Page 18 of Silent Schemes (Broken Blood)

CHAPTER NINE

Varrick

It takes a week for the wounds we got to heal enough to feel good again and less than that to decide Sienna is the only asset in this city worth deploying.

The first job we run together is Rosetti clean-up, a minor operation, almost an insult.

My brothers think I’m playing it safe—test-driving the new model before I let her anywhere near the big leagues.

They’re wrong.

This is just a favor to the accountant.

No one expects trouble from the Rosettis—they’ve been spineless since their patriarch got bled out in a hotel sauna.

That’s why it’s the perfect place for Sienna to shine.

The night is rainless but cold.

Vancouver’s east industrial fringe.

Blocks of warehouses, rusted barbed wire, pools of standing water on blacktop.

The kind of place that doesn’t even try to pretend it isn’t a graveyard for hope.

Sienna’s beside me, dressed in black tactical: matte fabric, boots laced tight, hair in a braid that could choke out a man if you gave her a minute and a reason.

She wears it like a weapon.

We move in silence down the chain-link corridor, wind cutting straight through to the bone.

The warehouse is just up ahead, lights blinking at the entrance, no cameras, no guards posted outside.

That’s arrogance, or stupidity.

Either way, it makes my job easier.

She keeps pace, half a step behind, but it’s not deference.

She’s watching my periphery, making sure no one gets the drop.

I notice the way she glances at the puddles, counting footprints, not just her own.

The last set that passed here was a while ago—three men, one heavy, two moving with the wide stance of people who carry.

Sienna marks it at the same time I do.

Our eyes meet, and nothing needs to be said.

Inside, the air reeks of diesel and mold.

Rows of stacked shipping containers create a rat maze.

The fluorescents above are dying, their buzz an annoyance.

We move to the meeting room, a prefab cube of drywall and plexiglass wedged in the warehouse corner.

There are three Rosetti men inside.

One behind the foldout table, two at the door pretending not to be muscle.

All mid-level, all dressed in suits they think make them look untouchable.

They smell of cheap aftershave.

I nod to the big one behind the table. “Dominic,” I say.

He stands.

I clock the slight hesitation as he recognizes me. “You’re not who I expected, Bane.”

I let the disrespect slide. “Consider it an honor.”

He eyes Sienna, but only for a split second. Mistake. “The money’s not ready. There was a shipment delay. You understand how?—”

I cut him off with a smile. “Don’t care.”

He tries again, voice louder, aimed at the two muscles. “I said, there was a delay. We’ll settle up next week.”

Sienna leans against the wall, arms folded.

She lets the silence eat at him.

I walk to the table. “You had two weeks. My father’s patience is gone.”

I look at the ledgers on the desk, run a finger across the lines of bullshit. “The only thing you’re buying with excuses is time. And you’re fresh out.”

He stands, slowly.

The other two shift behind me, flanking. Standard play.

“You gonna rough me up?” Dominic says, sneering.

I shake my head. “Not tonight. I’m here for payment.”

He looks at Sienna again, as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. “Who’s the girl?”

Sienna smiles, sharp and real. “Auditor.”

That does something to him.

He wavers. “You can tell your boss he’ll get his cut. We just need the week.”

“No,” I say. “You’re done. Tonight, or never.”

That’s when the first one moves.

I’d have been disappointed if he hadn’t.

The man to my right lunges, going for a choke.

Sienna lets him grab me—on purpose, I realize a second later—so she can slam her elbow into his temple, hard.

He drops like a sack of meat.

I barely have to shift to avoid the second guy, who swings a fist at my face.

It’s clumsy.

I catch his wrist, torque it back, and let the bone snap.

He howls, tries to claw at my eyes, but I headbutt him and he collapses, stunned.

Dominic’s smarter than both, but not by much.

He pulls a blade from behind the ledgers, low and quick, meant to open my flesh and leave me on the floor.

But Sienna’s already moving.

She vaults over the table, lands cat-quiet, and drives her boot into his knee.

