Collateral obsession, p.23
Collateral Obsession, page 23
“Can I ask you for something?”
Dante hovers in my mind, uninvited and constant, like a pulse I can’t silence. His shadow has been haunting me, setting fire to thoughts I can’t put out. After Julian, I know I need to stop chasing cheap imitations and face the only thing that actually matters.
“I’m listening,” Cane says, patient but cautious.
“It’s about Dante,” I admit, chewing on my lower lip as I force the words into shape. “You have his file, right?”
“What’s this about?”
The itch of urgency crawls beneath my skin, making it impossible to stand still. “Do you?”
“Yes, I have it. He’s—”
I press my index finger against his lips, silencing him before he can finish. His breath warms my skin, but I don’t move. “I want to read it myself,” I whisper. “Can you bring me a copy?”
When I pull my hand away, he hesitates, the calculating flicker behind his eyes tightening. “Why? I thought you knew enough to work with him.”
“It’s nothing,” I lie smoothly, though the words burn on my tongue. “He just impressed me, that’s all. I’m curious about his past.”
He holds my gaze, unblinking, the air between us tightening into a quiet standoff. I tilt my head slightly, softening my expression, letting my eyes glisten just enough, lips curving into something almost innocent.
“Please?”
A long exhale escapes him, tired and reluctant. His eyelids close as though he’s surrendering to the inevitable. “Okay,” he mutters. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Before he can change his mind, I lunge forward, smashing my chest against his in a sudden, crushing hug. My arms lock tight around him, and I squeeze until I hear the faint pop of his ribs and feel a low grunt vibrate through his chest.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
A sudden cough cuts through the silence from somewhere down the corridor, followed by a heavy thud that makes both of us freeze. I unwrap my arms from Cane and turn before moving toward the sound. I can feel him right behind me, his steps quick and tense.
When we reach the source of the noise, our eyes land on Julian—sprawled across the floor like a discarded puppet. His face is unnervingly calm, eyes closed as though he’s simply fallen asleep. In his limp hand rests a small, matte bottle, the kind that screams danger even before you know what’s inside. Cane’s black bag lies beside him, unzipped.
Cane snarls under his breath. “Oh, fuck me.”
“Right now?” I shoot back. “Didn’t know you were kinky like that.”
He lets out a laugh—loud, raw, teetering somewhere between genuine amusement and sheer exasperation. The sound rattles the still air as he digs into his pocket, pulling out his phone. “Did he have asthma?” he asks, slender fingers flying over the screen, dialing without looking.
I shrug, watching the unmoving body on the floor. Julian doesn’t twitch, doesn’t breathe—just lies there, the serenity on his face twisted into something grotesque by the stillness of death. “How the fuck should I know? I knew him for, what, twenty minutes?” My gaze drops to the bottle glinting in his hand. “What’s even that?”
Cane glances down briefly, his tone clipped and tense. “It’s called Hush,” he says, as though naming it is enough to explain.
I arch an eyebrow, confused. He presses the phone to his ear, and as the dial tone hums faintly between us, he adds, “Bio-signal aerosol. It triggers an instantaneous vagal reflex and overdrives the system into… fatal silence.”
My lips press together as I fight back a smirk. “Somebody pissed you off, huh?”
“That… was a personal matter.” His eyes dart to the open bag, then to Julian’s lifeless body. “Now why the fuck would he snoop around in my bag? This fucking idiot.”
A laugh escapes me, rising from deep in my chest, impossible to hold back.
Sometimes, the universe has a sense of humor. Sometimes, problems solve themselves.
Cane turns away, phone pressed tight to his ear, muttering orders to whoever’s on the other end. His voice fades into background noise, a dull hum against the crackling silence.
My attention lingers on Julian’s body, on the way his arm bends unnaturally, on the faint gleam of the bottle still caught in his fingers. This is exactly what every man looks like to me in the end: weak, stupid, and incapable.
Everyone except Dante.
Cane brought me Dante’s file early in the morning, and since then, time has lost all meaning. Hours blur into each other as I sit buried in the pages, dissecting every sentence, every comma, reading between the lines until my eyes sting. My mind keeps drawing pictures, sketching faces and scenes where words fall short, and then I draw them again on paper, trying to make my imagination sharper, more alive.
There isn’t much in the file. Cane never bothers with deep analysis or psychological profiles—he deals in facts, not motives. A name, a date, a kill. That’s all he needs. But I’ve always been good at filling in the blanks. I have a vivid, useful imagination.
A strawberry gummy bear melts on my tongue as I chew, the artificial sweetness coating the taste of ink and paper that lingers in the air. My fingers trail over the slightly yellowed sheets, tracing the faded type as my feet dangle off the chair, crossing and uncrossing absently. I’ve been rereading the same paragraph for what feels like an eternity, each repetition twisting the words into something new.
Heavy, layered, relentless theories build in my mind like storm clouds. The file is full of broken facts that refuse to fit together, and what I know from Dante himself is even more fragile, like ancient parchment crumbling under too much pressure.
