Page 22 of Silent Schemes (Broken Blood)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sienna

The warehouse smells like death before anyone dies.

It's in the industrial district, right on the water where the city forgets to pretend it's civilized.

Rust and rot and old blood that never quite washes out of concrete.

My father chose it deliberately—he's always been theatrical about his murders, likes stages for his performances.

And today, I'm both director and lead actress in a play that ends in tragedy.

The rain has stopped, but water still drips from broken gutters, each drop echoing in the vast space like a countdown.

My hands haven't stopped shaking since his call at dawn. "Noon. Warehouse District, Building thirteen. Bring him or I bring Maya to you in pieces."

I arrive at 11:47, thirteen minutes before the scheduled meeting.

The black sedan I'm driving—one of Varrick's, still smelling like his cologne—feels like a hearse.

My phone sits silent on the passenger seat.

Varrick has called twice in the last ten minutes.

I haven't answered once.

I can't.

I can’t talk to him anymore, not when he confuses me and jumbles everything around in my brain.

My sister has to be my priority.

Our child has to be my priority.

If I talk to him again before we’re in the thick of this, I don’t know what I’ll do.

The metal door groans as I push it open, hinges screaming like they're trying to warn me.

I'm immediately assaulted by the setup.

My father has transformed the space into a killing floor—plastic sheeting on the walls to catch blood splatter, drains uncovered for easy cleanup, industrial lights positioned to eliminate shadows where someone might hide.

It's professional, methodical, the kind of setup that says this isn't the first execution staged here.

It won't be the last.

Thirty men, all armed, positioned strategically around the perimeter.

Some I recognize from my childhood—Uncle Mark who taught me to field strip a Glock at age nine, Dmitri who showed me where to cut to make someone bleed out slowly versus fast, Tommy the Bull who held my hair back the first time I vomited after a kill.

Others are newer recruits, young and hungry, eager to see the legendary Cross daughter prove her loyalty or die trying.

And in the center, like a sacrifice on an altar, stands Maya.

My baby sister wears white—a sundress more suited for a garden party than an execution.

The kind of dress she'd wear to university classes, to coffee with friends, to all the normal things I've killed to ensure she could have.

Her dark hair is curled, makeup done perfectly, looking exactly like the innocent she still is.

Should be.

Was, until today.

The white is deliberate, our father’s own personal touch of cruelty.

Blood shows better on white.

Every drop will be visible, a canvas for violence.

He's dressed her like a virgin sacrifice, and the symbolism isn't lost on anyone.

"Maya," I breathe, and she looks up.

Her eyes—the same green as mine, the same as our mother's—are red-rimmed but dry.

Our father doesn't tolerate tears.

She learned that at Mom's funeral when she was six and I was thirteen, when he backhanded her for crying over the casket.

"Sienna." Her voice is steady, but I hear the terror underneath. "I'm okay."

She's not okay.

Won't ever be okay after this, regardless of how it ends.

Our father has made sure of that—forcing her to witness what I am, what she'll become if I fail today.

This is her initiation into the family business, whether she wants it or not.

The bright, hopeful girl who wants to be a doctor, who volunteers at shelters, who still believes in good things—that girl is dying today, no matter who else survives.

"My prodigal daughter returns," Father announces, emerging from the shadows like the devil he is.

He's dressed impeccably, as always—a charcoal suit that costs more than most people's cars, Italian leather shoes that have never seen honest dirt, a blood-red tie that makes his intentions clear.

His silver hair is slicked back, and his cold blue eyes—nothing like mine or Maya's, we got Mom's eyes—survey me with the satisfaction of a chess player whose opponent has walked into checkmate.

"Alone, I see."

"He's coming," I say, voice steady despite the storm in my chest.

The baby—our baby—seems to sense my distress.

I swear I feel something, though it's too early for movement.

Maybe it's just my imagination, or maybe it's maternal instinct awakening at the worst possible moment.

Vincent appears at my father's shoulder, phone in hand, that sick smile playing at his lips.

His face still bears the yellowing bruises from where Varrick's men worked him over last week—payment for touching what belongs to the King.

"Bane's en route. Fifteen minutes out." He pauses, savoring the next words like fine wine. "Just him and the old man. Will Romano."

Theodore's smile is sharp enough to cut. "Arrogant bastard. Makes this easier."

