warm or if they set the right mood for the kind of clientele Dom attracts.
About a restaurant that just opened downtown, whether I've been, whether I'd recommend the duck or the steak.
Trivia. Small talk. The kind of conversation normal people have over drinks.
Except we're not normal people, and nothing Drazen says is small.
Each question is a probe, a way of taking my temperature without asking directly. He's reading my answers, my hesitations. Cataloguing my mood, my stress levels, whether I'm fraying at the edges or still holding the seams together.
He wants to know if I'm stable. Reliable. Still useful.
Or if I'm becoming a liability he needs to manage differently.
It's intimate in the worst way—not because he cares, but because he's assessing his investment. Making sure the asset is still performing at optimal levels. Checking for cracks before they become breaks that might cost him something.
I answer carefully. Not too eager, not too distant. Just present enough to seem compliant, detached enough to maintain the illusion that I still belong to myself.
But the whole time, my pulse is a drumbeat in my throat, and I hate that he can probably see it.
I hate that he knows exactly what he's doing—that this casual conversation is another way of keeping me off-balance. That tomorrow, or next week, he'll reference something I said tonight as proof that he knows me. That he's paying attention. That I matter to him.
When really, I'm just inventory being checked for quality control.
Twenty minutes crawl by like hours.
The whiskey sits untouched between us, a prop in a play I never auditioned for but somehow got cast in anyway.
Finally, I stand. "Is that all?"
He smiles briefly, the expression not reaching his eyes. There's something almost amused in the way he looks at me, like I've confirmed something he already suspected.
"For tonight."
The unspoken part hangs in the air between us, heavy and unmistakable: But I'll call when I need you again, and you'll come, because we both know you don't have a choice.
I turn toward the door, feeling his gaze track me like a predator watching prey walk away—not because it's escaped, but because he's decided to let it run a little longer before he strikes.
My hand is on the door handle when he speaks again.
"Lydia."
