Fractured Allegiance (Tainted Souls #3)

Prologue – Silas - A Knife in the Dark

I don’t waver when the next one starts begging. Same story, different man.

He’s on his knees, arms bound behind his back with plastic ties that bite into his skin.

His lip’s been split open already—probably by Drazen’s men, sloppy bastards who like bruises more than clean kills.

The floor beneath him is slick from someone else’s blood.

There were two men when I got here. Now there’s one.

The man with the busted lip keeps mumbling shit about kids, family, and mistakes. I let him talk.

This place stinks of oil and rust, and the cold hangs like wet cloth around my ribs. We’re deep inside the bones of an old ship-docking warehouse that hasn’t seen a freighter in a decade. Drazen chose it for privacy. No surveillance. No echoes loud enough to carry.

He’s watching me from the mezzanine above, Drazen, leaning against a rusted railing with a glass of whatever he drinks when he wants to look expensive. His suit’s probably worth more than my entire cover wardrobe.

Viktor Drazen. Head of the syndicate’s East Miramont division. Everything in this city that moves without permission — drugs, girls, guns, intel — passes through his books or dies trying.

I’ve heard people call him charming. They’re the ones still alive.

I know his type. All cruelty in silk.

I flick my gaze back to the guy on the ground. Blood’s already seeping into the collar of his shirt. One of his eyes is swollen shut. There’s no way he’s walking out of here, and he knows it.

“You got a name?” I ask, voice level.

He chokes on his own spit. “Erickson. Please… I didn’t know the shipment was yours. I thought it was—”

“Doesn’t matter.”

I crouch. He flinches. The stink of piss has started to rise—whether it’s his or the guy cooling beside him, doesn’t matter. What matters is that Drazen’s watching. And this? This is my audition.

“Have you ever heard of precision, Erickson?” I ask.

He nods too fast. “Yes, yes—I can make it right. I can—”

“Wrong answer.”

I stand again, reach for the gun tucked under my jacket. It’s standard issue, suppressed, matte black. Looks like any other weapon, until it’s in my hand and aimed between someone’s eyes.

But I don’t shoot him. At least, not yet.

Instead, I lower the muzzle, step back, and lift my boot to rest on the spine of the man beside him—the one I already shot. Still warm.

He was crying too, before I silenced him.

I pulled the trigger.

The sound was nothing but a crisp click into flesh. A finishing shot. Unnecessary, but clean.

When I glance up, Drazen’s eyes are on me. Cold. Calculating. But interested.

I return the look without blinking.

Now the one still kneeling—Erickson—starts to cry for real. Not words. Just sound. He looks like he might puke.

I step toward him.

He knows what’s coming. And now he’s doing the math. The begging stops. He straightens his spine. He looks at me with something like dignity, if there’s any of that left in a place like this.

“Do you want it clean or messy?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer, and I can’t tell if that makes him brave or broken—it doesn’t matter.I lift the gun. Aim for his mouth. One pull, and the shot hits hard. Blood erupts in an arc, warm against my hand, like a mark I’m meant to wear.

For a second, it’s quiet. I lower the weapon and walk toward the sink basin bolted to the wall. The water’s murky, probably always has been, but I use it anyway. Wash the blood from my hands, let the water turn rust-brown and swirl down the cracked drain.

Footsteps approach with a steady, deliberate rhythm, confident and unhurried.

Drazen.

He doesn’t speak right away. He just lights a cigarette like this is a cocktail party and not a corpse-stained dock warehouse.

“Do you ever flinch, Silas?”

“Only when amateurs start monologuing.”

He chuckles. A low, hollow sound. He likes that. He likes men who don’t shake. Men who kill without asking why. He thinks that’s what I am.

He walks toward the bodies. The one I shot first is leaking across the concrete in a wide, lazy smear.

Drazen stares at it for a moment. Then turns.

“Leave ‘em. The message needs to linger.”

I nod, already sliding the gun back into my jacket holster. He takes another drag, studies me through the smoke like he’s still trying to see the stitchwork beneath the mask.

“You handled it clean,” he says.

