He’s got a hunting knife on his belt and a .38 tucked in his waistband, but the real weapon is the way he looks at people.
Like he’s already imagining their flesh on a slab.
Cyrus follows, his suit impeccable as always.
Hair slicked back, glasses perched just so, and hands folded behind his back.
He’s scanning the scene before him.
Korrin locks eyes with Sienna, then with me. “What the fuck, Varrick.”
I take the drink from Sienna’s hand and finish it. “Nice to see you too, brother.”
He gestures at the mess. “You having a sale on funerals or something?”
Sienna slides off the bar, lands in front of Korrin, a deliberate invasion of space. “You must be the muscle.”
He grins, showing the cracked tooth he never bothered to fix. “You must be the problem.”
She laughs. It’s not a warm sound.
Cyrus steps between them, as if he’s afraid they’ll kill each other before breakfast. “Let’s talk, Varrick. Upstairs.”
I wave Sienna off. “Go clean up. Or don’t.”
She gives a little bow, mocking, and vanishes into the staff corridor.
Korrin glares after her, then at me. “She’s a fucking liability, Varrick.”
“Not as much as you think,” I say.
He shakes his head, stalks to the elevator.
We ride in silence, the mirrored box reflecting our differences: Korrin in black leather, me in bloodstained navy, Cyrus in pressed gray.
We look like a before-and-after ad for criminal evolution.
The office is minimalist: steel desk, wall of maps, nothing personal except the row of antique knives in a glass case.
I close the door, flick the lock.
Korrin doesn’t sit.
He paces, knife already out, clapping it against his palm.
The big scar on his throat flushes red when he’s pissed.
Cyrus takes the chair, ankles crossed, attention on the map of Vancouver’s underbelly. “What happened?”
I lean on the desk. “Rosetti came to kill me. He failed. Sienna finished the job.”
Korrin spits on the floor. “You trust her now?”
“No,” I say. “But I trust what she wants.”
Cyrus looks up, sharp. “You think you can turn her.”
I shrug. “I think I canuseher.”