Chapter 80 Fragments of La Notte
CHAPTER 80: Fragments of La Notte
Silas
Three months ago.
La Notte.
The same night Vera said everything began.
I was there. I had been at Damien’s nightclub after a meeting with the police deputy who was in charge of Simone’s case. That day he had given me more excuses about them not having found any leads. I was livid and needed to let off steam, and so when Damien, who I had initially rejected doing business with, invited me to his nightclub, I went.
My phone kept ringing—I ignored it.
I sank back into my chair, my heart hammering frantically against my ribs.
I recalled stepping into Damien Vane’s premier club… his over enthusiastic welcome and his attempt at playing the most gracious host. Yet my memory was a blur of expensive scotch and heavy bass.
Why couldn't I remember?
I remembered the club, the music, the drinks, then nothing but fragments.
Who was the woman in my head? Why was she begging?
And the thought that made my blood turn to ice— was I the one she was begging to stop?
What had I done to her?
Closing my eyes, I swore heavily under my breath, trying to force the darkness to yield a face. But as I tried to pull the memory of that night forward, I wasn't met with Vera’s face.
In fact nothing new was forthcoming, instead, I was assaulted by those same jagged, red flashes of the vibrant, crimson hair of a woman who was definitely not Vera. Her hair was a rich, dark mahogany.
My phone vibrated on the desk again and it felt like an electric shock. I dragged my palm down my face, physically trying to wipe my damning thoughts.
I swiped the screen, my voice a low, dangerous rasp before the other man could even greet me.
“You better have the answers that I want to hear, Max.”
“Sir,” Max’s gravelly voice came through, sounding strained. “I was able to get some information, but I doubt if they are the answers you seek.”
“Quit sounding like a fucking shrink and tell me what you found,” I snapped.
“Okay, sir. I was able to track the shop where the flowers were purchased. It’s the floral shop on 4th and Main, on the edge of the district.”
My expectations heightened. “And?” I demanded, my grip tightening on the cellphone. “Did you find out who purchased the flowers?”
“That’s the problem, sir. I’ve got nothing. The buyer was meticulous. Shop assistant said he was a man. He used a generic name and was clever enough to avoid the lens. Kept his head down the entire time, and his face was further shadowed by a brimmed hat. It wasn't caught on camera.”
My jaw tightened. So it was a man. A ghost who had dropped a bomb that has shattered the state of my mind.
“Damien,” I growled, my mind immediately pivoting to the first, and most likely the only one I could think of, the name tasting like bile. “It has to be that scumbag. Where is he?”
He sighed. ”That’s the thing, sir. Vane has been globetrotting for weeks. My team last placed him in Mexico City. His location for the past twenty-fours has been accounted for. So, unless he can teleport, he couldn't have been the one in that flower shop today.”
“He could have easily sent someone,” I countered, my teeth gritting. “Surely that bastard would have his fellow low-lifes on his payroll to run errands for him while he creates the perfect alibi.”
“It's possible, Sir. What do you want me to do now?”
“Keep an eye on him. The second he's back in the country, I want to be the first person he sees.”
I almost cut the call, “And one more thing.” I paused, the image of the red hair flickering behind my eyelids again. “Get me this information as soon as possible. That night I was at La Notte… find anyone with red hair. Staff, dancers, guests. I want names, locations, everything.”
“Red hair? Sir, I thought we were looking for—”
“Quit thinking. Just do it,” I barked and cut the line.
I leaned back in my chair, the weight of the unknown pressing down on my chest.
Why couldn't I remember that night? I had never struggled to recall memories as a result of being intoxicated. But this was different.
The pressure began to build at my temples, and I rubbed it slowly, wondering what was going on.
The same memory fragments repeated: the scent of lilies, tangled sheets, the disoriented voice of a woman pleading.
Who was she? Why was she begging? And the most disturbing 'what if' began to take root like a dangerous weed in my mind: Was I the man she was begging?
Was I the one who had caused that terror?
The phone rang again, pulling me from the brink of a spiral. A quick glance at the screen, and it was Chauncey.
“Silas,” he said, his tone light. “I need you to pass a message across to Claud for me?”
“I believe our sister must surely possess a mobile phone,” I replied dryly.
“I can't seem to get a hold of her phone. I'll be at the mansion this evening to pick her up for the Ball.”
I cleared my throat, forcing my voice to stabilize. “I’ll let her know. She’ll be ready.”
There was a long pause on the other end. Chauncey’s tone shifted into something more observant.
“Brother? You sound... off. Is something wrong?” he paused briefly. “Is it Vera again?”
It was ironic how he was almost always right.
I paused, the image of the red hair flashing behind my eyes again, the sound of a door locking, a wrist in hand, accompanied by that haunting plea:
“Please... stop…”
“It's nothing, brother,” I lied, the words feeling heavy and dishonest. “Just a long morning. I'll see you later.”
I hung up before he could say anything else, and stared at the dark screen of the monitor.
The Founders' Ball was hours away, and I couldn't afford to be haunted by a faceless woman or a night in Vegas I couldn't map. I needed to be in control.
I stood up, adjusting the cuffs of my shirt, and walked toward the door.
The memories would have to wait; the night was about to begin.