Page 11 of Silent Schemes (Broken Blood)

CHAPTER SIX

Sienna

The abandoned warehouse smells like rust and rain, with undertones of machine oil that remind me of my father's kill rooms.

Vincent chose it, of course.

He always picks places that echo violence, as if the ghosts of past murders might keep me in line.

I've been living in Varrick's penthouse for a week now.

Seven days of circling each other like wolves, testing boundaries, drawing invisible battle lines across marble floors and silk sheets.

Seven days of him watching me with those knowing eyes, letting me keep my weapons, letting me pretend I'm not a prisoner.

Seven days of my body betraying everything my father trained into me.

The drive here took thirty minutes through Vancouver's rain-slicked streets.

I counted every turn, memorized every street light, cataloged every possible escape route.

Old habits.

The kind that keeps assassins alive longer than their expiration dates.

My hands haven't stopped shaking since I left Varrick's penthouse, and I tell myself it's from the cold, not from the way he looked at me this morning over coffee—like I'm something precious instead of poisonous.

Vincent is already there when I arrive, cigarette dangling from his lips, the cherry glowing like a tiny eye in the darkness.

His cheap cologne can't mask the scent of death that clings to him—it never could.

He's killed three men since I last saw him. I can tell by the way he rolls his shoulders, working out the tension that comes from wielding a baseball bat for hours.

There's a spot of blood on his collar he missed, and his knuckles are freshly scabbed.

"You're late," he says, not looking up from the burner phone he's scrolling through.

"I had to be careful. Varrick has eyes everywhere."

Now he does look up, and his smile makes my skin crawl the way it has since I was fifteen and he first started noticing I wasn't a little girl anymore.

Vincent has always looked at me like I'm meat he's been promised but hasn't been allowed to taste yet.

My father's protective ownership is the only thing that's kept his hands to himself all these years.

"Does he now? And what else does Varrick have, Sienna?" His voice drops on my name, suggestive and threatening all at once.

"Nothing that concerns you."

He moves closer, and I force myself not to step back.

Show weakness to Vincent, and he'll report it to my father.

Show fear, and I might not leave this warehouse alive.

The concrete floor is stained with old blood in patterns that tell stories of previous meetings that ended badly.

"Your father wonders if you've forgotten your purpose," he says, blowing smoke in my face.

The gesture is deliberate, meant to make me flinch.

I don't give him the satisfaction. "Seven days, and Bane's still breathing. That's not like you. The Sienna I trained would have had him dead in three."

I pull out my phone, show him the photos I've carefully curated over the past week. "His operations. The dock schedules. Guard rotations for his secondary facilities. Money laundering routes through his clubs."

All true, all useless.

Varrick changes these patterns randomly, sometimes daily, sometimes hourly.

But Vincent doesn't need to know that.

He sees what he wants to see—evidence that I'm working, that I'm still my father’s good little soldier.

"This is bullshit intel," Vincent says, but he's studying the photos intently, probably memorizing details to report back to my father. "What about his personal security? His brothers' schedules? The penthouse layout? The biometric locks?"

"I need deeper access. Trust takes time."

"Trust?" Vincent laughs, ugly and sharp, the sound echoing off the warehouse walls. "You're not there to earn his trust. You're there to fuck him stupid and put a bullet in his brain. Simple. Unless..."

He grabs my wrist, yanks me closer.

His breath reeks of cigarettes and the whiskey he thinks covers it up. "Unless you're enjoying playing house with the Bastard King. Unless you like being his kept woman."

I break his hold with a move that would shatter a normal man's wrist.

Vincent just laughs again, rubbing his arm with something like pride. "There she is. There's Daddy’s little killer. I was starting to worry Bane had domesticated you. Turned you into another one of his whores."

"I'm nobody's pet," I say, voice steady despite the rage burning in my chest.

Despite the voice in my head that whispers I might be lying.

"Prove it. Your father wants him dead within the week. Seven more days, Sienna. That's all you get."

"Then Father can come and kill him himself."

The slap comes fast, but I see it coming.

I let it land because dodging would escalate things, and I need to get back.

Vincent's ring cuts my cheek, and I taste copper mixing with rain on my lips.

"Watch your tongue, girl. You're not irreplaceable. Maya's almost ready to take your place. Seventeen next month. Prime age for this kind of work."

