Page 19 of Silent Schemes (Broken Blood)

CHAPTER TEN

Sienna

The morning starts with blood in my mouth and the taste of betrayal on my tongue.

I've been awake for hours, watching Varrick sleep beside me, counting his breaths like they're numbered.

Which they are.

Twenty-three days left on my father's deadline.

Twenty-three days to figure out how to save him, Maya, and the secret growing inside me that makes everything infinitely more complicated.

The sunrise paints Vancouver in shades of gold and crimson through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and I can't help but think it looks like the city is already bleeding.

Prophetic, maybe.

Or maybe I just see blood everywhere now—in sunrises, in wine, in the way Varrick's lips turned red from biting them last night when he was trying not to wake the neighbors with what he was doing to me.

My hand drifts to my stomach, still flat, still keeping its secret.

Four weeks now, maybe five.

The nausea comes in waves, usually in the morning, and I've been hiding it by pretending to go for early runs.

Instead, I sit in my car in the parking garage, breathing through the sickness, wondering how something so small can already be changing everything.

My phone buzzes at 6 AM.

My father’s number.

My blood turns to ice.

I slip out of bed carefully, padding to the bathroom so Varrick won't hear.

If there’s one thing my father doesn't like, it’s to be kept waiting.

"You've gone quiet, daughter." His voice is razor wire wrapped in silk, the same tone he used when I was twelve and learning how to hold a knife steady. "So much silence after your cousin's unfortunate accident."

"Bastian's wrist will heal," I say, keeping my voice neutral, professional.

The voice of a weapon, not a daughter.

"His pride won't. But that's not why I'm calling.

" There's a pause, the kind that makes smart people nervous and dead people out of stupid ones.

I hear him lighting one of his Cuban cigars, the ritual he performs before delivering bad news.

"The Rosetti family is restless. Something about their money going missing.

Their collector. Three of their men left bloody in a warehouse.

You wouldn't know anything about that, would you? "

My stomach drops.

Of course, he knows about the job with Varrick.

My father knows everything.

Has eyes everywhere. Probably has someone in Varrick's organization, maybe multiple someones, feeding him information.

"I've been maintaining my cover," I say carefully, each word measured.

"Have you? Because from where I sit, it looks like you've been playing house. Playing partner." His voice drops to sub-zero, the temperature where flesh freezes on contact. "Playing family."

The last word hits like a bullet.

Does he know about the pregnancy?

No, impossible.

I've been too careful.

But Theodore has a way of knowing things he shouldn't, of seeing through walls and lies and carefully constructed facades.

"Everything I do is for the mission."

"Good. Then you won't mind a little test. The remaining Rosetti crew wants revenge for Matteo. They're planning something special for your boyfriend. Tonight. The Crimson Hotel, that charity gala he can't miss. Very public. Very messy."

My free hand clenches into a fist. "Father?—"

"If you warn him, if you interfere, I'll know where your loyalties lie.

And sweet Maya will pay the price for your confusion.

" He pauses, letting that sink in. "I've had her under observation, you know.

Such a pretty thing. Prime age for her first real assignment.

Or perhaps Vincent would like to handle her training personally.

He's always been fond of breaking in the new recruits. "

The threat is clear.

The image of Vincent's hands on my sister makes bile rise in my throat.

"Are we clear?" Father asks.

"Crystal."

"Good girl. Remember, Sienna—you're mine before you're anyone else's. You've been mine since the day you were born. Don't forget who owns you."

The line goes dead.

I set the phone down with trembling hands, then grip the marble counter until my knuckles turn white.

The Crimson Hotel.

Tonight.

A setup designed to test me, to see if I'll let Varrick walk into an ambush.

The smart play is to stay quiet, let it happen, prove my loyalty to my family, to my father.

But I can't.

Not anymore.

Not when I've seen him stitch my wounds with gentle hands.

Not when I carry his child.

Not when I've already chosen him, even if he doesn't know how completely.

I splash cold water on my face, trying to wash away the conversation, the threats, the impossibility of it all.

In the mirror, I look for traces of the woman my father created—the perfect weapon, the dutiful daughter, the killer without conscience.

But all I see is someone caught between two worlds, two loves, two futures that can't coexist.

"Bad news?" Varrick's voice makes me jump.

