Page 28 of Silent Schemes
Varrick stands at the stove, his back to me, shirtless.
The morning light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows turns his skin golden, highlighting a geography of violence written in scars.
I catalog them automatically: knife wound on his left shoulder blade, old but deep.
Bullet scar on his lower right back, through and through—he was lucky with that one.
Multiple defensive wounds on his forearms.
Burns on his right side that look deliberate, torture, not accident.
And there, just above his hip, a tattoo—a chess piece, the king, with a date underneath. Five years ago.
"Eggs Benedict," he says without turning. "Poison-free. Though the hollandaise might kill you—I'm not much of a cook."
I raise the gun, aim at the base of his skull where the spine meets the brain.
Kill shot. Quick. Clean. Mission accomplished.
He doesn't stop cooking. Doesn't tense.
Just flips something in the pan like he couldn't give a care in the world.
"Safety's on," he mentions casually.
I check without lowering the weapon.
It is.
When did he?—?
I remember checking it last night before the Rosetti attacked.
He must have done it while I was unconscious, after tending my wound, but before placing the gun just within reach.
Close enough to give me hope, far enough to make it useless.
"You're very trusting," I say, not lowering the gun.
"No, I'm really not." He plates the eggs with surprising elegance for someone who claims he can't cook. "But you're not going to shoot me. Not yet."
"You sound very sure of that."
He turns finally, and I hate how my breath catches.
In the daylight, his eyes are different—still dark, but with flecks of gold that make them seem almost warm.
The scar through his eyebrow is more pronounced, and there are other marks I didn't notice last night.
A thin line across his throat—someone got very close to killing him once.
"You had plenty of chances to let me die last night," he says, leaning against the counter like we're discussing the weather instead of murder. "The Rosetti hit was real. You saved my life. Why?"
"Maybe I want to kill you myself."
"Maybe." He gestures to the plates. "Hungry?"
"That depends. Are you going to stick another needle in my neck if I refuse?" I touch the tender spot where the syringe went in. "What was that—your special blend for unconscious guests?"
