Page 3 of Silent Schemes (Broken Blood)

CHAPTER TWO

Sienna

Three Days Earlier…

The smell of Cuban cigars and death clings to everything in my father's office.

It's in the leather chairs, the mahogany desk, the very air I'm forcing into my lungs.

Theodore Cross sits behind his fortress of wood and power, and I stand before him like I always do—spine straight, emotions buried so deep even I can't find them anymore.

"Varrick Bane." He says the name like it's poison on his tongue, sliding a photograph across the desk.

I don't need to look.

I've been studying that face for weeks now.

Sharp jawline, eyes dark enough to drown in, a scar through his left eyebrow that makes him look like violence personified.

The Bastard King of Vancouver, they call him.

One of three illegitimate sons now claiming their dead father's empire.

"He's expanding," my father continues, lighting another cigar even though the last one still smolders in the crystal ashtray. "The bastard thinks he can push into our territory, steal our connections. He's becoming more than a nuisance, Sienna. He's becoming a threat."

I keep my face neutral, the way he trained me.

Show nothing, feel nothing, be nothing but what's useful.

It's kept me alive for twenty-four years.

"You want him dead." It's not a question.

Men like my father don't call their daughters into private meetings to discuss the weather.

His laugh is harsh, like breaking glass.

"I want him destroyed. But first, I want him vulnerable.

Exposed." He stands, circles me the way a predator might circle wounded prey.

"You're going to seduce him. Learn his operations, his weaknesses, his plans.

And then, when he's buried so deep in your cunt he can't think straight, you're going to put a bullet in his brain. "

The words should disgust me.

They should make me feel something—rage, fear, anything.

But I learned long ago that feelings are luxury items, and my father doesn't raise his daughters to indulge in luxuries.

"Men like Bane think with their cocks," he continues, stopping behind me where I can't see him.

It's deliberate—he wants me off balance, reminded that threats come from everywhere. "He's been without a steady woman since that situation a few years ago. He'll be hungry for it. Be his fantasy, then be his end, and you'll earn your place in this family."

Earn my place.

As if being born with Cross blood isn't enough.

As if surviving twenty-four years in this hell isn't enough.

As if the seven men I've already killed for him aren't enough.

But that's the thing about being a woman in Theodore Cross's world—nothing is ever enough.

We're currency, not family.

Tools, not daughters.

I learned that when I was twelve and he made me watch my first execution, telling me that women who couldn't stomach violence had no place at his table.

"I understand," I say, voice steady as stone.

Movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention.

Maya hovers in the doorway, trying to be invisible.

My baby sister, only sixteen, still clinging to the innocence I lost a decade ago.

Her eyes are wide, drinking in every word, and my stomach clenches.

Father notices her, too.

His smile is the thing nightmares are made of. "Watch carefully, Maya. You'll do this someday. Your sister is about to show you how a Cross woman handles business."

No.

The word screams through my mind, but I don't let it reach my face.

Maya won't become this.

She won't become me.

I'll kill our father myself before I let him turn her into another weapon in his arsenal.

She deserves better than seduction missions and blood under her fingernails.

She deserves a life that doesn't smell like cigars and death.

"I will set the perfect example," I say, drawing my father’s attention back to me. "Won't you need preparation time?"

"Three days," he says, returning to his desk. "Vincent will handle your training schedule. You'll need to be perfect. One shot at this, daughter. Don't disappoint me."

The threat hangs unspoken— or else.

In the Cross family, disappointment is often terminal.

I've seen him kill men for less than failure.

His own brother died for losing a shipment worth half of what Varrick Bane controls.

"Maya, go to your room," I say, putting enough steel in my voice that she obeys without question.

I won't let her watch what comes next.

Father dismisses me with a wave, already moving on to other business.

I'm just another tool in his drawer, to be sharpened and used as needed.

But as I leave his office, I make a silent vow: This is the last time.

After Varrick Bane is dead, I'm getting Maya out.

Away from our father, away from this life, away from the destiny he's planning for her.

Even if it kills me.

The next morning arrives too soon, bringing with it Vincent Carlisle and the beginning of my transformation into the perfect weapon.

Vincent Carlisle is Theodore's best killer, which means he's also the most damaged.

