Page 18 of Silent Schemes
This is what I know.
This is what I am—a weapon in designer clothes, aimed at whatever target my father wishes to point me toward.
But as I stare at myself in the mirror, I see something else.
A woman who's tired of being a weapon.
A sister who wants to save the only person she loves.
A daughter who dreams of patricide.
Maybe that's why Varrick saw through me so easily.
Maybe the mask is finally cracking after all these years.
"Tomorrow then," I whisper to my reflection, practicing my smile until it looks almost real.
The same smile I'll wear when I put my gun to Varrick Bane's chest and pull the trigger.
The same smile I'll wear when I tell my father it's done and demand he release Maya from this life.
But as I leave the casino, slipping through the Vancouver night like a shadow in heels, I can't shake the feeling that tomorrow won't go according to plan.
That Varrick Bane has his own game, and I'm not the player—I'm the prize.
The thought should terrify me.
Instead, for the first time in years, I feel something that might be excitement.
Or maybe it's just the thrill that comes before everything goes to hell.
Either way, tomorrow I meet the Bastard King in his brother's castle.
And only one of us will walk away whole.
CHAPTER THREE
Varrick
I’m in the office, my hands slick with gun oil, when Will starts pacing back and forth.
He does this when he’s nervous, like a zoo animal with a sixth sense for earthquakes.
The carpet’s thick enough to muffle his steps, but the tension vibrates anyway—up the gunmetal racks, through the antique whiskey decanter, into the fucking drywall.
He’s getting soft in his old age.
The office is glass and steel, high above the city.
The walls are lined with maps of Vancouver, overlays marked in blood and sharpie.
Weapons everywhere, trophies, some loaded, all reachable.
It smells like money, gold, and the cologne I wear to drown out the stench of old murders.
Will’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “She was on the roof for over an hour, King.”
I look up, barrel balanced across my palm, cleaning rod pinched between two fingers. “Who?”
