Page 23 of Silent Schemes (Broken Blood)

His eyes never leave mine, and in them I read everything—understanding, forgiveness, love, and strangely, trust.

He trusts me.

Even now, with a gun in my hand and my father pulling the strings, he trusts me.

The weight of that trust is heavier than the gun.

He stops when the barrel touches his chest, right over his heart.

Close enough that I can smell his cologne, see the faint stubble he didn't have time to shave this morning because he was coming here.

To me. To his death. For me.

"Hello, beloved," he says, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Claims me even now, even with my finger on the trigger.

Even with thirty guns now pointed at his head.

Even with my father watching and my sister trembling and the whole world waiting for me to choose.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, quiet enough only he can hear.

Sorry for the betrayal, for the lies, for the baby who might never have the chance to know his father, for the future we'll never have.

"I know," he responds, just as soft.

Then, even quieter, breath warm against my ear as he leans in like he's going to kiss me goodbye, "I forgive you."

Three words that destroy me more than any torture father ever devised.

My father’s patience snaps. "Kill him, Sienna, or watch Maya die slowly. I'll let Vincent have her first. He's been asking so nicely. Tell her, Vincent. Tell her what you'll do."

Vincent laughs, the sound skittering across my nerves like spiders. "I'll start with her fingers. One by one. Then her face—she's too pretty, just like you were. Then maybe I'll let some of the boys have a turn before we really get started."

The threat makes my decision.

Was there ever really a choice?

Between Varrick and Maya, between love and blood, between my heart and my sister's life?

I meet Varrick's eyes one last time.

He nods, barely perceptible.

Permission. Forgiveness. Understanding.

His hand moves slightly, and for a moment I think he's going for his gun, but instead his fingers brush mine where they hold the weapon.

A final touch. A goodbye.

Hope flares and dies in the same instant.

Even if his men come, it might be too late.

I shoot.

Three times, the reports echoing in the warehouse like thunder.

The sound is deafening in the enclosed space, and Maya screams despite her training.

The bullets hit clustered over his heart but slightly to the right—through the lung, not the heart.

Painful, bloody, but not immediately fatal if treated quickly.

If someone knows exactly where to shoot to look fatal while buying time.

Varrick falls, blood spreading across his shirt like spilled wine, pooling on the concrete.

His eyes flutter closed, body going limp.

The performance is perfect.

He knows how to play dead—we practiced it once, a game that turned into foreplay.

The memory makes me want to vomit.

Will screams—a sound of pure anguish—and rushes forward. "You bitch! You fucking?—"

Vincent shoots him—shoulder first, spinning him around like a discarded toy, then chest, dropping him beside Varrick.

Will's blood mingles with Varrick's, two generations of power bleeding out on my father's killing floor.

Will's hand reaches for Varrick, falls just short, a gap of inches that might as well be miles.

Father starts forward to verify the kill, but I block him, standing over Varrick's body like a guardian even now.

"My kill," I say firmly, possession clear in every syllable. "I verify it."

He pauses, perhaps surprised by the possessiveness in my voice.

But then he nods, allowing me this small victory.

After all, what does it matter?

The King is dead. Or dying. Close enough.

I kneel beside Varrick, my knees in his blood, warm and spreading.

My hands go to his throat as if checking for a pulse.

To everyone watching, I'm confirming the death.

But my fingers find the beat of his heart, still strong despite the blood loss, and I lean close as if examining the wounds.

"North wall, eight men, two with rifles," I whisper, my lips barely moving, speaking directly into his ear like a lover's secret.

"South exit blocked, four men. Vincent has a second gun, ankle holster. My father’s wearing a vest. Sixty seconds until they relax.

Your brothers know—I sent them coordinates.

Stay down. Play dead. Live for our—" I stop myself before saying 'baby. ' "Live."

His eyes flicker open for just a moment, meeting mine.

Understanding passes between us.

Then they close again, and he goes completely still.

His breathing slows to almost nothing.

Even knowing he's alive, he looks dead.

I stand, blood on my hands, my dress, my soul.

Maya's white dress now has red splatter across it, a grotesque painting of innocence lost.

"He'll be dead in minutes," I announce, voice carrying through the warehouse. "The shots are through the lung. He's drowning in his own blood."

It's partially true.

He is shot through the lung.

There is blood.

But I know exactly where I placed those bullets, and I know Varrick's body, know his strength.

He has more than minutes if he gets help. He has a chance.

My father believes me because I've never lied to him about a kill before.

Because I'm covered in Varrick's blood.

Because the King is on the ground and his empire is ready to fall.

"Good," he says, satisfaction dripping from the word. "Now come. We have your sister's future to discuss. I think it's time Maya learned the family business properly. Starting with disposing of the bodies."

I look at Maya one last time.

She's staring at Varrick's body, at Will's, at the blood that's turned her white dress into a prophecy.

When her eyes meet mine, I see she understands.

Not everything, but enough.

Enough to know I've chosen her.

Enough to know it's destroyed me.

Enough to know that the sister she loved is as dead as the men on the floor.

"Yes, Father," I say, the words tasting like betrayal.

As we file out of the warehouse, leaving Varrick and Will bleeding on the floor, I don't look back.

I can't, if I do, I'll break, and breaking isn't an option.

Not with Maya's life still in the balance.

Not with the baby inside me that no one knows about.

Not with the slim hope that Varrick understood my whispered intelligence and has backup coming.

Behind us, I hear something—a slight movement, maybe Varrick shifting, maybe Will still breathing.

But I keep walking, Maya's hand in mine, both of us covered in blood that will never wash clean.

The warehouse door slams shut behind us, and I wonder if I've saved everyone or doomed them all.

Time will tell.

If any of us have time left.