Page 1 of Dirty Game (Broken Blood #1)

CHAPTER ONE

Rosalynn

The numbers don't lie.

People do.

Men do.

My uncle did, right up until the moment he sold me to save himself.

But numbers? They're honest in their brutality. They tell the truth even when it damns you.

Which is why I'm sitting in Varrick Bane's office at two in the morning, staring at columns that should balance but don't, knowing that someone is about to die.

It might be me if I’m not careful.

My fingers trace the discrepancy for the third time as I try to wrap my head around this.

Insomnia has caused me to wake, and here I am back at the computer.

Seven hundred thousand dollars, hidden across fourteen different transactions over the past two months.

Whoever's been skimming from the King of Vancouver's empire has skill—they've buried the theft beneath layers of legitimate expenses, shell company transfers, offshore holdings.

But they made one mistake.

They assumed no one would cross-reference the shipping manifests with the warehouse inventory reports at the same time they reviewed the quarterly projections.

They assumed wrong.

I pull my cardigan tighter around my shoulders, though the penthouse is warm.

Three weeks. That's how long I've been here, payment for my father's debts.

Three weeks of learning to navigate Varrick's world of calculated violence and OCD level like control.

Three weeks of keeping myself invisible while cataloging every exit, every pattern, every moment when his attention shifts elsewhere.

The leather chair creaks as I lean back, and I freeze.

Sound carries in the penthouse at night.

The last thing I need is to wake?—

A muffled sound echoes from somewhere deeper in the penthouse.

Not quite a scream.

Screams are for people who think someone might save them.

This is something else—a wet, choking noise that makes my stomach clench.

I know that sound.

Uncle Marco used to make men make that sound in our basement, when Father's debts came due in blood instead of money.

I should stay here.

I should keep my eyes on the screen, on the numbers, on the safe world of mathematics where everything has rules.

But the sound comes again, followed by a voice I recognize.

Varrick's voice, low and measured, asking a question I can't quite make out.

My feet move without permission, silent on the thick carpet.

The penthouse is a maze of shadows at this hour, but I've memorized every corner in my three weeks here.

Survival means knowing your cage.

His private office door is cracked open—not an accident, nothing Varrick does is accidental.

Golden light spills through the gap, and with it comes the copper scent of blood.

So much blood.

I peer through the crack, and my breath stops.

Philip Denton kneels on plastic sheeting, his expensive suit ruined, face swollen beyond recognition.

Varrick stands in front of him, shirtsleeves rolled up, blood speckling his forearms like a Jackson Pollock painting.

But it's the control that makes me unable to look away.

Every movement is precise, economical.

He's not angry.

He's not enjoying this.

He's just... working.

"Last chance, Phillip." Varrick's voice is soft, almost gentle. "The account numbers. All of them."

Phillip spits blood. "I told you?—"

The sound of impact is wet, specific.

Not a fist this time. Something harder.

Phillip makes that choking noise again, and I see the brass knuckles glinting on Varrick's right hand.

"You told me about three accounts," Varrick says, wiping blood from his jaw with the back of his wrist. "But seven hundred thousand dollars doesn't move through three accounts. Not without leaving a trail. And you're too smart to leave a trail, aren't you, Phillip?"

Seven hundred thousand. My seven hundred thousand. The number I found.

I must make a sound—a gasp, a breath, something—because Varrick's head turns toward the door.

Our eyes meet through the crack, and I see something flash across his face.

Not anger. Not even surprise. Almost like he expected me to see him.

"Jensen," he says, not looking away from me. "Take Phillip downstairs. We'll continue this later."

"Boss?" Jensen, a mountain of a man I've seen stationed outside Varrick's office, appears in my view.

"Downstairs. Now."

Phillip is dragged out through another door, leaving smears of blood on the plastic.

Varrick stands there, brass knuckles still on his hand, blood drying on his skin, and watches me watching him.

"Rosalynn."

I push the door open fully, stepping inside, because running now would be worse.

The room smells like the violence I just witnessed—blood and fear-sweat and something else, something unmistakably dangerous.

"Mr. Bane." My voice comes out steady, barely above a whisper. "I couldn't sleep."

He moves toward me, and I have to lock my knees to keep from backing away.

Being this close, I can see the pattern of blood across his shirt.

His knuckles are split, the brass knuckles now hanging loose in his left hand.

