Page 129 of Fractured Allegiance
He left me undone. On purpose, I think.
Left before I could decide what kind of mistake it was.
He took his heat with him, but the ache stayed.
It's not just physical anymore.
It's about trust.
It’s about the way he looked at me right before the call came in. Like someone just ripped a curtain back and showed him the cliff he’s been pretending we aren’t dancing on. His departure was swift, after that.
Since then, there’s been nothing but stifling silence.
Frustration roars in my belly as I toss the burner onto the coffee table and make myself get up. I may not want to, but there’s nothing to be accomplished by being a sitting target.
I don’t like how aware I’ve become of every window. Every shadow. Every reflection that doesn’t move when I do.
I cross to the kitchen and pour water I don’t want. My hands are steady, but only because I’m forcing them to be. On the counter, the paper from the envelope is still lying flat.
You don’t belong to him.
I've read it enough times. What I need now isn't another pass—it's information.
And sitting here waiting for Silas to respond isn't going to get me that.
I pick up my regular phone—not the burner—and scroll to a contact I haven't used in over a year. Kev. Low-level surveillance, former military, knows how to watch without being seen. Back when I worked with Elias, Kev was one of the few people I trusted to handle jobs that required discretion over muscle. Clean work. No questions.
I haven't called him since Elias's hit pause.
I text: Need eyes on my building. Front and service entrance. Anyone watching who shouldn't be. 48 hours. Double your old rate.
The response takes longer than I expect. Then: Lydia. Thought you went dark. Still got my number after all this time?
Still got it. You available?
Three dots. Then: For you? Yeah. When do you need me?
Now. Here’s the address: 1847 Ashford Street, building 3. My unit is 2B.
On it. Same drop for payment?
Same drop.
I set the phone down.
Kev won't ask questions. He never did. That's why Elias kept him on retainer for years. If someone's tracking me closelyenough to deliver that note, they'll come back. Or they're already watching. Either way, Kev will spot them.
I look at the note again.
Whoever wrote it knows about Drazen. Knows I'm tied to him. And they're making a move—whether to warn me, claim me, or destabilize things, I don't know yet.
But I'm not waiting around to find out.
I grab my laptop—the personal one, not the one Drazen knows about—and my phone. Slip the knife into my jacket lining out of habit, then lock the apartment behind me.
I'm not going anywhere near the club. Not going to any of Drazen's properties. I need space to think, and I need internet access that can't be traced back to me.
Twenty minutes later, I'm settled in a corner booth at a coffee shop three neighborhoods over. The kind of place that caters to freelancers and students—busy enough that no one pays attention to anyone else, but not so loud I can't think.