He pulls a gun from inside his jacket, holds it out to me.

Not just any gun—a .45, chrome-plated, engraved with the Cross family crest.

The same gun he used to kill my mother.

I was there, hiding behind the door, watching through the crack as he put three bullets in her head for what she was doing to us—the hunger games.

The weight of it is familiar and horrifying, like holding my own death warrant.

"You'll do it in front of his man," Father instructs, his voice carrying so every soldier can hear. This is a lesson for them too—even his daughter isn't above the family law. "So everyone knows the Cross family broke the King. That love is weakness, and weakness is death."

I take the gun, check the chamber automatically.

Fully loaded. Safety off. Seven rounds, though I'll only need three.

My training kicks in, muscle memory from thousands of hours of practice.

The gun feels like an extension of my arm, perfectly balanced, recently cleaned.

Father always takes care of his weapons, whether they're made of metal or flesh.

"And if I refuse?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

Need to hear it.

Need Maya to hear it, to understand why I'm about to do the unthinkable.

Father nods to Vincent, who pulls out a knife, tests the edge with his thumb.

A thin line of blood appears, and he smiles. "Then sweet Maya learns what real pain feels like. Slowly. While you watch. While your lover watches. Everyone gets a show either way."

He moves closer to Maya, the blade catching the harsh industrial lights. "I've always wanted to see if she screams like her sister never did. You never gave me that satisfaction, Sienna. No matter what I did. But Maya... she's softer. Gentler. I bet she'll sing for us."

Maya makes a sound—not quite a whimper, strangled before it fully forms.

She knows better than to beg.

Father hates begging almost as much as he hates weakness.

But I see her throat working, swallowing fear, and her hands are trembling despite being clasped in front of her.

"I'll do it," I say, and something dies in Maya's eyes. The last of her innocence, perhaps. Or her faith in me. Both are casualties I'll carry forever, added to the collection of ghosts I've accumulated over the years.

"Of course you will." Father smirks, stepping back. "You're my daughter. My greatest creation. You'll do what needs to be done, just as I taught you."

The minutes tick by like hours.

I position myself where my father wants me—center stage in his theatrical execution.

The concrete beneath my feet is stained with old blood, layers of it, like geological strata of violence.

How many have died here?

How many more will?

Maya stands to my left, Vincent's hand on her shoulder possessively, knife visible.

The thirty soldiers form a semi-circle, all guns drawn but not aimed.

Yet.

They're all watching me, waiting to see if the princess will execute the king or join him in death.

I think about the baby.

About the future I'm carrying that might die today before it ever has a chance to live.

What would our child look like?

Varrick's dark eyes or my green ones?

His strategic mind or my trained reflexes?

Will it matter if we're both corpses in the next few minutes?

At exactly noon, the door opens.

Sunlight streams in, backlighting two figures like something out of a Western.

The hero arrives for the shootout, except this isn't a movie and heroes don't survive in our world.

Varrick walks in like he owns the place, which technically he might—he owns half the warehouse district through shell companies.

His suit is perfectly tailored, dark blue that brings out his eyes, no vest underneath.

Fucking bastard.

He told me he was going to wear the fucking thing.

He knew what this was and chose not to protect himself.

That tears something inside me.

Will is beside him, older, moving carefully but alert.

His white hair is neat, his own suit immaculate despite his age.

He's in his seventies but moves like a man who's survived too much to die easily.

They're both armed, I can tell by how they move, but their weapons are holstered.

Not surrender, just acknowledgment of the odds.

Varrick's eyes take in everything in seconds—the soldiers, the setup, Maya in her sacrificial white, me with the gun.

His expression doesn't change.

No surprise, no fear, no anger.

Just that cold calculation that made him king.

But I see something else, something only I would recognize after all these weeks in his bed.

Resignation.

He knew this was coming. Has probably known since the beginning.

"Hello, Ruin," he says, voice carrying across the warehouse, using the pet name like a declaration of ownership even now.

Will starts to draw his weapon—fifty years of loyalty to the Bane family demanding he protect his surrogate son—but Varrick stops him with a gesture.

"Let her do what she came to do," Varrick says, and starts walking toward me.

Every step is measured, deliberate.

His shoes echo on the concrete, each footfall like a heartbeat.

He's not walking to his death—he's walking to me.

There's a difference, though only I can see it.