Page 17 of Silent Schemes

I'm the one who's supposed to be in control, the one who sets the pace of the seduction.

But Varrick Bane just changed the game without saying a word.

I pull the card out now, expensive stock with simple black lettering:

Tomorrow. 8pm. The Black Crown. Come armed—it's more fun that way.

My reflection smiles back at me, but it doesn't reach my eyes.

It never does.

I learned long ago that real smiles are tells, weaknesses that can be exploited.

So, I practice fake ones, the kind that fool everyone except, apparently, Varrick Bane.

The Black Crown is owned by his brother Korrin, a front for laundering money.

I've studied the blueprints, memorized the exits.

But walking in there tomorrow will be walking into the wolf's den, and the wolf already knows I'm coming.

My phone buzzes.

Vincent. "Status?"

"Contact made," I text back. "Meeting tomorrow night."

"Good. Don't fuck this up. Your father is watching."

As if I could forget.

My father is always watching, through Vincent's eyes, through hidden cameras, through the fear he's instilled in everyone around me.

Even now, I know he probably has someone tailing me, making sure I don't run.

But after tomorrow, after Varrick Bane is dead, I'll disappear so completely even Theodore won't find me.

I've been planning it for two years—new identities for Maya and me, money hidden in offshore accounts, a contact in Prague who specializes in making people vanish.

One more kill. One more monster to put down. Then freedom.

I lean against the marble counter, letting the cold seep through my dress.

Everything about this is wrong.

Varrick Bane isn't acting like prey.

He's acting like a hunter who's decided to play with his food before he devours it.

But I've been devoured before and lived to tell about it.

I've been broken and remade so many times, I've lost count of which pieces are original and which are scar tissue masquerading as skin.

One more predator won't make a difference.

I check my gun, freshly loaded with hollow points designed to mushroom on impact, leaving exit wounds the size of fists.

The weight is familiar, comforting even.