Silva

Chapter Eight

•  Silva  •

—

"Now, now, Silva," Piero tuts as he inhales a puff of smoke.

The Cuban cigar burns a speckled ring, and the smell lingers in the air. My impatience rises, purring provocation over my taut spine and mimicking lightning currents into my fingers.

I try to be civil, as courteous as I can be while facing the cretin who executed the plan to steal my merchandise.

Piero's casino is built with sound-proof structures, but the noises still travel through the walls. The confined space does little to ease away my anger, and the smoke frays my already tattered restraint.

I inhale deeply, imagining Irisa's wide smile to smooth the itch under my skin. Being near her helps to put my belligerent ruthlessness to rest. Even if it's for a split second, I could still think without the cruel devil on my shoulder.

That is until I envision having my big hand around her small neck. It'd be so easy to squeeze and snap her neck. I want her to beg me, to plead with her sweet voice and teary eyes until I'm satisfied that her little body submits to me.

Nevertheless, I can't bring myself to end the entertainment she provides.

She makes me feel something other than bloodlust. I don't know what it is yet, but I will find out even if I have to force it out of her.

"You cost me a quarter billion dollars," I say bitterly.

The merchandise was recovered a day too late, and the buyer had withdrawn their involvement once the news hit the streets. Their decision is reasonable as I wouldn't want merchandise that's amid harsh scrutiny either.

Too much liability.

"You know youngsters these days, always taking the initiative!" Piero exclaims as his teeth bite down on his cigar to grin.

Piero and I are not in the same business. He's a gambling tycoon. He doesn't make the effort to expand when he believes addiction can bring flowing money.

He doesn't mess with my territory, and I don't mess with his; that's the deal every criminal organization follows.

It's the silent law.

"You owe me that much," I remark icily.

His grin falters. "You have your missiles back. No harm, no foul."

"I can't sell them," I say, and the curt tone causes his eyes to twitch.

I feel my intelligence is lowering the longer I speak to this imbecile. The lack of common sense is astonishing. He truly thinks I can resell tarnished merchandise when the scrutiny dies down.

"You traffic weapons, maestro Silva," he retorts while leaning sluggishly back. "You can use the missiles for your own protection."

He crackles, his cheap suit sagging messily off his shaking shoulders. "I'm positive the mafia needs more protection than my meager casinos, yeah?"

"Big cojones mean rats to the feds." He blows a long drag of smoke over his desk and into my face.

I consider myself a fair businessman. I'm reasonable with my prices, and I plan with risks taken into consideration that's beyond my control.

I, however, do not allow traitors to have second chances. Circumstances be damned.

I'm not a forgiving man. I built my empire, so I will protect it with any means necessary.