Silva

Chapter Twenty-Six

• Silva •

—

My mother abducted Irisa again. At least, she's unharmed this time when she returned.

I'm going to have to make it clear that there will not be a third time. She and I have agreed that some things are off-limits, and Irisa is one of them.

"What are we doing here?" Irisa asks with an owlish blink.

I rub the back of her hand, kneading the delicate curves of her knuckles as her smaller fingers stretch to ease the tension. I squeeze our intertwined fingers harder; she emits a throttled yelp.

"What happened?" I ask, tugging her down the long hall.

I utilize this place for the sole purpose of interrogation. Each room has its history; harrowing screams, crimson-painted surfaces, and imprisoned souls that will never see the light of day again.

This is not a murder house; I don't have people abducted to be tortured for entertainment even if the black market has a niche for it. The money is not worth the risk and law enforcement nuisance.

This place is strictly for business.

My men only need to hurt them enough to get them talking with fear guiding them.

In case they still lie after a limb comes off; hacked, sawed, or twisted off—that's up to the interrogator.

Then, there are those stubborn ones. A bit time-consuming, but sadistic gratification is rewarding. My men already have a history of crude violence, and basic torture barely scratches their itch.

"My mother took you to Russia," I remind as I open the door to an empty room. "What happened there?"

"Why do you think something happened?" she questions back, reservedly naïve.

"Pandemonium is her favorite thing." I close the door and steer her to the table in the middle of the room.

She cocks her head curiously. She doesn't see it, but I can visualize the pooling blood dripping down the table even after it's been cleaned.

"Her ploys only benefit her; you're a chess piece to her," I say, picking Irisa up and setting her ass on the table.

She swings her legs to shift her weight, her thighs rubbing on my legs, and slides her fingers into mine again. Her body language is open; I can read them with ease and understand the trust she has in me to not do anything bad.

"I met your dad."

Recurring vehemence fulminates through my veins, replacing my scuttling blood with iced fury and paves a surface for accustomed apathy. The same thing happens every time I hear about that man. I'd see red behind my eyes, but it dissipates into indifference because that man is dead to me.

If it wasn't for my mother, I would've killed him already.

Out of respect for my mother and her happiness, I remove myself from it. It's her right to destroy everything he loves and kill him herself.

My mother is a vindictive woman even when I was a child. She'd do whatever it takes to get what she wants, and she's not above peeling skins off.

Irisa grunts, throwing her arms around my waist and pressing her pretty face into my chest.

"Your mom was in a talkative mood during the plane ride; she said it was bonding time," Irisa mumbles as her nose scrunches when a whiff of acidic copper glides over.

Bleach can only do so much about the smell.

"What did she tell you?" I caress the back of her neck and take a fistful of hair.