Page 9 of Silent Schemes (Broken Blood)

CHAPTER FIVE

Varrick

Three days have passed and things have been… interesting.

She wakes then walks into my bedroom.

It’s night and we’re going to my club, The Black Serpent.

Her little cat nap almost made us late.

But here she is, left arm bandaged, right hand holding a straight razor she must have found in my shaving kit.

Stands there in the doorway, her shadow stretching all the way to my bed.

I don’t move.

Don’t reach for the gun under the pillow. “If you’re going to finish the job, at least wait until I’m hard,” I say.

Her face is a frozen lake.

Nothing moves on the surface, but I know what’s alive underneath.

She’s wearing one of my shirts… white, too big, sleeves rolled up.

Her shoulder is leaking through the bandage, a bloom of red that matches her eyes.

She looks at the razor, then at me. “I expect you got me some sort of clothes?”

I roll over, point to the closet. “You’ll find something to fit. Try not to bleed on the black suits. They’re one of a kind.”

She flicks her wrist and the razor vanishes.

I have no idea where she puts it.

That’s another reason why she’s dangerous.

I watch her change through the mirrored closet door.

She doesn’t care.

She picks a dress—black, tight, elegant, and slides it over bruises and half-healed cuts.

My bandage job is holding, but the pain is making her pale.

She straps on the holster, then stops, remembering I took her guns last night.

I hold one out, still warm from my palm.

She checks the clip, racks it, aims at my heart, then tucks it away.

Always good to be strapped, even in my own club.

She’s ready. I am, too.

The Black Serpent opens to select clients at ten.

At 9:40, we walk through the front, past the waterfall wall and the hostess who would rather set herself on fire than make eye contact with either of us.

I take her through the front lounge.

The decor is courtesy of my taste.

Sleek black marble, booths in blood-red velvet, piano music leaking through hidden speakers.

Every surface gleams.

Every camera is disguised as a piece of art.

Sienna catalogs all of it.

Her eyes slide over the ceiling, the mirrored columns, the server in a too-tight dress with the telltale lump of a sidearm under her apron.

She marks the security sensors with a flicker of lashes, traces the route of every guard by the press of their footfalls in the carpet.

She never misses a detail.

Most people would say she’s paranoid.

I call it professional.

The first checkpoint is a double-door with a thumbprint scanner and an RFID reader hidden in the doorknob.

I place my hand, watch the green light sweep.

It unlocks with a click.

I hold the door for her, a little flourish.

She doesn’t say thank you.

“Neat trick,” she mutters, low enough to vanish under the music.

I smile. “Keeps the rats out.”

The hallway beyond is lined with glass cases, rare whiskey, antique weapons, trophies from a dozen dead men.

She glances at each, but only for the reflection in the glass, checking behind us as we walk.

At the end, Will waits.

He’s leaning on a credenza, arms folded, suit jacket hanging open to show his own gun, holstered but not buckled.

His face shows how disappointed he is, jaw clenched so tight you could break a molar on it.

“Good evening,” he says, deadpan.

Sienna ignores him, steps past to the door at the end. Pauses, then looks back at me. “How many exits in this building?”

“Four you can see. Two you can’t,” I say.

She nods, like she expected that answer.

I motion for her to lead.

She does.

The next room is the club’s main floor.

A spiral of sunken booths and one-way glass that turns everyone inside into voyeurs and prisoners at the same time.

Lights are down, but you can see the ghost shapes of the staff prepping tables, the slow vacuuming of the VIP carpets, the bartender lining up crystal tumblers with obsessive care.

She walks the perimeter, fingers trailing over the edge of a booth.

Stops at one of the tables, slips her hand beneath and finds the panic button with barely a glance.

She meets my eyes. “Cute.”

I shrug. “Some of the guests get excited.”

Will clears his throat, follows us at a distance.

He’s there to make sure she doesn’t try anything, but also to watch how close I let her get.

I introduce Sienna to the floor manager, Tracie, a tall woman with a cascade of black hair and eyes that measure every calorie in a hundred-meter radius.

Sienna flashes her a smile, just long enough to register as polite, then moves on.

We pass the kitchen—steam and meat and the head chef’s face, frozen with terror as he registers her presence.

Sienna waves, a little queen’s gesture, and he nearly drops a tray of foie gras.

In the next corridor, two busboys in black shirts are resetting linens.

Sienna notes the tattoos on their wrists, marks them as ex-military in less than two seconds.

She keeps walking.

The final stop is the secure room.

I don’t let anyone in here, not even Will.

Today, I let her.

A show of faith, I suppose.

The door is steel, no window.

