Page 24 of Silent Schemes

Leaning in, close enough to taste her breath, to say, “Then you’ll have to earn it.”

She laughs, low and genuine. “See you soon, King.”

But she never gets the opportunity to leave.

It happens so fast, my pulse barely has time to speed up.

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 faintpopof 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.