Page 61 of Silent Schemes
She tapes the wound, then picks up my hand, palm up.
There’s a scar across the meat of my thumb, pale and knotted.
She traces it with her own thumb. “How’d you get this?”
I look her dead in the eye. “First kill.”
She doesn’t let go.
I say, “I was fourteen. My father’s top man tried to take a cut on the side. I found out. Cut his tongue out and left him to bleed out in a church bathroom.” I pause, remembering the way the body twitched. “He bit me before he died.”
Sienna tilts her head. “Were you proud?”
“Didn’t feel anything.” I shrug. “It’s easier if you don’t.”
She cleans, uses antiseptic and then grabs the butterfly band-aids and pulls the skin together where it split, then lets my hand drop.
She leans against the counter, arms crossed, staring out at the skyline.
“My mother used to make me and my sister play hunger games,” she says. “Not the bow and arrow bullshit. Real hunger. She’d lock us in our room with a single protein bar and tell us to make it last three days. First one to cave got the bar. The other went hungry.” She closes her eyes. “I always let her win.”
I slide off the stool, close the distance.
Take her wrist, hold it, not hard.
“No,” I say. “You won, and then you gave it to her anyway.”
She tries to jerk free, but I tighten my grip, thumb on her pulse.
“You don’t fool me,” I say, voice knife-sharp.
She rips her arm away, glaring, and stalks off, bare feet silent on the hardwood.
I watch her go, and she slams the bedroom door.
I want to storm after her so badly, but then I hear laughter from down the opposite end of the hall.
Deciding to go see what my brothers are up to, I head that way, ignoring the pulsing in my heart, trying to force me to go after her.
The war room is at the far end, lit with screens and LED strips and the low flicker of tactical maps on the walls.
Korrin is there, hunched over the city grid, a stiletto spinning in his fingers.
He looks up as I enter, eyes like twin blasts of propane.
“Nice bruise,” he says, nodding at my neck. “She choke you out, or just marking territory?”
Cyrus is perched by the window, glasses glinting, reading something on his tablet.
“Cross family is mobilizing,” Cyrus says, not looking up. “Heavy weapons, half a dozen shooters. They’re planning something ugly, brother. Something we need to be prepared for.”
I light a cigar, torching the end with the kitchen blowtorch, then exhale over Korrin’s map. “She’s mine to handle.”
Korrin slams the knife into the table, blade vibrating. “You’re getting sloppy, Varrick. You think you can leash a wolf, but you’re the one bleeding.”
Cyrus clears his throat. “Statistically, proximity breeds either trust or assassination. No third option.”
I let the silence stretch, then lean over the table, hands spread.
