Page 99 of Silent Schemes

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sienna

The warehouse smells like death before anyone dies.

It's in the industrial district, right on the water where the city forgets to pretend it's civilized.

Rust and rot and old blood that never quite washes out of concrete.

My father chose it deliberately—he's always been theatrical about his murders, likes stages for his performances.

And today, I'm both director and lead actress in a play that ends in tragedy.

The rain has stopped, but water still drips from broken gutters, each drop echoing in the vast space like a countdown.

My hands haven't stopped shaking since his call at dawn. "Noon. Warehouse District, Building thirteen. Bring him or I bring Maya to you in pieces."

I arrive at 11:47, thirteen minutes before the scheduled meeting.

The black sedan I'm driving—one of Varrick's, still smelling like his cologne—feels like a hearse.

My phone sits silent on the passenger seat.

Varrick has called twice in the last ten minutes.

I haven't answered once.

I can't.

I can’t talk to him anymore, not when he confuses me and jumbles everything around in my brain.

My sister has to be my priority.

Our child has to be my priority.

If I talk to him again before we’re in the thick of this, I don’t know what I’ll do.

The metal door groans as I push it open, hinges screaming like they're trying to warn me.

I'm immediately assaulted by the setup.

My father has transformed the space into a killing floor—plastic sheeting on the walls to catch blood splatter, drains uncovered for easy cleanup, industrial lights positioned to eliminate shadows where someone might hide.

It's professional, methodical, the kind of setup that says this isn't the first execution staged here.

It won't be the last.

Thirty men, all armed, positioned strategically around the perimeter.

Some I recognize from my childhood—Uncle Mark who taught me to field strip a Glock at age nine, Dmitri who showed me where to cut to make someone bleed out slowly versus fast, Tommy the Bull who held my hair back the first time I vomited after a kill.

Others are newer recruits, young and hungry, eager to see the legendary Cross daughter prove her loyalty or die trying.

And in the center, like a sacrifice on an altar, stands Maya.

My baby sister wears white—a sundress more suited for a garden party than an execution.

The kind of dress she'd wear to university classes, to coffee with friends, to all the normal things I've killed to ensure she could have.