Page 21 of Silent Schemes
Tonight, I told Korrin to clear the joint.
No witnesses. No collateral. Only the best kind of risk.
The bar is a black marble slab, reflecting nothing but light and ambition.
The walls are mirrors.
You can see yourself a thousand ways, all of them ugly.
There’s a chandelier above the counter, real crystal, dripping with enough sharp edges to slit a dozen throats.
I take my seat with my back to the far wall.
All exits in sight.
Let her come to me.
The bartender is new, or pretending to be.
He keeps his head down, eyes on the pour.
My glass is on the house tonight.
I slide him a twenty anyway, tell him to leave the bottle, then vanish.
He does, like a ghost.
It stinks like wood polish, old cigarettes, and anticipation.
At precisely 8:00, Sienna walks in.
She’s not what people expect.
She’s not what I expected at first, either.
In her, everything is sharpened to a point, the chin, the cheekbones, the eyes.
Her hair is up tonight, but that streak of silver burns through like a neon warning sign.
The dress is blood red, tight, hitting those curves with deadly intent, but not slutty.
It’s calculated, and the color suits her.
What I notice first: her stride.
Every step measured, hips rolling just enough to distract, but not enough to promise anything.
She scans the room, picks me up without breaking her stride, and closes the distance in silence.
Three weapons, by my count.
Maybe four.
One on the thigh—classic.
One at the ribs—smart, but she’ll have to use her off-hand.
The other is in the clutch she carries, and the last is probably a garrote.
