Chapter four: The Devil's Smile

The scarred guy’s claps rang through the study, slow and nasty, each one hitting the walls like a slap in the face. Sienna’s arm burned where the knife had cut her, blood trickling down to the floor, but she barely noticed. Her eyes were stuck on him—tall, lean, that ugly scar twisting under his eye like a claw mark. His grin was sharp, wrong, holding her still even as Roman’s hand tightened on her shoulder, too damn tight.

“Who are you?” she rasped, voice scraped raw, jerking free of Roman’s grip. She wasn’t about to shrink, not with a dead guy leaking foam at her boots and the silver key shining on the floor like a challenge.

He tipped his head, looking her over like she was meat. “Ezra,” he said, smooth and slick, stepping past the busted doorframe. “Ezra Locke. And you’re Sienna Calder, the lost kid who’s in way over her head.” His eyes slid to Roman, still hunched by the body, gun in his fist. “Valtieri, you I figured I’d see. Always sniffing around the old man’s scraps.”

Roman straightened, slow, like he had all the time in the world, pistol steady as rock. “Get out, Ezra. You’re alone here.”

Ezra’s laugh was dry, jagged, scraping her nerves. He spread his hands wide, like he was throwing a welcome bash. “Alone? Against your peashooter and her big mouth?” He jerked his chin at the corpse. “You’re already short one. I’m not swinging yet.”

Sienna’s heart slammed hard. She didn’t know this creep, but the way her name rolled off his tongue—like he’d been chewing on it for years—made her skin crawl. “What do you want?” she said, stepping up, ignoring Roman’s quick glare. Her boots crunched glass, the paperweight sweaty in her other hand.

His eyes dropped to the key, that grin stretching wider. “That little thing. Opens something your dad stashed away. Worth more than this rotting heap.” He waved at the estate, the storm screaming outside like it was backing him up. “You don’t even know what it’s for, do you?”

She clenched her teeth, hating that he was dead right. The key was a question mark, cold and heavy, tied to Dorian’s scratched-out warning—find the truth before they do. “If it’s so hot, why not grab it?” she said, nudging it with her toe, just enough to slide it an inch. A gamble, but she’d choke before letting him see her shake.

Roman stiffened next to her, but Ezra didn’t bite. 

“’Cause it’s nothing without you,” he said, voice dropping low, dark. “Dorian fixed it that way. Blood’s the trick, Sienna. Yours.”

Her gut flipped. Blood? What kind of twisted crap was this? She wanted to dig into him, but boots thumped down the hall—his buddies, maybe, or Vivienne clawing back from wherever she’d run. 

Ezra’s head tilted, ear cocked, then he sighed, like he was bored.

“Clock’s ticking,” he said, fishing a thin phone from his pocket. “Tip, though—check the basement. Dorian loved his hiding spots.” He hit a button, and a shrill beep stabbed the air, too close. Roman lunged, shoving her behind the desk as a flash lit up outside, a boom shaking the walls. Smoke rolled in, bitter and thick, clawing at her throat.

“Run!” Roman yelled, hauling her toward the door. She tripped, choking, her arm howling as the rush faded. Ezra was gone, melted into the haze, but his words stuck like burrs—blood’s the trick.

They stumbled into the hall, the estate a wreck—glass everywhere, furniture flipped, sirens whining faint through the storm. Roman dragged her right, off the stairs, gun still out. “Basement’s down here,” he said, voice scratched rough. “If Ezra’s not lying—”

“If?” Sienna tore her arm loose, planting her feet. 

“You’re buying that nutcase’s story after he tried to fry us? What’s down there, Roman? What’s with you?”

He spun on her, wet hair falling in his face, his cool breaking into something sharp. “I don’t know what’s there. But I knew Dorian—he buried stuff. Deals, names, bad news. If that key fits, we’ve got to beat Ezra to it.”

She stared him down, chest heaving. Trusting him was like handing a match to a pyro, but standing still while Ezra looped back wasn’t happening. 

“Alright,” she muttered, pushing past. “But I’m not your damn sidekick.”

The basement door hid under the stairs, a slab of steel with a glowing keypad. Roman punched numbers—too fast to catch—and it slid open with a hiss, cold air rushing up, stale and heavy, like a grave. Sienna squeezed the key, her blood crusting on it, and stepped down, Roman shadowing her.

The stairs dumped them into a big, empty room—bare concrete, buzzing lights, one metal cabinet shoved against the back wall. No gold, no answers, just dust. “This your jackpot?” she said, turning on Roman. “Some secret.”

He didn’t talk, just stared at the cabinet. She followed his look, and her breath snagged. The lock—a thin silver slot—fit the key in her hand like it was made for it. Her pulse kicked, half scared, half wired. She crossed over, arm throbbing, and jammed the key in. It clicked, clean and sure.

The cabinet creaked open—files, a flash drive, and a little glass vial, capped tight, dark red inside. 

Blood. A scrap of paper stuck to it, Dorian’s scribble: Yours, Sienna. Always was.

She reeled back, the vial hitting the floor with a clatter, not breaking but loud as hell. Roman cursed, bending for it, but the lights blinked—once, twice—then went black. Night swallowed them whole, and a low laugh crawled from the stairs.

Ezra’s voice slid through the dark: “Too late, kid.”