I meet his eyes. “Of course I did.”

There’s a pause. Not long. But heavy.

“I still don’t trust you,” he says.

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

He nods once. Looks at me like I’ve just passed a test I didn’t know had a second layer.

“Dom said you frequent his club,” he says. “Is that true?”

“I like the noise. Keeps things quiet upstairs.”

He laughs again. Louder, this time. Like he’s found a man he understands.

“Go get yourself a drink,” he says. “Night like this, blood needs rinsing.”

I say nothing. Just walk past him, the scent of gunpowder and regret still clinging to my skin.

Behind me, Drazen turns back toward the mezzanine. Below him, two men lie still on the concrete. No more begging. No more second chances.

There’s just a trail of blood that says He belongs to us now.

But I don’t.

Not really.

Not ever.

And the moment I feel someone truly watching me, the kind of gaze that peels your skin back, I know: this night isn’t over. Neither is the mask I’m wearing.

I breathe through my nose and reach for the cloth I brought in my jacket.

I use it to wipe the grip of my gun. Check the cartridge.

Every movement is measured, necessary, and perfectly rehearsed.

If I stop, I’ll start thinking. And thinking’s a luxury I can’t afford…

not when my soul’s on someone else’s payroll.

I take a step toward the exit—and freeze.

There’s a smear on my left boot. Too close to the tread. Could leave a mark outside.

I kneel, and dig a small cloth from my back pocket to scrape it clean with short, brutal strokes until the rubber’s spotless. It’s not about vanity. Blood’s a loud bastard when you let it speak unchecked.

When I stand, the phone in my pocket starts to buzz.

I already know who it is. But I walk to the far corner of the warehouse, out of sight and leaned against a stack of collapsed crates, before I pull the phone to my ear.

“Silas,” she says. No greeting, as per usual.

“Naomi.”

“You’re finished?”

“Yes.”

“You left them visible?”

“Yes.”

“Did Drazen suspect?”

“Not enough to kill me. Yet.”

She hums. It’s not a pleasant sound. Like glass dragged across marble.

“You’re now inside,” she says. “Congratulations.”

I don’t answer.

She doesn’t care.

Naomi Wells, my Bureau handler, has never once asked how I sleep. She only ever asks if I’ve closed the case. If the gun went off clean. If the wire worked. If the mask stayed fixed.

“You’ve been monitoring?” I ask.

“We have partial coverage from outside. Audio only. We’ll need visuals once you’re deeper. Drazen moves in shadows.”

“So do I.”

“Not like him,” she says.

The line goes quiet for a second, until I’m almost certain she’s already hung up. Then, she asks, “Anything else?”

“He told me to get a drink,” I inform her flatly.

“Then do it.”

I wait. There’s usually more.

Predictably, Naomi instructs, “Stay clearheaded. You’re not a local. You don’t have margin for mistakes.”

I almost say something. About the bodies. About the way Drazen watched me like he was weighing organs on a scale.

But I don’t. What’s the point?

“Copy that,” I say.

This time, I hear it when Naomi ends the call.

No warmth to the exchange, no direction, and no mention of what comes next... I like it better that way.

For a moment in time, I stay where I am, the warehouse pressing in around me, leaving its mark.

My jacket still smells like oil and copper. I smooth it down anyway.

This is the job.

Slide in under a name that isn’t mine. Infiltrate a network held together by money, death, and men who think consequences are something that happens to other people.

Viktor Drazen’s just one link in the chain. There are others. Killers. Brokers. Ghosts in suits. All of them hiding in plain sight while the city keeps bleeding.

The Bureau wants them exposed, wants the structure cracked. The rot scraped out.

And they picked me to crawl inside and start carving.

Silas Ward is the skin I wear for them. The hand that pulls the trigger.

But that’s not my name.

Not the one that would get whispered if I ever slip.

That one’s buried so deep even I don’t hear it unless I’m dreaming.

The Bureau doesn’t care who I become, as long as I bring Drazen and his pals down.

I turn toward the door.

Drazen said to get a drink. So, that’s what I’ve got to do.

