Page 107 of Dirty Game

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.