He buckles, knife wavering, but manages a desperate upward jab.

For a second, I think he’ll catch her in the gut, but Sienna pivots, lets the blade skitter along her hip, and slams the heel of her palm into his nose.

Cartilage crunches.

Blood fans out.

He’s not done.

Even with his nose leaking, he swings the knife in a tight, mean arc aimed at my ribs.

This time, I take it—let it bite through the fabric, shallow but stinging—because the real play is behind me: the first man, not as unconscious as I thought, is crawling for a gun in the file cabinet.

Sienna finishes Dominic with a stab to the hand, pinning him to the table.

She grabs the knife, yanks it free, and hurls it into the back of the crawling man’s thigh.

He screams, flails, then goes still.

She’s impressive.

I hardly had to do a damn thing. Her family trained her well.

I take a breath, check the wound on my ribs.

It’s nothing. Bleeding is good. It reminds you you’re alive.

Dominic tries to speak, but Sienna silences him with a glare.

I say, “Money. Now.”

He fumbles with his other hand, reaches under the table, and produces a battered briefcase. I open it, check the stacks.

Hundreds of bills, real, counted and bundled.

I hand it to Sienna, who scans the contents, then snaps the case shut.

I look at the carnage: three Rosetti men, all in various stages of pain and humiliation.

Sienna, not even breathing hard, one thin line of blood seeping down her hip.

I nod at her. “Nice.”

She shrugs, then limps once, tiny but real.

I fight the urge to ask her if she’s okay.

That’ll only show her she’s under my skin and right now we have a job to finish.

Dominic croaks, “You’re fucking animals.”

Sienna leans in, voice honeyed and flat. “We’re just the accountants.”

We leave them there. No cleanup. No warning. Message delivered.

Outside, I open the passenger door to the Charger.

Sienna slides in, pressing a wadded-up rag to her hip.

I drive.

We don’t talk until the city lights blur behind us, until the engine noise drowns out the pain.

She says, “You could have let me finish all three.”

I shake my head, smile. “That’s not how it works.”

She stares out the window, eyes sharp. “You’re still bleeding.”

“So are you.”

She grins, flashing her teeth, then looks away. “Next time, let me take point.”

I don’t say yes. I don’t have to.

She already knows.

The drive to the penthouse is silent.

Sienna is still holding the rag to her side and thankfully, the blood is slowing.

Must not have been that deep,

Upstairs, my private elevator opens right into the main room.

She doesn’t need to be told where to go.

She peels off toward the back, finds the hidden medical suite behind a pantry door.

I spent a million on this setup, and it looks like it.

It’s ideal for someone like me who needs a safe place and no eyes to watch the clean up.

The irony is never lost on me—most of the blood in here is my own.

After she grabs the med kit, she walks back into the kitchen.

She stands at the sink, fingers slick and red. “I need booze,” she says, voice flat.

“Cabinet above you,” I reply.

She grabs the bottle, lifts her shirt a fraction, splashes half over her wound, the rest down her throat.

She doesn’t hiss at the sting, but I see her eyes water for a half-beat.

“Shirt off,” I say, pulling gloves from the drawer.

She strips without hesitation.

Underneath is all old scar and new bruise, a patchwork of violence.

The fresh cut is clean, maybe an inch deep, just above her hip.

She holds the edge open so I can see. “You’ll need the black thread,” she says.

I nod, set out the suture kit. “Lie down.”

She obeys, laying on the counter.

Her body is a map of wars survived.

I soak a swab, clean the area, and watch her face for any reaction.

Aside from an eye twitch, she doesn’t move a muscle.

“Breathe,” I say, not looking at her.

“I am,” she says, and she is—slow, measured, perfect.

I thread the needle, start the first stitch.

The skin pulls tight under my hand.

I work quickly.

When the blood wells up, I pinch it closed, not gentle.

“You knew,” she says, voice too casual.

I don’t pretend not to understand. “Since the casino. Maybe before.”

