Page 25 of Dirty Game (Broken Blood #1)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Rosalynn

I can't stop comparing myself to her.

It's been two days since the gala, since Sienna Cross walked back into Varrick's life with his son in tow, and I've become obsessed with cataloging our differences.

Not just the obvious ones—her dark hair to my blonde, her poisonous green eyes to my ice blue, her curves that command attention versus my delicate frame that's learned to disappear.

It's deeper than that.

Sienna is elegant violence.

I've done my research, spent hours combing through files Jensen pretended not to notice me accessing.

She was trained from childhood in the Cross family business—weapons, warfare, and manipulation.

She speaks six languages fluently.

She can kill a man seventeen different ways with her bare hands.

Hell, she turned her family's pain into power, transformed every beating her father gave her into fuel for her empire.

Her father was known for his brutality, even among brutal men.

The stories I found made my stomach turn—public executions of disappointing soldiers, creative tortures that lasted for days, a complete lack of mercy even for family.

Especially for family. Sienna survived that, thrived in it, became it.

I'm just broken.

Where she took her trauma and forged it into armor, I'm still bleeding from wounds that should have healed years ago.

I still flinch when doors slam. I still check corners before entering rooms. I still wake up sometimes thinking Marco is standing over me with a lit cigarette, asking if I'm ready to cry yet.

Where she learned to weaponize her sexuality, using her body as another tool in her arsenal, I'm still learning what desire means.

Still discovering that my body can feel pleasure instead of just enduring pain. Still surprised every time Varrick touches me with reverence instead of ownership.

She gave Varrick a son. A legacy, an heir, proof of their connection that will last forever.

The thought of pregnancy terrifies me.

Not the pain of childbirth, but the vulnerability of it. Nine months of being swollen, slow, unable to run if I needed to.

A lifetime of having something that could be used against me, the way I was used against Uncle Enzo.

Too damaged for children. Too fractured for forever. Too scarred to ever be enough.

Maria finds me in Varrick's office at four in the morning, surrounded by financial reports, trying to lose myself in numbers because numbers don't lie, don't compare, don't remind me that I'm competing with a ghost who came to life, who has his child.

"You need to sleep," she says gently, setting down a cup of tea that smells like chamomile and concern.

"I need to be useful."

"You are useful."

"Not like her." The words escape before I can stop them, bitter on my tongue. "She gave him a son. She built an empire from her pain. She carved her initials into his skin, and he let her. What have I given him? A few saved millions, and a virginity he could have taken from anyone?"

Maria sits beside me, her presence warm and maternal in a way that makes my chest ache.

My mother died when I was seven, before she could teach me how to be a woman instead of just a survivor.

"You gave him something she never could."

"What?"

"A choice. She took from him—his trust, his love, his ability to feel safe. Everything with her was a transaction, even their passion. You give him the choice to be better. To be more than the monster she helped create."

"But—"

"And you gave him peace." Maria's voice is soft but certain.

"I've worked for Mr. Bane for ten years.

I've seen him in every state—victorious, furious, drunk, sober, bleeding, healed.

But I've never seen him at peace until you.

He sleeps through the night now. He eats regular meals.

He smiles. Actually smiles, not those sharp things he used to do that were more threat than joy. "

I want to believe her, but then I remember the way he looked at Dante.

The recognition. The wonder.

The immediate, visceral need to protect what was his.

He'll never look at me that way—with that primal ownership that comes from creating life.

"Sienna knows how to hurt him," I say quietly. "She knows all his weak spots because she put half of them there. How do I compete with that kind of history?"

"You don't compete. You create something new."

I turn back to the reports, needing to be useful, needing to matter in some tangible way. That's when I see it.

"That's not right," I mutter, pulling up shipping manifests from the last month.

"What isn't?"

"These routes." I spread the papers out, mind already racing, that familiar thrill of finding what someone tried to hide. "Mikhail Volkov's trucks. They're using our territory, our routes, but the fees. They're not being paid. And the cargo weights don't match the declared contents."

I dig deeper, cross-referencing with warehouse reports, dock schedules, customs documents that cost Varrick a fortune in bribes to access. Each layer reveals more deception, more betrayal.

