Silva

Chapter Twenty

• Silva •

—

My mother is scheming something.

She hasn't uprooted the peaceful days in a while, and I should've seen this coming.

I prefer meticulousness and systematic tactics, but she is a thunderstorm of pandemonium. Planning doesn't exist in her mind, nor does she care about having a backup plan. She thinks the impulsivity will coerce her enemies into the purest mindset to fight her.

I'm not surprised to find tension in her shoulders when she cradles her cheek with a manicured hand. The arc of her neck shrinks as she exhales forcefully, the white bandage throwing a tantrum when it clashes with her evening dress.

Flecks of blood dot the bandage.

"Mother," I say exasperatedly.

"Yes, dear boy?" she answers with an innocent flutter of her lashes.

"Where is Irisa?"

She inspects her unoccupied hand, examining her nails with a contemptuous smile that raises a red flag in my mind.

I received news on Irisa's abduction in broad daylight. Multiple civilians witnessed two men getting out of the totaled car and haul her with another woman into the trunk.

One of the men dropped an eyeball during the struggle with the red-haired woman. Irisa only knows one woman with red hair, so it's presumably Norine.

I happen to know my mother's toy has glass eyes. The other abductor most likely works for her too.

My mother is testing my patience.

"I'm busy," I remark tersely.

Earlier today, I had the chance to wipe out the Decaying Sable if I hadn't gotten a call that Irisa was abducted. There wasn't a single doubt in me that believed my mother was uninvolved.

We had one conversation about Irisa, but my mother's interest in her is strangely obsessive. The way she speaks about Irisa is filled with excitement—like she was facing a visible threat.

Irisa wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone whatever my mother is imagining.

Unless she sees something that I don't.

"She's unharmed," she drones, "I like her strength."

I can't formulate the mess of thoughts scattering around my brain when the embodiment of sinister satisfaction etches onto her smile. Predicting her thoughts is draining because it takes extraordinary skill to think like a fiend.

"What did you do to her?" I insist, disappointment whirring in my heart.

"Trial and error; she passed beautifully," she says pensively. "I want her to live."

What my mother wants to say is Irisa serves a greater purpose to her entertainment than one can imagine. When someone interests my mother, it's typically someone who is more mentally resilient than others.

She has no use for physical prowess since destroying someone mentally causes long-term damages.

This has me curious. What does my mother see in Irisa that I don't? Am I too blinded by her that I'm missing the obvious?

I swallow the acidic moisture in my throat and note the slight shift in my mother's eyes. The obscurity unnerves me and a dry, clotted breath creeps unwittingly into my lungs.

The door to her office clicks open, and my hand already has the gun in a firm grip.

She doesn't have visitors.