"You see the books?" His voice is soft, controlled.

He's always quiet when there's blood on his hands.

I've noticed that about him.

The quieter he gets, the more dangerous he becomes.

I should lie.

Say I was just reviewing tomorrow's meetings, preparing his schedule, anything except the truth.

But the numbers are right there on the screen in the other office, and Varrick Bane didn't become king of Vancouver’s underworld by being stupid.

"Yes. I saw the discrepancy. It's all there," I say instead.

His eyes—dark brown that looks black in the lamp light—shift from my face to the door behind me, then back. "Show me."

Two words, soft as silk.

I've heard him use that same tone before putting a bullet in someone's skull.

We walk back to his main office, him behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.

My skin prickles with awareness – not quite fear, not quite something else.

He still has the brass knuckles in his hand, and I can hear the soft clink of metal as he walks.

My fingers shake as I pull up the files, the trail I've spent hours mapping before I finally went to bed.

He moves behind my chair, and suddenly I can't breathe properly.

He's not touching me, but I'm hyperaware of every inch of space between us. The blood on his shirt is fresh enough that I can feel the warmth of it, smell the iron mixing with his expensive cologne – something dark and woody that probably costs more than my father made in a month.

"Someone's been skimming. Seven hundred thousand over eight weeks. They've been clever about it, routing it through?—"

"Show me the trail." His breath stirs my hair, and goosebumps rise along my arms.

I walk him through each transaction, each hidden transfer, each carefully buried theft.

My voice gains strength as I talk about the numbers, the mathematical beauty of uncovering the deception.

But I'm also intensely aware of him behind me—the way he leans closer when I point to specific transfers, the soft sound of his breathing, the occasional grunt of understanding.

When I finish, silence fills the office like water, threatening to drown me.

"How long have you known?" His breath is warm against my ear.

"Since before I went to bed."

"And you didn't come to me immediately?"

This is it.

This is where I die.

My fingers find the cigarette burns on my left wrist, hidden beneath my watch, pressing into them through the band.

The pain grounds me.

"I needed to be sure. I needed to trace it completely. If I was wrong—" I swallow. "You don't strike me as someone who appreciates incomplete information."

He moves around the chair, into my line of sight, and sets the brass knuckles on the desk with deliberate slowness.

Blood has splattered across his jaw, a constellation of violence I shouldn't find fascinating.

But there's something about the precision of it, the control. This isn't rage. This is business.

"You thought I might blame you." Not a question.

"The thought crossed my mind."

His laugh is dark, unexpected. "Smart girl. Another man might have." He leans against the desk, studying me. "Why tell me at all? You could have kept quiet. Could have hoped I never noticed.”

“And it seems like you already knew about it. You would have noticed. Eventually. And then you'd wonder why I didn't say anything." I force myself to meet his eyes, just for a moment. "You haven't hurt me yet. I'd like to keep it that way."

Something shifts in his expression.

For three weeks, I've been furniture to him.

A debt paid, a possession acquired.

But now he's looking at me like he's seeing me for the first time.

Not the payment.

Not the Lombardi daughter.

Me.

"Stand up."

My legs obey before my brain can tell me how much of a bad idea this was.

Standing brings me closer to him, close enough to see that the blood on his shirt is still wet.

I have to tilt my head back to look at him, and I hate how small it makes me feel.

How breakable. Like he could snap me in half without trying, and we both know it.

"Do you know what I was doing before I came in here?" His voice is conversational, like we're discussing the weather.

"You were... extracting information from Phillip Denton."

"Extracting." He tastes the word, seems to find it amusing. "Such a clinical term for breaking a man's fingers one by one until he talks."

My stomach clenches, but I don't look away. "He stole from you."

"He did. And you found it." He steps closer, and I press back against the chair. "You found what he thought he'd hidden perfectly. Do you understand what that means?"

"That I'm useful?"

"That you're dangerous." His hand rises toward my face, and I flinch hard, my whole body trying to collapse into itself.

He pauses, his bloodied fingers hovering inches from my cheek.

I can smell the iron on his skin, see the split knuckles up close. "You're afraid of me."

"Everyone's afraid of you."

"Not like this." His fingers move closer, not quite touching, tracing the air beside my face. "This is specific. You've been hit before. Often, haven’t you?"