Page 29 of Dirty Game (Broken Blood #1)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Rosalynn

The penthouse is too quiet without him.

Varrick left at dawn for the port operation, taking Korrin, Cyrus, and half his men with him.

The morning was still dark when he kissed me goodbye, his mouth lingering on mine like he was trying to memorize the taste.

"Stay inside," he'd ordered, thumb brushing my throat. "Jensen has eyes on every entrance. You're safe here."

My phone buzzes, pulling me from my thoughts.

A text from Varrick:

At the port. Stay inside. Jensen has orders to shoot anyone who approaches.

I'm typing a response when the elevator chimes.

That's wrong.

That shouldn't be possible.

The elevator requires three levels of clearance—a code that changes daily, a thumbprint from an authorized user, and approval from security. No one should be able to?—

"Mrs. Kazimir and her son to see Miss Lombardi," Jensen's voice comes through the intercom, but something in his tone is off.

Strained.

The kind of careful pronunciation that comes when someone has a gun to your head.

My blood freezes. Sienna is here. In the building. With Dante.

"Tell her Mr. Bane isn't?—"

"She says she's here to see you specifically, Miss." There's a pause, then quieter, like he's trying to warn me without being obvious: "She has a full security detail. Eight men. They're... persuasive."

Eight men. Plus our five. In the confined space of the penthouse, if this goes bad, it'll be a bloodbath.

I think of the weapons Varrick keeps hidden throughout the space—the gun behind the kitchen cabinet, the knife in the bathroom vanity, the backup piece in his office.

But I've never fired a weapon, never held a knife with intent to harm.

My weapons are numbers and patterns, not bullets and blades.

"Let her up," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "But Jensen? Stay close."

"Yes, Miss."

I stand in the living room, trying to look composed despite wearing one of Varrick's shirts—the black one that still smells like him—and yesterday's jeans with a coffee stain on the knee.

I don't have time to change before the elevator opens, don't have time to armor myself in expensive clothes that might make me feel less like the virgin payment I am.

Sienna Cross-Kazimir steps out like she owns the place.

She's even more devastating up close than she was at the gala, every inch of her crafted to be a weapon.

Black leather pants that look painted on, emphasizing legs that go on forever.

A white silk blouse that probably cost more than most people's rent, cut just low enough to be suggestive but high enough to be elegant.

Blood-red nails that match her lipstick, both the color of fresh arterial spray.

Her dark hair falls in perfect waves that catch the light like oil on water, and her green eyes—poison green, serpent green—scan the penthouse with interest.

"So this is where he keeps you," she says, voice like aged whiskey with a poison chaser. Each word is carefully pronounced, like she's savoring the taste of my inadequacy. "I preferred the old penthouse. Better light. Better memories."

The implication is clear—she's been in his bed before, in his life before, in his heart before.

Before me. Always before.

Behind her, I see movement.

She turns with theatrical grace, gestures with one manicured hand, and my heart stops.

Dante steps out from behind one of her security guards—massive men who look like they break bones for breakfast.

The boy is small for four, dressed in an expensive little suit that makes him look like a miniature adult playing dress-up.

Navy blue with a white shirt, a tie that's been carefully knotted.

His dark hair is combed perfectly, not a strand out of place, like someone spent time making sure he looked presentable.

Controlled. Owned.

But it's his face that makes me want to cry.

His left eye is swollen, nearly shut, purple and green bruising spreading across his cheekbone.

The kind of bruise that comes from an adult fist, not a child's tumble.

His bottom lip has a healing split that pulls when he tries to smile.

He moves carefully, deliberately, like his ribs hurt, like sudden movements bring consequences. Like he's learned that being still and quiet keeps the pain away.

I know that walk. I perfected it by the time I was seven.

"Dante," Sienna says sweetly, her hand on his shoulder in what looks like affection but reads as control, "this is Daddy's new friend. Say hello."

He looks at me with Varrick's eyes—one clear and dark as midnight, one swollen but still trying to see—and my chest cracks open.

There's an intelligence there that no four-year-old should possess, a wariness that speaks of too much seen too soon.

"Hello," he says quietly, his voice small and precise, carefully modulated like he's been taught exactly how to speak. "Are you my daddy's new family?"

The question hangs in the air like a blade waiting to drop.

