Page 1 of Silent Schemes (Broken Blood)

CHAPTER ONE

Varrick

The trick to breaking a man isn’t the tools.

It’s the timing.

I lean against a steel support beam, arms folded, letting the cold eat through the linen of my shirt.

The warehouse is an old ruined cathedral—stained glass long replaced with sheet metal, the only light is a work lamp swinging from a pipe.

Its bulb flickers, stuttering, casting the man hanging before me into shadows of light.

He’s tied by his ankles, shirtless, wrists bound behind his back.

Cheap rope, but effective for a pig this size.

The blood’s pooled in his face, turning it a swollen red that hides half his bruises.

Sweat runs from his scalp and gathers at his hairline, then it drips, each drop smacking the concrete with pathetic consistency.

His name is irrelevant.

So is whatever he did for the Bane syndicate before today.

Now he’s just meat, swinging slowly in the cold.

I check my watch.

Five minutes since the last question.

Two since his last breathless sob.

Most men would be screaming by now.

This one’s got some backbone, or maybe he’s just too dumb to process fear at this angle.

I walk closer.

The soles of my shoes are soft rubber, silent.

His head tilts up, eyes darting, trying to focus.

He’s expecting threats, maybe a knife or a hammer.

All the classics.

I squat next to his head, roll up the sleeves of my dress shirt.

The tattoos on my forearms draw his attention for a second—black ink, script, and sigils, each one a lesson.

He tries to read them, a desperate brain reaching for any distraction.

“You know who I am,” I say.

Voice low. I don’t need to raise it.

Not in this place.

He nods.

The motion sends a splatter of sweat to the ground.

“So, you know what’s expected.”

“Please,” he manages, tongue thick with blood and snot. “It wasn’t?—”

I put my finger to his lips.

He shuts up so fast his teeth click.

A good dog, even at the end.

“No lies, not yet,” I tell him. “Save them for later. First, the truth: Why did you meet with Cross?”

His jaw works.

The lie is building in there, but it’s not ready.

I wait.

Silence is a vacuum, and most men fill it with whatever will keep their bones intact for another minute.

He finally says, “He said it was just a job, man. He said—” He bites it off, realizes what he’s admitted.

“Who?”

“Theo. The old man himself.”

I nod, pleased.

Not that he confessed, just that he did it this easily.

No sport in it, but I’ve never been one for games of chance.

Usually my interrogations go for much longer, but this one seems to think he will find his way into my grace if he just spills.

As if.

“And what did you tell him?”

He swallows, throat bobbing in an ugly way. “Nothing! I—he asked about shipments. I made up some bullshit, gave him the schedule from two months ago. I swear, man. That’s all.”

I believe him, but it doesn’t matter.

Betrayal is betrayal.

“Thank you,” I say.

He starts to sob.

I grip his index finger and snap it at the joint.

The crack is dry, almost surgical.

The first knuckle only.

He screams, but not for long—he’s smart enough to know the worst is coming.

“That’s for being in the room,” I say.

He thrashes, the chains clinking above, feet scrabbling at nothing.

I grab the next finger, middle. “This is for thinking you’re clever,” I tell him, and snap. A howl this time, raw and animal.

I keep going.

Ring finger, then pinky, then the thumb.

The rhythm of the breaking is a lullaby, each bone a note.

By the time I switch hands, his face is wet and gleaming, streaked with tears, spit, and whatever else is leaking from him.

Piss, judging by the smell.

Sweat trickles down all over his face.

He begs now, a steady mantra: Please, please, please.

“Save your pleas,” I snarl at him. “Don’t waste them on me.”

By the time both hands are finished, he’s passed out.

I leave him dangling, because I like the way he looks—deflated, empty.

Like a lesson written in blood and meat.

I wipe my hands with a rag, toss it on the floor, and turn away just as the metal door at the far end slams open.

Will walks in, my mentor and number one confidante.

He’s in black, as always, but today he’s left the tie at home, unusual for him.

He sees the mess and barely registers it, eyes already on me.

“King,” he says.

Will is the only man on earth who calls me that without irony.

It’s not respect—it’s just what I am.

“What,” I reply, voice flat.

He looks back at the traitor, the mess of broken fingers.

His nose wrinkles.

Not at the violence, but at the amateur hour.

He hates this side of the business—prefers neat kills, chemical silences.

This is too messy, too fun for him.

“We’ve got movement,” he says.

“Cross?” I ask. I don’t have to specify which one.

He nods. “They’re making a play tonight. Not the old man. The girl.”

Interesting. “Here?” I ask.

