Page 33 of Dirty Game (Broken Blood #1)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Rosalynn

I wake to the sound of machines.

Beeping. Rhythmic. Medical.

The smell hits next—antiseptic and bleach, the particular sterility that only exists in hospitals.

My throat feels like sandpaper soaked in acid. My wrists burn.

Everything hurts in very specific ways. The deep ache of healing bruises, the sharp pull of stitches, the foggy disconnect that comes from some serious painkillers.

I try to open my eyes, but they're crusted shut.

When I finally manage it, the world is blurry white.

Private room. Expensive equipment.

Not a normal hospital. It’s too quiet, too clean, too empty of the usual hospital chaos.

"Rosalynn."

His voice breaks on my name.

I turn my head—slowly, everything hurts—and there he is.

Varrick looks destroyed.

It looks like days of stubble shadows his jaw.

His clothes are wrinkled, the same shirt he wore to the port, now decorated with blood that might be his or mine or someone else's.

His eyes are hollowed out, dark circles like bruises, the look of someone who hasn't slept since?—

"How long has it been?" My voice comes out as a croak, barely audible.

"Four days." He reaches for my hand, then stops, like he's afraid to touch me. Like I might break. Or disappear. "You've been unconscious for four days. You took a turn for the worst after I got you to the safehouse, started having seizures, started… I thought I was going to lose you."

Four days. Four days of him sitting here, if the state of him is any indication. Four days of not knowing if I'd be okay.

"Dante," I manage, the boy's name my first real thought. "Is he?—"

Varrick's hand finally finds mine, his fingers threading through mine with desperate gentleness. "I’m going to get him. I just had to make sure you were okay before we went after Dante. I couldn’t focus, not knowing if you…"

The relief hits so hard I start crying, silent tears that burn my damaged throat. "You chose me over your son."

Something flashes across his face—pain, anger, guilt, all of it. "I chose to get you first. You were dying. Sienna might be crazy, but she wouldn’t kill Dante… not when it means her believing she has power over me as long as she has him."

"Varrick—"

"Now I get him." His grip on my hand tightens. "Now I end this."

"She'll never stop." The words hurt to say, but they're true. "As long as Sienna's alive, she'll use him against you. Against us."

"Then I'll stop her permanently." The way he says it, flat and final, I know he means it. Sienna’s days are numbered.

I try to sit up, and immediately regret it.

Pain flares everywhere—ribs, back, wrists, where the restraints cut deep.

Varrick is there instantly, hands gentle as he adjusts the bed, fixes my pillows, moves me like I'm made of glass.

"What did they do to me?" I ask, though I remember most of it.

When he broke my fingers. The waterboarding. The electricity. All the ways Mikhail wanted to make me miserable.

But there are blank spots, places where my mind has mercy-edited the memories.

"Nothing that won't heal," he says, but his eyes tell a different story. His eyes say I almost lost you . His eyes say I'll kill them all for this .

"How did you find me?"

"Doesn’t matter. The point is, I found you."

We sit in silence for a moment, his thumb tracing circles on my palm.

I look over my injuries, the bandages around my wrists, my ribs wrapped tight, something wrong with my left shoulder. But I'm alive.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"For what?"

"For making you choose. For being the weakness she could exploit. For not being able to fight them off."

His free hand comes up to cup my face, infinitely gentle over what feels like bruises. "You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing. This is on me. On my past. On my failure to kill her when I had the chance."

"You couldn't. She was pregnant."

"I should have found another way." His thumb brushes my cheekbone. "I should have protected you better. I could have killed her and taken him after he was born. Fuck, I should’ve done that."

Before I can respond, there's a knock at the door. Soft, tentative. Not like medical staff.

"Come in," Varrick calls, his hand moving automatically to the gun I know is hidden under his jacket.

The door opens slowly, and my heart stops.

It's Dante.

"Hi," he says quietly, looking between us like he's not sure he's allowed to be here.

"Dante?" Varrick stands, confusion clear. "How did you?—"

"Mama sent me," the boy says, and we both freeze. "She... she brought me here. Told me to come up alone. Said I had to..." He pauses, bites his already injured lip. "Said I had to say goodbye properly this time. To the lady. And then come back downstairs."

My blood turns to ice.

Sienna is here. In the building.

She sent her little boy alone to—what? Traumatize him? Deliver a message? Make him watch me die?

"What else did she say?" Varrick's voice is controlled, but I can see the rage building underneath.

Dante shifts from foot to foot. "She said to tell the lady that some people don't deserve second chances. And that blood always wins." His voice is mechanical, like he's reciting lines he doesn't understand. "And that Daddy will understand when he has to choose again."

"Come here," I say softly, my voice still wrecked but gentle. "It's okay."

He approaches slowly, and this close, I can see finger marks on his thin wrist. Someone grabbed him hard. Sienna's discipline for this visit, probably.

"She hurt you before coming here," I observe.

He nods, matter-of-fact about violence, the way only children raised in it can be. "She said it was important I remember the message right."

"You did perfect," I tell him. "But you don't have to go back downstairs. Not if you don't want to."

His eyes—Varrick's eyes—widen with something like hope. "I don't?"

"No," Varrick says firmly. "You don't."

Dante looks between us, then pulls out what he's been hiding behind his back.

It's a stuffed wolf, worn and obviously loved, one ear slightly torn.

"This is for you," he says, offering it to me with both hands like it's something precious. "For when you're scared. Wolves protect."

I take the wolf with shaking hands, and something about this gesture… this little boy giving me his treasure. It breaks something in me.

