Page 108 of Dirty Game
Behind her, I see movement.
She turns with theatrical grace, gestures with one manicured hand, and my heart stops.
Dante steps out from behind one of her security guards—massive men who look like they break bones for breakfast.
The boy is small for four, dressed in an expensive little suit that makes him look like a miniature adult playing dress-up.
Navy blue with a white shirt, a tie that's been carefully knotted.
His dark hair is combed perfectly, not a strand out of place, like someone spent time making sure he looked presentable.
Controlled. Owned.
But it's his face that makes me want to cry.
His left eye is swollen, nearly shut, purple and green bruising spreading across his cheekbone.
The kind of bruise that comes from an adult fist, not a child's tumble.
His bottom lip has a healing split that pulls when he tries to smile.
He moves carefully, deliberately, like his ribs hurt, like sudden movements bring consequences. Like he's learned that being still and quiet keeps the pain away.
I know that walk. I perfected it by the time I was seven.
"Dante," Sienna says sweetly, her hand on his shoulder in what looks like affection but reads as control, "this is Daddy's new friend. Say hello."
He looks at me with Varrick's eyes—one clear and dark as midnight, one swollen but still trying to see—and my chest cracks open.
There's an intelligence there that no four-year-old should possess, a wariness that speaks of too much seen too soon.
"Hello," he says quietly, his voice small and precise, carefully modulated like he's been taught exactly how to speak. "Are you my daddy's new family?"
The question hangs in the air like a blade waiting to drop.
"I'm Rosalynn," I manage, forcing my voice to be gentle, unthreatening. "I'm... a friend."
"Daddy doesn't have friends," Dante says matter-of-factly, with the devastating honesty only children can manage. "He has enemies and employees and people he hasn't killed yet. Mommy told me."
Sienna laughs, the sound like crystal breaking, and ruffles his hair with false maternal affection. "Smart boy. Gets it from me." She looks at me, and her smile could cut glass. "The intelligence, anyway. The violence is all Varrick. Though I suppose you know all about his violence, don't you? Or does he only show you thegentle side? The side that brings you soup and pretends you matter?"
"Why did you bring him here?" I keep my voice level, but inside I'm screaming.
This child should be in school, should be playing with friends, should be anywhere but in the middle of his parents' war.
"I wanted him to see where his father lives. Who his father chose over him." Her smile sharpens to something lethal. "A virgin payment for debt. How... quaint. Tell me, did he at least wait a week before fucking you, or did he sample the goods right away?"
I ignore her prodding.
"You kept him from Varrick for four years. You don't get to play the victim now."
"Victim?" She steps closer, and I smell her perfume—something expensive and choking, like funeral flowers. Like death dressed up pretty. "I'm not a victim. I'm a survivor. There's a difference. Victims let things happen to them. Survivors make things happen. And Varrick, he isn’t so innocent. He told me to stay away."
"Is that what you call marrying Mikhail? Survival?"
Her eyes flash dangerously, green fire that promises pain. "Mikhail appreciates what he has. Unlike Varrick, who only wants what he can't have. Who always needed the chase more than the prize."
"Is that why you're here? Because he doesn't want you anymore?"
