Silva

Chapter Four

•  Silva  •

—

The car stays warm while I stare at the crowd of nosy neighbors. I'm around dead bodies every day, so it doesn't affect me.

The coroner rolls a black body bag into the van, shutting it with a firm slam and securing the lock. A police cruiser taking the lead and escorting the van into traffic while dispersing the crowd effectively.

I glance at the rearview mirror, but Irisa is gone.

She didn't seem too interested in the corpse hanging across her building. It raises suspicion at her unresponsiveness, but the stubborn part of me defends her bizarre behavior.

She's in shock with delayed distress, or she didn't know it was a body. Whatever the excuse, the logical side is losing miserably.

The file on my lap stares back at me. The landlord from last night had more hair than the one in the picture, but they are the same person.

He made a small fortune with his stocks, bought the condominiums, and never worked a day in his life again. Statistical breakdown on the condos' tenants show the female ratio significantly higher than the men, and most of the women are single.

The insinuation is there.

I toss the folder to the side and open the one on the bottom. A sigh rumbles through my chest at Irisa's smiling picture.

Yesterday was my second night of restlessness, and it's her fault. My eyes wouldn't wander from her picture, so I sat through the night in my office.

I was on a compulsory mission to ingrain her face into my head.

The more I think about it, the angrier I am.

I was going to go through her information, but the distraction was too inexplicably strong.

Even now, there is alluring power in her picture that strays my thoughts. Rather than anger towards my defiant control, I'm fascinated with her in a way that is too grimly perverse.

There were moments where I wanted to wrap my hands around her. To feel her delicate neck physically bruise and count the fading pulses or to hold her under me and spread her legs around my hips.

I don't know.

She'd be flushing either way, so neither options are terrible.

I close the file and say, "To Peters."

My driver pulls out to the street, passing the lingering crowd as they keep their attention on the top floors.

I set her file to the side. Her privacy is of no importance, but I like challenges. Her background gives me an advantage. I don't want it; I want to crush that smile on my own.

Scrolling through my contacts, I find the one I need and make a voicemail to order what I need.

Money is not a problem. I expect the best work, and trivial mistakes will cost them greatly.

The car stops at an upscale area with minimal foot traffic. Being in public every minute are chances of my enemies gaining advantages, yet I'm still here with a frivolous purpose.

Irisa, I think lividly. That aggravating girl.

An older woman walks up with a stiff smile and greets me, "Hello, sir. What can I help you with?"

Peters is a known boutique store that sells luxury dresses. Negligible knowledge does come in handy, but it's not how I anticipated it to be used.