I start crying, ugly crying, the kind that would horrify my mother if she were alive to see it.

"I'm sorry," I sob. "I'm sorry, I just?—"

"It's okay," Dante says.

He climbs carefully onto the bed, mindful of the medical equipment, and pats my face with his small hand. "Mama cries too sometimes. Usually after she hurts someone. But your crying is different. Sadder but less scary."

This makes me cry harder.

"Are you the lady who got hurt for me?"

I look at Varrick, who's watching us with an expression I've never seen before. "I got hurt because bad people wanted to hurt your father."

"Mama says Daddy is the bad man."

"Sometimes he is," I admit, because lying to children about the nature of their parents never helps. "But never to children. Never to me."

Dante thinks about this for a few moments. "Mama's bad to everyone. Even me. Especially when I remind her of Daddy."

"Is that why she hurt your eye?" I ask gently.

He nods. "I was practicing numbers. She said I looked too much like him when I concentrated. Hit me to make me stop."

Varrick makes a sound that's almost inhuman, pure rage distilled into noise.

Dante looks at him with those too-wise eyes. "It's okay, Daddy. I'm learning to duck."

This is not okay. Nothing about a four year old learning to dodge his mother's fists is okay.

"You have pretty eyes," Dante tells me suddenly, changing the subject with the whiplash timing of children. "Sad but pretty. Like winter."

"Thank you," I manage.

He pulls something else from his pocket—a handful of small toys. Cars, a dinosaur, a tiny robot. "These are my treasures. Wanna see?"

For the next hour, he shows me each toy, explaining their names and powers and adventures with the detailed imagination of a lonely child.

"Are you my family now?" he asks suddenly, in the middle of explaining why the blue car is faster than the red one. "Instead of Mama and Mikhail?"

I look at Varrick again, who's still watching us with that unfathomable expression.

"Do you want us to be?" I ask Dante.

"Yes." No hesitation. "Mama's family hurts. You don't hurt."

"Then yes," I tell him, my throat tight with emotion. "We're family."

He nods, satisfied, then yawns again. "Can I stay here? Mama's house is loud and scary. Mikhail yells a lot. And there are always men with guns who look at me funny."

"You're never going back there," Varrick says, and it's not a promise—it's a fact. "Never."

"Promise?" Dante's voice goes small, vulnerable in a way that breaks my heart.

"I promise."

Dante curls closer to me, clutching the wolf between us. "Will Mama be mad?"

"Yes," Varrick says honestly. "But that's not your problem anymore."

"Will she hurt more people?"

"No." The finality in Varrick's voice makes it clear—Sienna's campaign of terror is about to end. Permanently.

Within minutes, Dante is asleep, his small form warm against my injured body.

He makes little noises in his sleep, twitches that speak of bad dreams.

I run my fingers through his dark hair, feeling protective in a way I didn't know I could feel.

"He chose you," Varrick says quietly. "My son chose you."

"He's been waiting for someone to choose him back," I reply. "To save him."

"Like you were."

"Like we both were."

Varrick moves his chair closer, reaches out to touch his son's face with a gentleness that would surprise anyone who only knows him as the King of Vancouver’s underworld.

"It won’t take long to figure out who he is to me.

In a couple of weeks, all of my enemies will know.

Not to mention, he’s a child. Anything could have happened with him coming up here by himself like that. "

"She's losing control, desperate."

"She's dead." He says it simply, like commenting on the weather. "She just doesn't know it yet."

"What about Mikhail?"

"His death certificate is signed too."

I look down at Dante, sleeping so peacefully despite the chaos of his short life. "He'll need therapy. Real help. Not just...this."

"I know. I've already arranged it. The best child psychologist in the city, specializes in trauma." He pauses. "For both of you."

"I don't need?—"

"Rosalynn." His voice is gentle but firm. "They tortured you for two days. You need help processing that. We both do."

He's right. I know he's right. But admitting I need help feels like admitting weakness, and I've been weak enough already.

"Will you stay?" I ask. "Both of you? Here, with me?"

"Try to make us leave," Varrick says, and for the first time in days, I see him almost smile.

We sit in silence, watching Dante sleep.

He's wrapped around the wolf and pressed against my side like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go. Maybe I would. Maybe we all would, without each other to anchor us.

"Sienna's still downstairs," I realized suddenly. "Waiting for him to come back."

"Let her wait." Varrick's smile is sharp now, dangerous. "Let her realize he's not coming. That her leverage is gone. That her last card has been played."

"She'll run."

"No, she won't. She'll come up here, furious and ready to fight. And she'll find me waiting." He pulls out his phone, texts something quickly. “Gomez is clearing the building. Just Sienna and whatever security she brought. No civilians to worry about."

"You're going to kill her."

"I'm going to end this. Forever. So our son never has to look over his shoulder. So you never have to wonder if she's coming. So we can be a family without the ghost of my past haunting us."

Our son. We. Family.

The words settle over me like a blanket, warm and terrifying and perfect.

"I love you," I tell him, because I might not get another chance. Because if this goes wrong, if Sienna has one more trick, I need him to know.

"I love you too," he says, leaning over to kiss my forehead, careful of the bruises. "Both of you. My family. Mine to protect."

Dante stirs in his sleep, mumbles something about wolves and Daddy and being safe.

His hand finds mine, small fingers wrapping around my thumb with surprising strength.

"When this is over," Varrick says, "we're leaving the city for a while. Somewhere warm. Somewhere Dante can just be a kid. Where you can heal without looking over your shoulder."

"That sounds nice," I admit. "Like a dream."

"Then I'll make it real. After I handle the nightmare downstairs."