"Look at this," I show Maria, though she probably doesn't understand the implications. "The weight discrepancies are consistent—always heavier by the same margin. Hidden compartments. And the routes all converge at the same warehouse on the south side."

"What does that mean?"

"He's moving weapons," I breathe. "Mikhail is moving weapons through Varrick's territory without permission, without payment, without?—"

"Without him knowing," Varrick's voice comes from the doorway.

I spin in my chair to find him standing there in just sleep pants, hair mussed from bed, looking like sin and salvation combined.

He moves into the room with that predatory grace that still makes my breath catch, eyes fixed on the papers spread across his desk.

"Show me everything. "

I walk him through it, showing how Mikhail has been using Sienna's distraction to move military-grade weapons through Vancouver.

The shipments started three weeks ago—right when rumors about Varrick going soft began spreading.

Each shipment is larger than the last, building toward something.

"This one," I point to yesterday's manifest, "came through during the gala. While everyone was watching Sienna's performance with Dante, Mikhail was moving enough weapons to arm a small army through your territory."

"They're planning something," I continue, pulling up more documents. "This isn't just smuggling. This is preparation for?—"

"War." His hand cups my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone with a gentleness that contrasts with the violence in his eyes. "You brilliant, deadly thing. You just found their invasion route."

He kisses me hard, desperate, his mouth claiming mine like I'm air and he's been drowning.

When he pulls back, his eyes are black with something that might be pride or possession or both.

"This is how I destroy them," he says against my lips. "With your brilliant mind, finding what they tried to hide. With you beside me, being exactly what you are—mine."

Maria clears her throat. "I'll make coffee. Something tells me it's going to be a long day."

She leaves, and Varrick pulls me onto his lap, holding me against his chest like I might disappear.

I can feel his heart racing, his mind already strategic planning, but his arms around me are gentle.

"You're comparing yourself to her," he says. It's not a question.

"How did you?—"

"Because I know you. Because you've been distant since the gala, and not in the way you're distant when you're scared. This is different. This is you thinking you're not enough."

"She gave you a son."

"Yes, and?" His arms tighten around me, and I feel the rage vibrating through him. "She’s using my child as a weapon. That's not a gift—that's another manipulation. Another transaction in her endless game."

"She's powerful."

"You're powerful in ways she could never understand. She breaks things. You fix them. She takes. You give. She uses violence because it's all she knows. You use it precisely, surgically, only when necessary."

"I'm damaged."

"So am I. We match."

I turn in his lap to face him fully, needing to see his eyes. "Do we? Because from where I'm sitting, you had this grand love affair with a woman who marked you permanently, who gave you a child, who?—"

"Who destroyed me." His voice is flat, final. "What Sienna and I had wasn't love. It was mutual destruction. We were both so damaged, so angry, that we confused intensity with intimacy. We fucked like we were trying to kill each other because we were."

"And us?"

"We're nothing like that. When I touch you, it's not about destruction. It's about worship. When you give yourself to me, it's not because you're trying to prove something or win some game. It's because you choose to. Every time, you choose."

"I need to be useful to you. Need to be more than just?—"

"Stop." He stands, lifting me with him, and sets me on the desk, scattering the papers that just revealed Mikhail's betrayal.

"You found millions of dollars in savings.

You've identified moles in my organization.

You just uncovered Mikhail's weapon smuggling.

You're the most useful person in my entire operation. "

"But—"

"And even if you never found another dollar, never uncovered another plot, you'd still be everything to me. Your usefulness isn't what makes you valuable. You are valuable. Period."

The words crack something open in my chest, but I'm not ready to examine it. Not yet.

"I should analyze the rest of these manifests," I say, trying to pull away.

"Tomorrow. Tonight, you sleep."

He carries me to his room despite my protests, lays me in his bed with a gentleness that makes my eyes sting. But I can't sleep. My mind races with thoughts of Sienna, of Dante, of the war that's coming.

Hours pass. Varrick works quietly at his laptop beside me, the blue light casting shadows across his scarred chest.

I trace the S.C. with my eyes, wondering what it felt like when she carved it.