Page 100 of Silent Schemes
Her dark hair is curled, makeup done perfectly, looking exactly like the innocent she still is.
Should be.
Was, until today.
The white is deliberate, our father’s own personal touch of cruelty.
Blood shows better on white.
Every drop will be visible, a canvas for violence.
He's dressed her like a virgin sacrifice, and the symbolism isn't lost on anyone.
"Maya," I breathe, and she looks up.
Her eyes—the same green as mine, the same as our mother's—are red-rimmed but dry.
Our father doesn't tolerate tears.
She learned that at Mom's funeral when she was six and I was thirteen, when he backhanded her for crying over the casket.
"Sienna." Her voice is steady, but I hear the terror underneath. "I'm okay."
She'snotokay.
Won't ever be okay after this, regardless of how it ends.
Our father has made sure of that—forcing her to witness what I am, what she'll become if I fail today.
This is her initiation into the family business, whether she wants it or not.
The bright, hopeful girl who wants to be a doctor, who volunteers at shelters, who still believes in good things—that girl is dying today, no matter who else survives.
"My prodigal daughter returns," Father announces, emerging from the shadows like the devil he is.
He's dressed impeccably, as always—a charcoal suit that costs more than most people's cars, Italian leather shoes that have never seen honest dirt, a blood-red tie that makes his intentions clear.
His silver hair is slicked back, and his cold blue eyes—nothing like mine or Maya's, we got Mom's eyes—survey me with the satisfaction of a chess player whose opponent has walked into checkmate.
"Alone, I see."
"He's coming," I say, voice steady despite the storm in my chest.
The baby—our baby—seems to sense my distress.
I swear I feel something, though it's too early for movement.
Maybe it's just my imagination, or maybe it's maternal instinct awakening at the worst possible moment.
Vincent appears at my father's shoulder, phone in hand, that sick smile playing at his lips.
His face still bears the yellowing bruises from where Varrick's men worked him over last week—payment for touching what belongs to the King.
"Bane's en route. Fifteen minutes out." He pauses, savoring the next words like fine wine. "Just him and the old man. Will Romano."
Theodore's smile is sharp enough to cut. "Arrogant bastard. Makes this easier."
He pulls a gun from inside his jacket, holds it out to me.
