Page 14 of Silent Schemes

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.

Every shipment schedule, every lieutenant's name, every safe house location.

Information is another weapon, and I arm myself with all of it.

"His penthouse," Vincent adds, showing me blueprints. "State of the art security. Biometric locks, bulletproof glass, multiple escape routes. If you're going to kill him, it won't be there."

"Then where?"

"Wherever he's the most vulnerable," my father says. "In bed, probably. Men are always most vulnerable when they're fucking."

What he fails to realize is that he fucking sleeps in his bed, which is in his penthouse.

My father is a fucking idiot sometimes, but I know what he’s doing—he’s reminding me of my place.

His crude words are meant to remind me what I am—a honey trap, a black widow, a beautiful death.

But as I stare at Varrick's photo, I can't shake the feeling that he's not the type to be vulnerable anywhere, especially not in bed.

One Day Ago…

Fuck, I need something good.

Here I am, staring inside my closet, trying to find the perfect choice.

Each dress is a carefully chosen weapon, each pair of heels potentially lethal.

I select pieces that suggest innocence while hiding steel—a red dress with hidden pockets for blades, a black cocktail dress with a reinforced bodice that can stop a knife, heels with sharpened metal tips.

Maya finds me in my room as I'm selecting lingerie that can conceal garrote wire.

She shouldn't be here—our father forbids her from my wing when I'm preparing for missions—but my baby sister has always been braver than she should be.

"I don't want you to go," she whispers, closing the door behind her.

"It's just another job," I lie, folding a La Perla set into my bag.