Take his parents, for example. The file labels him an orphan, nothing more. No names, no records. From what he told me, he killed them, but the file doesn’t even include a description of that. It’s maddening, and yet, at the same time, that void gives me room to breathe, to imagine, to theorize.
There’s always a reason. There has to be.
I’m not sure if people are born evil. I’ve thought about it too many times to count, and I still can’t find an answer that satisfies me. Maybe it’s not something you’re born with—maybe it’s something that grows, like a seed you never planted but that takes root anyway.
When I think back to my own childhood, I remember being impulsive, wild in ways that didn’t make sense even to me. When my parents punished me, I remember feeling nothing. Not anger, not guilt, not even fear. Just… emptiness. Like someone had tied chains around my tongue, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t say I was sorry. I couldn’t care. I just stood there, absorbing their disappointment in silence.
They told me I was bad, wrong, and broken, and I certainly was. I did things I shouldn’t have done, not because I wanted to hurt anyone, but because I didn’t understand why I shouldn’t.
I never wanted to kill anyone at first. Not until I grew older.
Sometimes, when insomnia digs its claws into me, I wonder what would’ve happened if things had been different. If someone had tried harder. If love could’ve changed me, softened the sharp edges, rewired something in my head. Maybe I could’ve learned how to be normal.
But I guess we’ll never know that.
Dante’s parents were assholes—I’m sure of it. I saw it in his eyes the first time he talked about them, back when we started working together. That flutter told me everything words couldn’t.
The way he described killing them didn’t carry the hollow chill of indifference, the numb detachment of someone recounting a story from another life. There was a rhythm to it, a cadence that hinted at something earned, something carved out of necessity and choice rather than chaos. I can feel the reasoning pressing beneath the surface, a dark logic that demands to be understood.
And I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t the thing that gnaws at me most fiercely, clawing at my mind with a persistent, insatiable curiosity that refuses to be soothed.
What was his childhood like? Was he bullied? Did he fight back? What kind of grades did he get? Did he ever have a true friend who didn’t end up betraying him?
The questions spiral in my mind, a violent whirlpool dragging me under, each new thought crashing against the next until I can barely breathe beneath their weight.
I wonder how much of him mirrors me.
My fingers slide toward his photo, the edges of the paper soft under my touch. I trace the faint texture of the printed image, brushing my fingertips over the shape of his face. The photo Cane picked is almost absurd—Dante in a prison guard uniform, that ridiculous fake mustache sitting above a mouth that looks like it’s seconds away from curling into a smirk. A bad disguise for a man too sharp to hide.
My touch lingers, brushing over his lips, tracing the angle of his jaw. Without the full beard, he looks younger—disarmingly so. But with it, he looks exactly his age, maybe even older. Weathered by experience, hardened by something deeper. And that stirs a strange, magnetic pull that tightens deep in my core.
A knock at the door snaps me out of my thoughts. I jolt upright as if the mattress suddenly caught fire, the heat in my cheeks burning through the cool air. For a second, I freeze, wondering if I imagined it. But the knock comes again.
I scramble to collect the papers, shoving them into the folder with frantic precision. Flipping it over, I make sure his name faces down against the bedspread. Another knock echoes through the space, and I rake my fingers through my hair, trying to tame the mess.
My eyes flick to the window. The moonlight spills through the glass in soft, eerie ribbons, bathing the room in a milky haze that makes everything feel suspended. I blink, realizing how many hours have passed since I first opened his file.
By the time I reach the door, my pulse is uneven—a mixture of guilt and anticipation pounding inside me. I unlock it, grip the cold metal handle, and pull it open.
A gust of cold air rushes in, biting against my skin, teasing goosebumps across my arms. The chill cuts through me, but beneath it, my cheeks still burn, betraying the warmth that refuses to fade.
My gaze falls on a man standing in the doorway—early thirties, perhaps, his hair hidden under a baseball cap. He wears a sporty red-and-black jacket that glints faintly under the hallway light, paired with black sweatpants, his posture slouched.
“Estella, am I correct?” he asks, voice clipped, already holding out a stack of papers and a pen toward me. “Sign here,” he adds before I can even answer.
My brows knit together in suspicion. “I didn’t order anything.”
Only then do I notice the boxes at his feet—three of them, matte black, unmarked, no sender’s name, no message. They sit in perfect alignment, like something staged for a photograph.
The man exhales, impatient, his outstretched hand trembling faintly as if he’s been standing here too long. “I was told to deliver the packages,” he says flatly. “Please sign here.”
I snatch the papers and the pen from his grip, my eyes scanning the form until I find my name. The tip of the pen squeaks faintly as I scrawl a messy, uneven signature—a perfect reflection of the chaos in my head.
Confusion. Disorientation. A faint, inexplicable unease.
“Thanks. Have a good night,” he mutters mechanically before turning around and walking across the dim hallway, his silhouette swallowed by the cold light that drips through the dusty windowpanes. I watch him until all that’s left is the echo of his steps and the faint flicker of movement at the end of the hallway.