The training room in the basement reeks of sweat and something darker—old blood that never quite washes out of the concrete.

The walls are lined with weapons—guns, knives, garrotes, poisons—an arsenal of death that I've been trained to use since I could walk.

"Seduction is about vulnerability," he says, circling me as I stand in lingerie and heels.

It's meant to humiliate, to break me down.

But I've been broken so many times, there's nothing left to shatter. "You make them think they have the power while you're the one holding the knife."

He attacks without warning—his signature move.

I sidestep, muscle memory taking over, and bring my hidden blade up to his throat.

It's a dance we've done a hundred times.

My body remembers even when my mind wants to forget.

"Good," he says, stepping back. "But Bane isn't some low-level thug. He's survived five years at the top of Vancouver's food chain. He'll be watching for weapons."

"Then I'll give him something else to watch," I say, adjusting the red lace against my skin.

Vincent's eyes trail over me, clinical and cold. "Your body is a weapon, just like any blade or bullet. Use it without shame, without hesitation."

Shame.

I almost laugh.

My father burned that out of me years ago, the first time he made me seduce one of his enemies.

I was seventeen, and the man died choking on his own blood while still inside me.

Shame is another luxury I can't afford.

Just like hope.

Just like dreams of a normal life, where I could be something other than an instrument of death wrapped in expensive lingerie.

We practice for hours.

How to hide weapons in the smallest spaces—a blade in a lipstick tube, poison in a perfume bottle, a garrote wire in a necklace.

How to kill from every position, even the most vulnerable ones.

Vincent makes me rehearse the killing stroke over and over, until my muscles memorize the exact angle needed to pierce a heart from beneath, from above, from behind.

"When you're on top," he instructs, positioning my arms, "the angle is forty-five degrees upward between the third and fourth rib. When you're beneath, you need more force—drive upward with your hips for momentum."

The clinical nature of it should disturb me.

We're discussing murder like it's a ballet routine.

But this is my normal.

This is what the Cross family made me.

"You'll likely have one chance," he says as I practice drawing a gun from a thigh holster while on my knees. "Make it count. Varrick Bane doesn't give second chances. Neither should you."

By the time we're done, my muscles ache and I'm covered in sweat.

But I can draw and fire in one point three seconds from any position.

I can find a carotid artery in the dark.

I can smile while sliding a blade between ribs.

I am a perfectly crafted weapon.

And I hate every inch of what they've made me.

It's not just about knowing how to kill.

It's about knowing your target, gathering intelligence.

And, that's what I'm doing, staring at Varrick Bane's life laid out in photographs and reports across the table like a map to follow.

I study everything from his daily routine, to his known associates, to even his preferences in women—brunettes, apparently, though he hasn't had a steady one in years.

I even know his drink of choice—whiskey, neat, specifically Macallan 18.

By the end of this, there isn't one thing I won’t know about him.

Though I doubt there are many weaknesses.

"He values loyalty above everything," my father says, standing over me as I memorize the layout of his penthouse. "His men would die for him. He's built his empire on respect rather than just fear."

Unlike you , I think but don't say.

My father has always been known to rule through terror, through blood and brutality.

His men follow because they fear him more than death itself.

"He has two half-brothers," I note, studying their photos.

Korrin and Cyrus Bane, fellow bastards claiming their father's throne. "They meet weekly."

"The brothers are untouchable," Theodore warns. "Go after them, and he'll see you coming. Focus on Varrick. He's the head of the snake."

But as I study his photo—really study it—something unsettles me.

There's intelligence in those dark eyes, a calculating coldness that matches my own.

This isn't some street thug who thinks with his cock, despite what my father believes.

This is a predator who's survived in a world that wanted him dead from birth.

He'll see through me.

The certainty of it sits heavy in my stomach.

"Tell me about the situation from five years ago," I say, finding a gap in the intelligence.

Theodore's face darkens. "It's nothing you need to worry about, daughter. Your focus is the present, and if you know the past it does you no good. You will second guess everything."

"His operations," Father continues, spreading out more documents. "Drugs through the ports, weapons through his clubs, money laundering through legitimate businesses. He's smart—keeps the violence strategic, not messy like his father did."

I memorize every detail.