"I'm Rosalynn," I manage, forcing my voice to be gentle, unthreatening. "I'm... a friend."

"Daddy doesn't have friends," Dante says matter-of-factly, with the devastating honesty only children can manage. "He has enemies and employees and people he hasn't killed yet. Mommy told me."

Sienna laughs, the sound like crystal breaking, and ruffles his hair with false maternal affection.

"Smart boy. Gets it from me." She looks at me, and her smile could cut glass.

"The intelligence, anyway. The violence is all Varrick.

Though I suppose you know all about his violence, don't you?

Or does he only show you the gentle side?

The side that brings you soup and pretends you matter? "

"Why did you bring him here?" I keep my voice level, but inside I'm screaming.

This child should be in school, should be playing with friends, should be anywhere but in the middle of his parents' war.

"I wanted him to see where his father lives. Who his father chose over him." Her smile sharpens to something lethal. "A virgin payment for debt. How... quaint. Tell me, did he at least wait a week before fucking you, or did he sample the goods right away?"

I ignore her prodding.

"You kept him from Varrick for four years. You don't get to play the victim now."

"Victim?" She steps closer, and I smell her perfume—something expensive and choking, like funeral flowers.

Like death dressed up pretty. "I'm not a victim.

I'm a survivor. There's a difference. Victims let things happen to them. Survivors make things happen. And Varrick, he isn’t so innocent. He told me to stay away."

"Is that what you call marrying Mikhail? Survival?"

Her eyes flash dangerously, green fire that promises pain. "Mikhail appreciates what he has. Unlike Varrick, who only wants what he can't have. Who always needed the chase more than the prize."

"Is that why you're here? Because he doesn't want you anymore?"

She moves so fast I don't see it coming.

Her hand cracks across my face hard enough to make my ears ring, hard enough that I taste copper immediately.

The force spins me half around, and I have to catch myself on the back of the couch.

But I don't flinch. Don't step back. Don't give her the satisfaction of seeing me afraid.

I've been hit by professionals—by Marco when he was drunk and needed to feel powerful, by Uncle Enzo when he was teaching me my place in the world.

This is nothing. This is performance.

"I've been hit by professionals," I tell her, touching my split lip, tasting my own blood. "You'll have to do better."

Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe a flicker of respect. Then calculation, like she's recalibrating her approach.

"Dante," she says without looking at him, her voice switching to false sweetness, "go wait in the hallway. Mommy needs to have an adult conversation."

Ironic, considering the things she tells this poor child.

"But—" The boy starts to protest, and I see fear flash across his small face.

He doesn't want to leave, doesn't want to be alone with her men.

"Now." The sweetness evaporates, leaving only command.

He goes, that careful walk that speaks of other punishments for disobedience.

Each step measured, quiet, trying not to draw attention.

One of her men—built like a mountain, face like a gravestone—follows him out.

The moment the door closes, she strikes again. But not with her hand.

The wire comes from nowhere—piano wire, thin and sharp, professionally wielded.

It loops around my throat before I can scream, before I can even process the movement.

She's behind me suddenly, using her height advantage, using her training.

The wire pulls tight enough to cut off air but not quite enough to cut skin. Yet.

"Let me explain something," she whispers in my ear as my vision starts to spot, as my hands come up instinctively to claw at the wire.

Her breath is hot against my neck, intimate as a lover's whisper. "He'll always be mine. First love. First fuck. First everything. You're just a placeholder. A warm hole with a calculator for a brain. A temporary distraction while he figures out how to win me back."

I claw at the wire, but she knows what she's doing.

My nails break against it, leaving bloody crescents on my own throat.

My lungs burn, screaming for air that won't come. My knees start to buckle as oxygen deprivation sets in.

"When this goes bad—and it will—he'll sacrifice you for Dante. Blood over everything. That's the Bane way. That's how they're raised. Their own blood matters. Everyone else is expendable."

She's probably right.

The logical part of my brain, the part that still works despite the lack of oxygen, knows she's right.

But I can't say that with a wire around my throat, can't admit that I know I'm temporary.

"You know what the saddest part is?" She pulls tighter, and my vision goes gray at the edges, darkness creeping in like fog.

"You actually think he loves you. That virgin payment thinking she's found her happily ever after.

Like you're some fairy tale princess who tamed the beast with your innocence. "

The world tilts.