“Casino. Our casino.”

I let that sit in the air for a moment, weighing the angles.

I see the faintest muscle flick in Will’s jaw.

He’s nervous. Not for himself. For me.

I look past him, to the window where the city lights jitter through cracked glass.

“I’ll handle it,” I say.

Will glances at the traitor, then back at me.

He’s waiting for me to say more, maybe to explain why I wasted time on a pawn when the queen is in play.

But I don’t owe him that, mentor or not.

I stride past, pat him once on the shoulder—a courtesy, not a comfort—and make for the door.

Behind me, the traitor moans through his broken mouth.

I could finish him, but there’s no need.

He’ll hang there until the next shift comes in, a reminder to anyone who thinks loyalty is negotiable.

With any luck, I’ll come back and his head will have exploded.

Will follows.

He waits until we’re in the echoing corridor before he says, “Do you want me to put a tail on her?”

“No need,” I tell him. “She wants to be seen. So let’s give her what she wants.”

We walk in silence, shoes slapping wet patches on the warehouse floor.

When we reach the exit, I pause, look at my hands, one knuckle split and already beading with blood.

I lick it clean, then pull on my coat.

Tonight is going to be interesting.

The casino under the Crimson Hotel isn’t built for shits and giggles.

It’s built for control.

I push through the velvet rope and let the sound hit me.

Ice chips clacking, glasses clinking, the low growl of a crowd that doesn’t want to be seen.

The air is a chemical weapon: perfume, sweat, high-octane bourbon, and something metallic underneath.

The lights are harsh neon, cheap and unforgiving.

Everything’s washed in blue and red, like a cop car rolling up slowly.

I don’t bother looking at the cameras.

Let them watch.

I’m not here to hide.

Scoping the room takes three seconds.

The table near the stage has a pit boss I don’t recognize, maybe on Cross payroll.

A drunk in a bolo tie is losing badly to a pair of twins with identical tells—eyebrows twitch before every raise.

Dealer’s on the take.

I make a mental note: be an easy take, if that’s what I am here for.

But she’s the only thing that matters tonight.

Sienna Cross is impossible to miss.

Even if you’ve never seen her, you’d pick her out: too perfect, too composed, like a predator playing at prey.

She’s at the far blackjack table, flanked by men who think she’s a gift.

Her dress is black, slit to the thigh.

Not for attention—there’s a glint of steel at the holster on her upper leg.

She wants me to notice, and I gladly oblige.

She sips from a martini, pinky out, head thrown back in a laugh.

Not real, but close.

She’s good.

Her hair’s black as night, long and loose except for a single streak of silver that runs from temple to ear.

Most people would think it’s dye.

It’s not.

Stress does things to people, even the young and deadly.

She leans in toward the old man on her left, whispering something that makes his face go slack.

He thinks he’s in love.

She’s already calculated exactly how much it would cost to ruin him, down to the decimal.

I watch her play for five minutes.

She pretends to drink, but never actually swallows.

She loses every third hand, just enough to keep the others from suspecting, but her bets are precise: she’s counting, always.

Her finger taps the felt whenever she’s about to win.

The pattern is invisible unless you know what to look for.

I know what to look for.

She never looks up at me, not directly.

But the way her body shifts, her chin angles, tells me she’s tracking every step I take.

Shit’s tense, whether its sexual attraction, or deadly chemistry.

I step closer, just to see if she’ll flinch.

She doesn’t.

When her chips run low, she pouts.

For a moment, I’m distracted by the perfect shape of her lips.

I wonder what it would be like to ruin her.

To destroy her.

Instead, I watch.

A little performance for the table.

The man on her right, some overfed city councilman, slides a stack of his own chips her way.

She grins, thanks him with a touch on the arm, then doubles down and wins it all back.

He doesn’t even realize he’s being robbed.

I move to the bar and order a whiskey, neat.

The bartender pours it with shaking hands, his eyes never quite meeting mine.

I like this place.

The people know their place.

A waitress glides by with a tray of shots.

She’s new, which means someone’s expecting trouble.

I log that away, too.

The twins from earlier are gone, replaced by a pair of Bulgarians who watch everything but pretend to care only for their cards.

One is left-handed and has a military haircut.

The other is missing a tooth.

They’re probably not here for me, but I never assume.

I finish the whiskey in one drag, set the glass down, and walk toward Sienna’s table.

Her smile doesn’t falter, but her eyes flicker, just once, to the empty chair across from her.

Invitation. Challenge.

I take it.

The old man next to her coughs, clears his throat, and tries to stare me down.

I stare back until he looks at his shoes.