Page 28 of Dirty Game (Broken Blood #1)

We lock eyes, and for a moment, it’s like we’re back in the alley, both of us sixteen, deciding who’s going to throw the first punch.

He breaks first, as always.

Cyrus clears his throat. “There’s something else.” He taps the binder, sliding it toward me. “Rosalynn’s numbers are too clean. She’s hiding something.”

I flip to the flagged page.

She’s cross-referenced the casino accounts with the Bratva’s shell companies, mapped the transfers down to the last cent. It’s perfect. Just like she is.

“She’s loyal,” I say, voice cold.

Cyrus raises a brow. “Or she wants you to think she is.”

“She is,” I repeat.

Korrin sighs. “Jesus, you’re whipped.”

I don’t rise to the bait. I just close the binder and set it aside. “We will resume planning tomorrow. You’ll get your war, Korrin, but on my terms. Don’t forget who the fucking boss is.”

He grins, feral in nature. “Sure, King.”

Cyrus glances at the clock. “You should go. She’ll be waiting.”

I stand, stretch the kink out of my neck. “Call when you’ve gone over all the angles.”

I leave the room without looking back. I know they’ll follow my orders. They always do.

I go on with my day, and by the time I make it back to the penthouse, it’s the dead of night.

The hallway’s empty, the marble floors shining like ice.

Security’s doubled, cameras at every angle. I thumbprint the lock and step inside.

The suite is dead silent.

Rosalynn isn’t on the couch or in the kitchen.

I check the bedrooms.

She’s not in mine, not even in the guest room.

I find her in the office, but she should be in bed at this hour—only she’s curled up in the chair, knees to chest, staring at the monitor wall.

She doesn’t turn when I enter. I watch her for a moment, the way her hair falls over her face, the way her fingers worry the edge of the desk. I want to touch her.

I say, “You didn’t sleep.”

She shakes her head, still not looking at me. “Didn’t want to.”

I walk around, plant myself between her and the screens. “Anything new?”

She shrugs. “Numbers don’t change at night. Only people do.”

It’s a sharp answer. She’s angry at me, or at herself. Maybe both of us.

I lean in, let my hand rest on the back of her chair. “We hit the port tomorrow.”

She looks up, blue eyes rimmed with red. “You’ll be careful?”

I almost smile. “No. But I’ll win.”

She blinks, then nods. “Good.”

I want to say something else, something that will erase the look in her eyes, but my phone buzzes.

I check the screen—unknown number, international code.

I answer, waiting for the voice.

It’s Sienna. “You’re gonna lose your son, King.”

Her voice is exactly as I remember. I say nothing.

She laughs, low. “You still don’t speak unless you have to. I always loved that about you.”

“What do you want?” I keep my tone dead.

A pause. Then: “You should see your son. Before Mikhail ruins what’s left of him.”

There’s a click, she disconnects, and a photo appears on my phone.

Dante, in a cheap hotel room, wearing yesterday’s clothes.

One eye swollen shut, lip split.

He’s sitting very straight, hands folded, like he’s been told not to move.

Sienna’s message blinks on my screen:

Mikhail gets angry when you interfere.

The world contracts, sound tunnels, and the only thing left is the rush of blood in my ears.

My vision is full of red.

I dig my nails into the chair, hard enough to leave a mark.

Rosalynn says something, but I can’t actually hear her words.

I stare at the photo until the phone goes dark.

Then…

Darkness.

When the red haze clears, I’m standing in the middle of my office with blood dripping off my knuckles and glass dust floating in the air like snow.

Every monitor is smashed.

The desk is flipped, drawers spilled across the floor.

There’s a Picasso of shattered screens and torn cables on the wall, and somewhere in the mix, the shape of my own fist.

I look down.

My hand’s a mess of open cuts, skin torn and swelling.

A cut on my cheek burns. I must’ve caught myself on the edge of something.

I wipe my hand on my shirt, stare at the chaos, and feel nothing but emptiness.

Like the violence was a placeholder for a feeling I can’t reach.