She enters first, sees the layout: One desk, three monitors, a safe in the floor.

No chairs. No place to hide.

I close the door, lock it, and turn to face her. “What do you think?”

She leans back against the wall, crosses her arms. “You keep a lot of secrets for someone who wants to be king.”

“Trust is a currency,” I tell her. “I don’t spend it unless I have to.”

She runs her tongue over her teeth, thinking. “And what’s this? Show and tell?”

I step closer. “It’s a test.”

“Of what?”

I reach out, brush a piece of lint from her dress. “Whether you’re a rat.”

She bats my hand away, gentle but clear. “Is that all you want from me?”

I don’t answer.

Instead, I let the silence do the talking.

She smiles, slow and poisonous. “You’re not afraid of me.”

“No,” I say.

She steps closer. “You should be.”

Her breath is whiskey and blood, and the way she moves makes me think of snakes and ruined kingdoms.

I take her by the chin, hard, and look into her eyes.

Green, flecked with gold, rimmed with bloodshot red. I could drown a city in the violence there.

“Are you going to kill me?” I ask.

She grins. “Not today.”

I let go, and for a split second, she looks disappointed.

We exit the room together.

Will is still outside, checking his phone, pretending not to eavesdrop. “All set?” he asks.

Sienna looks at me, not him. “All set.”

We move back through the club, passing the same checkpoints in reverse.

Sienna doesn’t slow, but I can tell she’s drawing a map in her head, memorizing every turn, every blind spot.

“Head to the back, we’re meeting my brothers.”

We settle in Booth 1A, the deepest in the house.

I tell her it’s for privacy, but the real reason is this booth is reinforced with steel panels and has a direct sightline to every exit.

I can see the security cam feeds from the tablet built into the table, if I want.

It’s mine and mine alone.

Where I hold my meetings, able to see everything, yet not be heard by anyone.

The late-night crowd is rich, careless, and exactly as stupid as I remember.

Politicians. Brokers. Off-duty cops with more skeletons than a cemetery.

Every table is full by six, and the air is ripe with drunk laughter.

Sienna sets her napkin in her lap. “You always eat in your own club?”

I sip my drink. “I don’t like surprises.”

She smiles, sharklike. “Me neither.”

There’s a pause while we both stare at the menu, neither of us reading it.

She’s working something out in her head.

So am I.

That’s when the gunfire starts.

It’s so loud it doesn’t sound real, at first… more like a string of firecrackers, rapid, blunt, echoing off the black marble.

The glass wall behind me explodes, showering the booth with daggers.

The guests don’t even have time to scream—most just duck instinctively, some freeze, a few fall instantly.

I’m already moving, flipping the table, and pulling Sienna down with me.

She rolls, comes up with the gun I gave her earlier, and scans for targets.

Three men in the entrance, all heavy, all shooting for effect.

The first two are clearing the floor, spraying indiscriminately.

The third is different—he’s walking steady, head up, pistol raised but not firing.

His eyes are on me.

Matteo Rosetti.

He’s younger than I remember, or maybe just cockier.

He walks over bodies like they’re nothing, never breaking stride.

When he sees me, he grins.

I duck back, grab Sienna’s ankle and pull her closer. “Four o’clock,” I mutter.

She nods, doesn’t bother to answer.

Her eyes have gone flat and calculating.

More gunfire.

One of my guards returns fire from behind the bar.

He gets a shot off before his head splatters across the whiskey bottles.

Matteo’s voice carries across the suddenly silent floor. “Bane! I know you’re in there. I brought you a present.”

He kicks a body aside and steps over the table barrier.

Now he’s twenty feet away.

Sienna tenses, pistol up, breathing slow.

I raise my own gun, take a bead on his head.

He’s not stupid—he’s using the twitching corpse of a hedge fund manager as cover.

“Let’s not make this personal, Rosetti,” I call out.

He laughs. “You killed my brother last month. Hard not to take it personal.”

I risk a peek.

He’s moved again, now ten feet closer.

He shouts, “You’ve got something of mine!”

Sienna slides her gaze to me, but only for a second.

Her lips barely move. “What’s he talking about?”

“No idea,” I say. “But I’m going to find out.”

Matteo gets a clear line and fires.

The round goes through the back of the booth and misses my head by an inch.

The sound leaves my ears ringing.

He’s close now.

Too close.

I point at Sienna, then at the mirror behind the bar.

She nods.

Together, we pop up and fire at the same time.

I hit one of the gunmen in the thigh, dropping him.

Sienna’s shot is cleaner, right through the eye socket of the other one.

Now it’s just Matteo and a single wounded henchman.