The threat hits exactly as intended.

My baby sister, following in my footsteps, becoming what I am.

The thought makes me want to vomit. "Maya's too young."

"She's older than you were your first time." Vincent's eyes glitter with memories that make me want to shower in bleach. "Such a quick learner. So eager to please. And that face—she'll be even better at the seduction game than you."

"I'll get it done," I say, swallowing bile and pride in equal measure. "Varrick Bane will be dead within the week."

"Good girl." He pats my bleeding cheek with false gentleness, and I force myself not to recoil.

"And Sienna? Next time you show up smelling like his cologne, I'll assume you've been compromised.

We kill compromised assets. After we make them watch their loved ones die first. Maya would be so disappointed to know her big sister failed her. "

"Understood."

"Oh, and one more thing." He pulls out a small vial from his pocket, presses it into my hand. "Poison. Undetectable, untraceable. Works in twelve hours. Put it in his whiskey tomorrow night. Make sure you're seen publicly somewhere else when he drops. Your alibi needs to be airtight."

I pocket the vial, feeling its weight like a stone. "Tomorrow's too soon."

"Tomorrow's perfect. There's a charity gala.

All of Vancouver's elite will be there. You dose him before, let him die very publicly.

Send a message that even kings can fall.

" Vincent's smile is all teeth. "Your father's orders, not mine.

Don't disappoint him, Sienna. You know what happens to disappointments in the Cross family. "

I’m not killing him tomorrow.

There’s more I need from Varrick Bane, and I’m not done yet, but I won’t tell Vincent that.

I leave the first chance I get and drive back to the penthouse in silence, windows down despite the rain, trying to get Vincent's cigarette stench out of my clothes, my hair, my skin.

But I know it's useless.

Varrick will smell it the moment I walk in.

He notices everything —every new bruise, every missed meal, every nightmare that wakes me at 3 AM.

He probably already knows about the vial in my pocket, the deadline, the threat to Maya.

The city blurs past in streams of neon and shadow.

Vancouver at night is a different beast than during the day—all the monsters come out to play, and I'm one of them.

Or I used to be.

Now I'm not sure what I am.

Varrick's changing me, rewriting my code one touch at a time, and I can't seem to stop it.

The penthouse is dark when I arrive, but I know he's awake.

He doesn't sleep, remember?

Too many ghosts.

I wonder if I'll become one of them when this is over.

If I'll haunt his wakeful nights the way he's already haunting mine.

The thought shouldn't hurt, but it does.

I find him in his private gym, hands wrapped, working the heavy bag like he’s done it a million times.

He's shirtless, sweat making his skin gleam in the low light, every muscle defined as he strikes.

He doesn't acknowledge me, just keeps hitting the bag with so much force that it makes my pulse quicken.

Each impact sounds like a gunshot in the quiet space.

I watch him for a moment from the doorway, cataloging everything I'm about to lose.

The way his shoulders bunch before a particularly hard strike.

The small tell in his footwork when he's about to change combinations.

The scar on his lower back that he favors slightly, an old injury that never quite healed right.

"You're back," he says finally, not turning around.

"I went for a drive."

"In the rain. To an abandoned warehouse on the east side. To meet with Vincent Carlisle." He lands a particularly vicious combination that makes the bag swing wildly. "Did he give you new orders? Or just threaten your sister again?"

I should be surprised that he knows, but I'm not.

Of course, he had me followed.

Of course, he knows about Vincent, about the warehouse, probably about the threat to Maya.

Varrick Bane doesn't miss anything.

It's what's kept him alive this long, and it's what will make killing him nearly impossible.

"Both," I admit, because lying feels pointless now.

We're past pretense, him and I.

He finally turns to face me, and his expression is unreadable.

His eyes drop to my cheek where Vincent's ring cut me, and something dangerous flashes across his face.

The kind of dangerous that ends with bodies in the harbor.

"He hit you."

"It's nothing."

"It's not nothing." He moves closer, and I smell him—clean sweat and that cologne that's probably worth more than most people's rent. "Nothing about you is nothing, Ruin."

The nickname rolls off his tongue like ownership, and I hate how much I don't hate it.

"Don't," I warn, but my voice lacks conviction.