Page 6 of Silent Schemes (Broken Blood)

Three men, all wrong for this place—broad, overdressed, carrying that special kind of tension you only get from certain death.

Rosetti’s soldiers.

I know them by the way they hold their hands, loose at the hip, ready to go up for a gun or down for a knife.

The first man in is already moving toward the bar.

Sienna comes around to stand next to me, muttering expletives under her breath.

Her hand is casually palming a knife, and I can’t help but grin as I draw my gun, pointing it at our guests.

The first Rosetti levels his weapon.

A 9mm, cheap, probably stolen.

He’s not aiming at me—he’s aiming at the whole fucking room.

He doesn’t even see the knife until it’s in his throat.

Sienna’s throw is perfect: short, sharp, straight through the carotid.

The second man raises his pistol, mouth already open in a shout, but she’s gone—slipping low, under the bar, then up and over, and she’s behind him before his brain catches up.

She takes him out with the broken stem of a champagne flute, jabbing right into his left eye.

He spasms, drops his gun.

I catch it as it falls, swing it toward the third man.

He’s aiming at me.

His finger is tight as she’s sprawling, trying to find cover.

I fire first.

One in the knee, one in the chest.

The sound is ugly, final.

The smell of blood and gunpowder hits like a punch, but so does the faint pop of a silenced gun and a groan as Sienna clutches at her arm.

She took a bullet for me.

It’s over in four minutes.

Sienna stands, breathing hard.

Blood spatters her face, dots her dress.

A crimson flower blooms across her left shoulder—grazed by a bullet I couldn’t stop in time.

She looks down at the wound, then at me, like I’m the one who should be apologizing.

“Nice throw,” I say.

She blinks, once, twice.

Then she laughs, a little wild, a little broken. “You owe me a dress,” she says.

I check the bodies, but it’s formality.

Rosetti’s men never come alone, so we’ve got maybe two minutes before more arrive.

“Why’d you do it?” I ask, voice dead calm.

She shrugs, then winces at the pain. “No one gets to kill you but me.”

The answer is so honest it stings.

I grab her by the good shoulder, drag her into the storeroom behind the bar.

We move like a unit.

The adrenaline still hasn’t worn off.

She rips off a strip of tablecloth, ties it around her wound, teeth bared in a silent scream.

I’m already dialing Will.

“Trouble found us,” I say, when he picks up.

“How bad?” he asks.

I look at Sienna, at the way her hand shakes as she tightens the knot. “Code Black.”

There’s a pause. “I’ll have the car out back in sixty seconds.”

I hang up, pack the phone in my pocket, and spare a glance for my lady in red.

Sienna’s gone pale, but her eyes are still sharp.

“Let’s go,” I tell her.

She follows, almost limp now.

I let her lean on me as we move through the kitchen.

The bartender is gone, doors locked. Smart.

We make it out to the alley just as the getaway car screeches up.

Will is driving.

He pops the trunk, tosses me a med kit.

“Get in,” I tell Sienna.

She tries to resist, prideful to the end, but her legs give out.

I catch her, load her into the back seat.

Will guns it before I’m even fully inside.

Sienna lies across the seat, head in my lap.

She looks up at me, mouth set in a hard line.

“You could have let them do it,” I say. “Let them take me out.”

She lifts her arm, swipes blood from her face. “That’s not the game.”

I stroke her hair, then slap her wound shut with a pressure pad.

She hisses, but doesn’t cry out.

“I’m going to keep you alive,” I tell her.

She smiles, eyes glazed. “Only so you can kill me later.”

“Maybe. Maybe I want to fuck you first, and I’m not into fucking corpses.”

She closes her eyes, breathing shallow.

I watch the city lights flicker by.

My hand never leaves her pulse.

When we get to my place, I carry her inside.

She’s lighter than she looks.

More fragile.

But still as dangerous as a nest of scorpions.

I lay her out on the couch, patch her up.

She’s half-awake, mumbling curses in Italian and French.

“You’re safe here,” I say, even though it’s a lie.

She opens her eyes. “Is that what you tell all your prisoners?”

I crouch next to her, lips close to her ear. “You’re not a prisoner. Not yet.”

She laughs, raw. “What am I, then?”

I press the bandage tighter, lean in. “Bait. Or a bargaining chip. Or maybe just a pretty face I don’t want to ruin.”

She catches my wrist, squeezes. “You’re bleeding,” she says.

I look down.

There’s blood on my sleeve, but it’s not mine.

She tugs me down, hard, and kisses me.

Her mouth tastes like copper and revenge.

She bites my lip until I taste my own blood, then pulls away, eyes wild.

“You’re fucked up, Mr. Bane,” she whispers.

“So are you,” I say, pulling back. The game got flipped on its head, and as much as my cock is hard, she’s in no shape for fun and games, but it doesn’t matter.

I pull the needle out of my jacket and jab her in the neck.

Seconds pass, and then it’s lights out for her.

I sit there, breathing her in, watching the bandage bloom red again.

This is what happens when predators collide.

No one wins.

Not yet.