He's leaning against the bathroom doorframe, all sleep-mussed hair and dangerous eyes.

Even fresh from bed, he radiates menace.

It's what first attracted me to him—that promise of violence beneath expensive suits.

"Just my father checking in," I say, forcing casualness into my voice.

He moves into the bathroom, crowds my space in that way of his that should feel threatening but instead feels safe. "What does daddy dearest want?"

"Progress report. He's getting impatient."

"Good. Impatient men make mistakes." He reaches for me, but I slip past him, needing distance to think.

To plan.

To figure out how to save him without destroying everything else.

In the bedroom, I pull on his shirt from last night.

It smells like him—gunpowder and expensive cologne and that underlying scent that's purely Varrick.

The baby will know this smell, I think.

Will recognize its father by scent before sight.

"The charity gala tonight," I say, aiming for casual. "You're still going?"

"Have to. It's a command performance for all the families. Plus, the mayor will be there. Good opportunity to remind him whose family really runs this city." He's watching me in the mirror as he buttons his shirt. "Why?"

I turn to face him, weighing my options.

I can't tell him about my father’s test directly—that reveals too much, puts Maya at risk.

But I can't let him walk into an ambush either.

"Just... be careful. The Rosetti family lost face after that warehouse incident. They might try something."

His eyes narrow, reading between the lines like he always does.

It's what makes him dangerous—not just the violence he's capable of, but the intelligence behind it. "You know something specific."

"I know they're angry. I know they're desperate. I know desperate people do stupid things."

He's crossing to me now with that predatory grace that has basically made him king of Vancouver's underworld.

His father doesn’t mean shit anymore

Everyone knows Varrick is really the one with the reins, even if the old bastard is still alive.

"What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing you don't already know. The Rosetti family wants revenge. You embarrassed them. Do the math."

He studies my face, looking for the lie. But I've gotten good at half-truths, at giving him just enough honesty to satisfy without revealing everything. It's a skill Theodore taught me, though he never intended for me to use it against him.

"I'll double security," he says finally.

"Triple it," I counter. "And wear the vest."

"I always wear the vest."

"The good one. The one that actually stops rifle rounds."

Now he's really looking at me, suspicion clear in those dark eyes. "Sienna?—"

I kiss him to stop the questions, pouring enough desperation into it that he responds immediately, hands tangling in my hair, pulling me against him like he's trying to merge us into one person.

When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.

"Just promise me you'll be careful," I whisper against his mouth.

"I promise," he says, but his eyes say we'll talk about this later.

Later.

If there is a later.

The day passes too quickly.

I spend it memorizing things—the way he takes his coffee—black, two sugars when he thinks no one's looking, the scar on his shoulder from a job gone wrong five years ago, the way he unconsciously reaches for me when I'm near, like I'm his anchor in a storm he doesn't even realize he's weathering.

I help him with legitimate business, reviewing contracts for his above-board enterprises.

It's a fiction we both maintain—that he could be legitimate, that I could be just his assistant or his girlfriend or whatever we're pretending to be today.

But as I watch him negotiate a real estate deal, ruthless even in legitimate business, I imagine a different future.

One where our child grows up with a father who doesn't have to check for car bombs every morning.

It's a pretty dream.

And like all pretty dreams in our world, it's destined to shatter.

By evening, my nerves are shredded.

I dress carefully for the gala—a black dress that conceals weapons and the barely-there swell of my stomach.

Not showing yet, but I feel different. Heavier. Like I'm carrying the weight of multiple futures, all of them precarious.

The dress is backless, showing the constellation of scars father gave me over the years of training.

Varrick traces them with his fingers as he zips me up, and I wonder if our child will ask about them someday.

If I'll lie or tell the truth about what monsters look like.

"Beautiful," he murmurs against my neck, and I don't know if he means me or the violence written on my skin.

The Crimson Hotel ballroom is all crystal and candlelight, Vancouver's criminal elite pretending to be legitimate businessmen.

The mayor holds court near the bar, accepting bribes disguised as campaign contributions.

The police chief laughs at something one of the traffickers says.

It's civilization's mask, paper-thin and transparent if you know how to look.

I scan the room automatically, cataloging exits, counting security, looking for threats.

And I find them immediately.