She stares at the ceiling, green eyes flat. “Then why?—”

“Because I want you here,” I say, cutting the thread with a snap. “Not as a spy. Not as bait. As an equal.” I tie off the next stitch, wipe away the blood. “You’re the only person in this city who makes me feel something. Even if it’s just rage.”

She snorts, then winces at the pain. “You’re lying.”

I set down the needle, wipe my gloves clean. “I don’t lie. Not to you, remember the oath.”

She looks at me, and her face is carved from marble, but her hands are trembling.

“I should kill you. It would please my father,” she says.

“Not tonight,” I say, soft. “You need me to finish the job.”

We both laugh, dark and hollow.

I run a bandage over the stitches, tape it down. “This will scar.”

“Good,” she says.

I stand back, arms folded. “You have a choice, Sienna. I’m giving it to you now because no one ever gave you one before.”

She sits up, blood crusted on her side. “What’s the deal?”

“Stay here. Help me burn your father’s empire to the ground. Or walk out that door and never come back. I’ll let you go. You have my word.”

She’s quiet for a long time.

Then she stands, bare-chested, bandaged, and walks to the window. Looks out at the city as if she owns it.

“I need to think,” she says.

I nod, collect the mess, trash the gloves.

As she stares at the skyline, I know the answer already.

But I’ll wait for her to say it.

She deserves that much.

She doesn’t answer that night.

She just spends hours standing at the window, the city reflected in her bare skin, bandage a white flag against her ribs.

I watch her watch the world.

She never asks for help, so I give her what she wants: solitude.

I clean the blood from the counter, dump the trash, sterilize the room until it shines.

I sleep in the guest room, for the first time since she’s been here.

In the morning, she’s where I left her, the sky bruised and pink behind her, the city busy pretending nothing ever happens.

I pour coffee, set it on the counter. She doesn’t touch it.

She says, “What about my sister?”

I don’t miss a beat. “Protected. I’ll put two on her, round the clock. No one gets near unless you say so.”

She turns, finally, face unreadable. “You don’t even know her name.”

I set my mug down, hard enough to crack the silence. “I do know her name, and I know she’s the only person in your life who survived. I know you’d burn this city to save her.”

I cross the space between us, slow and careful. “And I know you’re starting to feel the same about me.”

She snorts. “You’re insane.”

I take her jaw in my hand, thumb rough on her cheekbone. “Maybe. But you don’t love your father, and you don’t love this life, and if you’re here it’s because you want something else.”

She jerks away, backs into the counter, but there’s nowhere to run. “You’re full of shit.”

“Prove it.”

She’s still for a second.

Then she grabs my face and kisses me, open-mouthed, biting down hard enough to taste blood.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not even passion.

It’s need, pure and ugly.

I match her, hand on the back of her neck, pulling her in until we’re both gasping.

She breaks away first. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means everything,” I say.

She shoves me, hard, but not hard enough. “You’re going to get us both killed.”

I lean in, lips to her ear. “Probably. But at least it’ll be honest.”

She laughs, bitter. “You want me to choose.”

“Yes,” I say. “Me or your father. Life or death. Choose.”

She stares at me long enough, I think she’s going to lie. Then she nods, once.

“Fine.”

That’s all. No speech, no drama.

We fuck on the kitchen counter.

No knives, no blood.

Just heat and skin and the kind of desperation that leaves marks you can’t see.

She rakes my back, but it’s not about pain.

She lets her guard down for the first time and lets me touch her, really touch her, and when it’s over, she slumps against me, breathing hard.

We stay there, not speaking, her head on my shoulder.

The city gets brighter, the clouds burn away.

She starts crying.

At first it’s a little, then it’s everything.

I hold her, hands steady on her spine, and let it happen.

There are no words for this.

She weeps, and I watch the world go by, counting heartbeats, waiting for the moment when she can breathe again.

When she finally looks up, her face is wrecked, but her eyes are clear. “I want you.”

“Good,” I answer, kissing her again, this time slowly.

Outside, the world keeps spinning.

Inside, it finally stops.