It’s not like that part will be a hardship. But it doesn’t mean I’m off the clock, either. No matter what, I’m watching everyone.

Because sooner or later, someone’s going to see through me.

And when they do… I suspect there will be no time to explain which version of me they’re killing.

Dom’s place doesn’t have a name on the door. Just a mark — silver, worn — like a crest torn from something older.

“Outside, the fog clings heavy with diesel, streetlight halos bleeding onto the pavement. Miramont never really sleeps, it just changes masks. Tonight, it’s wearing sequins and bruises.

I flash the right look at the bouncers. One nods, parts the rope, and I descend into a corridor that smells like velvet choking on liquor and ambition.

Inside, the world shifts.

Dom’s club is carved in black and burnished gold, hard edges softened with money and distraction. The walls pulse with sound. Red and indigo strobe lights blink against mirrored panels. Someone laughs too loud. Someone else moans into someone’s neck.

I blend in. I always do.

I order something dark I won’t taste and lean back against the bar. The crowd flows around me. Tension with stilettos. Lust in tailored suits. Everyone pretending not to notice the predators circling the same kill.

That’s when I see her.

She doesn’t stand out the way most women here do. No glitter. No skin for rent. She’s in black — matte, sleek — legs crossed at the corner booth near Dom. One heel tilted slightly off the floor, toe pointed. A line, not a pose.

She has that look.

Not just beauty. That’s common here. No, this is something else.

Power, dressed in calm.

Her gaze flicks toward Dom while he talks. She nods once, unsmiling. Just enough to keep him talking.

There’s a glass in her hand, half-finished. Neat. Clear. She doesn’t drink often — you can tell. Not because she’s delicate. Because she doesn’t like losing ground.

I don’t know who she is.

But she looks like someone who knows where the bodies are buried because she’s the one who put them there.

A man slides into the booth beside her. Not Dom. A second-tier bruiser. She barely turns her head. Just shifts her fingers around the base of her glass like she’s deciding whether to crack it across his teeth.

He leans in.

She speaks.

I can’t hear what she says, but I see the man lean back. His expression goes slack, not angry or offended, just defused.

She does it like it’s nothing. Like she’s done it a thousand times before.

She doesn’t look at me.

But now I’m looking at nothing else.

And beneath my suit, underneath the skin, something starts to stir behind the sternum—not lust, not yet, only awareness.

I narrow my eyes.

I barely pay attention as my drink is served, I pick up the glass absentmindedly.

Her ring flashes in the booth’s light—silver, unadorned, and worn from use.

The glass at her lips again. Sip. Pause. A glance to the side, and her eyes catch mine.

Not locked. Not held.

Just caught, and lingers for a breath’s length, no smile or acknowledgment—but I feel it.

It cuts deep, too precise to be accidental, too human to ignore. Then it’s gone.

She looks away.

And it leaves a mark.

I set my glass down and don’t touch it again.

The atmosphere shifts before Drazen even walks in.

You can feel it. Something in the rhythm of the room stutters. A shift in posture. In breath. Like the collective spine of the club stiffens without knowing why.

Then he steps inside.

Viktor Drazen doesn't need to announce himself. The space clears around him like it’s afraid to cling. Black suit. Bare throat. Expression carved from something colder than stone. His gaze doesn’t scan — it cuts. Room by room. Face by face. Like he’s counting mouths to feed to something worse.

He moves through the crowd without touching anyone, but they all move.

A ripple of deference.

The woman stays perfectly still, unbothered.

She watches him enter from her booth, elbow still draped along the back, glass loose in her fingers. No fear. No recognition. Just attention—narrowed to a point.

Dom moves closer to her. Smiles. Says something in her ear.

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps her eyes on Drazen’s back as he disappears behind the private doors, the ones guarded by two men who don’t bother hiding the steel under their jackets.

Then she turns back to her drink.

I stay frozen.

I don’t know her name. I don’t know her story.

But I know something I shouldn’t:

She saw me.

Not the suit. Not the drink.

Me.

And that’s how trouble starts.