Page 107 of Silent Schemes
Then the muzzle flash, the slug burning through me, the slow fade to black.
I don’t hate her for it.
I might hate her for what happens next.
There’s movement.
Boots slap the concrete, slow and rhythmic, as if the owner has all the time in the world.
Theodore Cross enters through the side door, flanked by a new pair of guards.
He looks like a man who just got away with murder.
Which, in fairness, he has.
His suit is dark brown, tailored, three buttons fastened to show off how slim he’s gotten in his old age.
The face is gaunt, lips curled up at the edges, but the eyes are pure predator.
He walks right up to me, crouches.
Examines the way my left arm won’t quite bend, the bruises blooming up my ribs, the shiner on my jaw.
He sniffs once, then straightens.
“I expected more from you, Varrick,” he says, letting my name hang in the air like a slur. “The King, chained like a dog. Your father would be ashamed.”
I spit blood on the ground between us, and it splatters the tip of his Italian boot.
“My father is a bastard,” I say. “Like me.”
Theodore’s smile goes thin. “Unlike your father, you’re not much for staying in charge of the situation.”
He motions to the guards.
They haul me upright, ignoring the dislocated shoulder.
My left knee gives, but I stay standing.
The chain rattles, echoing around the room.
“Bring him,” Theodore says.
They drag me across the floor, past Will, who’s just conscious enough to groan.
At the far end of the room, on a little makeshift stage of plastic crates, stands a row of Cross family loyalists.
And Sienna.
She’s flanked by two men, hands clasped behind her, but her face is blank, wiped clean of every emotion.
She’s wearing black again.
This time, it’s a jumpsuit, stained at the cuffs.
Her hair is wild, streak of silver blazing even in the shit lighting.
Her eyes don’t meet mine.