Fuck.

I leave the mess, walk down the hallway, past the kitchen where a bottle of whiskey trembles on the counter, past the dining room that’s still set for two, even though we never eat there.

At the end of the hall is a door nobody’s supposed to open.

Not security, not cleaners, not even Korrin or Cyrus.

I key in the code, then use my thumbprint.

It clicks open.

Inside, the temperature drops a few degrees.

Maybe it’s the blackout shades, or maybe it’s just all the memories stacked like tombstones.

The room is a perfect replica of a kid’s bedroom, only nobody’s ever slept in the bed.

It’s all curated—handmade.

There’s a wooden bed shaped like a race car, superhero sheets tucked perfectly.

The walls are painted with planets and stars, a whole solar system orbiting a cartoon sun.

Shelves hold unopened boxes, each one labeled with a date and an age:

FIRST CHRISTMAS. FIRST BIRTHDAY. SECOND BIRTHDAY.

They go up to four.

The closet’s full of clothes in every size, tags still on.

Shoes never worn, all lined up by color and function—rain boots, sneakers, dress shoes. There’s a tricycle in the corner, shiny and new.

I stand in the middle of it, breathing in the smell of fresh paint and plastic. It’s a tomb.

My legs take me to the bed and sit on the edge, hands in my lap.

For a second, I picture a kid running in here, tearing the wrappers off a present, giggling like he doesn’t know the world wants to kill him.

It hits me like a baseball bat to the head.

I grab the nearest box and hurl it at the wall.

It explodes—Lego sets and Hot Wheels fly everywhere.

I grab another, then another, until the floor is a minefield of shattered dreams and choking hazards.

I rip the sheets off the bed and toss them out the window. I tear the comforter down the middle.

I smash the lamp, then the closet door. The sound is the only thing I can hear.

I don’t stop until everything’s ruined.

When there’s nothing left to break, I collapse on the floor, knees up, forehead resting on my fists.

My hands leave bloody prints on the white rug.

I don’t cry. I never do, but my body shakes like I’m going to.

I don’t know how long I sit there, but eventually I hear the soft pad of feet behind me.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She just stands there, staring at the wreckage, taking it all in.

Then she kneels next to me, slow so I can’t mistake her for a threat.

She picks up one of the broken toys, turns it over in her hands. “You planned for him,” she says. “All this time.”

I keep my head down.

“Five years,” she says, so soft it could almost be a prayer. “Every birthday. Every Christmas. You bought him gifts. Clothes. Everything.”

I nod, just once.

She sets the toy in my lap. It’s a little plush dog, one ear missing, stuffing leaking from the side.

“Why did you keep it all?” she asks.

“Needed to be ready,” I manage. “In case he ever came home.”

She wraps her arms around my shoulders, pulling me into her. It’s not pity, not forgiveness. It’s just human contact, something to remind me I’m still alive.

She starts to gather the broken pieces, stacking them in a neat pile.

She wipes the blood off my hands with the sleeve of her shirt.

She doesn’t flinch when it stains her.

“We’ll get him back,” she says. Not a question, not a wish—just the simple fact of it.

I want to believe her.

I want to reach inside my chest and rip out whatever’s left of my heart and hand it over.

Instead, I sit there, useless, while she cleans up my mess.

“How do you know?” I whisper.

She looks at me, eyes sharp and unwavering. “Because I’ve seen you destroy,” she says. “Now I want to see you build.”

For the first time in my life, I don’t have an answer.

The broken dog is still in my lap.

Rosalynn wipes the blood from my hands, gentle like I’ve never known.

I could live in this moment if the world would let me.

But that’s never how it works.

I grab her by the wrist, hard enough to leave bruises, and pull her onto me.

She straddles my lap, knees digging into the mess of plastic and stuffing.

I taste salt on her cheek, but I can’t tell if it’s hers or mine.

We kiss like we’re starving, and it’s like we’re the last two people left after the bomb drops.

But, she’s right.

I will get my son back, because I’ll burn down the entire fucking world for him.