My focus drifts back to the boxes. Kneeling, I press my palms against the side of the first one and lift, surprised when it rises with almost no effort. Lighter than it looks. I give it a gentle shake beside my ear, hearing a faint rustle, something soft shifting inside.
I stack the boxes in my arms until their sharp edges dig into my skin. I barely notice the sting, curiosity drowning everything else as I haul them inside, shutting the door with my foot.
Walking to the bedroom, I set the boxes down on the bed, and the mattress gives a soft bounce beneath the weight. Crawling up beside them, I tuck one leg under me and reach for the top box. My fingers slide under the lid, and I lift.
My gaze fixes on the pinkish paper, its surface catching the dim moonlight in faint, teasing glimmers. The color seems almost alive—rich and vivid, holding a promise I can’t yet name. I move the lid carefully, set it aside, and lean in, the air around me thick with anticipation.
A shiver snakes down my spine as I begin to peel back the paper. Nestled inside, perfectly arranged, is a piece of clothing, its deep color and luxurious texture calling to be touched. And beside it, a slender bottle of perfume rests, the glass catching the light in soft, trembling sparks, like champagne caught beneath the glow of candlelight.
The sight alone makes the air feel heavier, charged, almost intoxicating, as though the contents of this small package carry more than just scent and fabric.
My gaze catches on the label, the elegant script curling across it in soft gold letters.
Étoile Noire. Black Star.
Slowly, I grab the bottle and twirl it between my fingers, letting the moonlight play across its surface. It’s mid-sized and round, cut like a precious gem—each faceted angle glinting with silvery reflections that shimmer against the smoky, champagne-colored glass. The teardrop-shaped indents catch the light and scatter it in delicate patterns across my hands, giving the bottle a distinctly feminine grace, fragile yet commanding.
On top sits a square black cap framed in gold, glimmering faintly like jewelry in the dimness.
The glass feels impossibly smooth—cool and heavy, gliding against my skin like silk. My fingers trace the curves, mesmerized by its craftsmanship, by the way it seems to breathe elegance.
Impatience building, I twist the lid off and tilt my head back, baring my throat to the air. My finger finds the sprayer, and with a soft press, the perfume mists against my neck. Droplets settle on my skin, cold for an instant before dissolving into warmth.
I close my eyes and inhale.
The scent floods my senses, dizzying, exquisite—a heady sweetness laced with the bite of pear and the earthiness of patchouli, tangled with the faint hum of rain-soaked wood. A whisper of caramel drifts beneath it all, soft and fucking addictive.
My lips part instinctively, my chest rising and falling with a deeper, more deliberate breath. I draw in another long inhale, letting it fill my lungs until the edges of the room blur and the world tilts ever so slightly, unsteady beneath me. A rush of delirium rises from somewhere deep, wrapping around my senses like a tide. The perfume clings to me with an almost sentient persistence, pressing against my skin like a lover’s lingering memory, seeping into every pore, every nerve, until I feel entirely drenched in it.
It’s… intoxicating.
It’s me. Everything I am and everything I want to be. Sweet and grounded, dangerous and alluring. Every passing second reveals another layer, another secret hidden in its scent.
Before I do something reckless—like drink it—I put the cap back on and set the bottle carefully on the bed beside me. My fingers linger for a heartbeat before I pull them away and reach for the other contents of the box.
I lift the folded fabric with a careful, almost reverent touch, letting it unfold slowly in my hands. A black tweed blazer emerges, simple in form yet utterly magnetic, drawing the eye without effort. Gold threads run through it in near-imperceptible lines, glinting softly in the weak light, like tiny constellations scattered across the night sky.
My fingertips trace the weave, feeling the interplay of textures—the subtle heft of tweed tempered by a gentle, underlying silkiness that smooths the rough edges, softening the coarseness into something almost intimate. Every fold, every seam, speaks of meticulous craft, and I can’t help but linger over it, letting my hands memorize the quiet elegance held within the fabric.
I close my eyes for a moment, letting the sensation ground me. There’s a quiet kind of reverence in touching something so perfectly made.
That’s the thing about luxury—it never stops at quality alone. It exists in the way it presents itself, in the careful folds of wrapping, the gentle crease of a ribbon, the deliberate weight of attention lavished on every detail. It’s in the whisper of hands that cared enough to craft it, in the invisible promise that somewhere, somehow, someone thought of you as they shaped it.
I always let that illusion seep deep, sinking into my bones like a slow-burning fire, letting it settle under my skin. As long as it stirs something within me, I never question it.
But this one is different. Even before I touched it, I knew. It carries a precision, a quiet intimacy that screams it was truly made for me alone, and no one else.
Gently, I lay the blazer on the bed beside the perfume, arranging it with care as though I’m setting up a shrine. The fabric gleams faintly under the moonlight, threads of gold catching the glow, and for a moment, I just stare. Heat builds low in my stomach, spreading a wave of sweet, teasing pleasure.
I bathe in the feeling for a beat longer before I reach for the next two boxes. The second one yields a soft, deliberate rustle as I lift the lid, revealing a pair of trousers folded with the same meticulous care. The fabric matches the blazer perfectly—the same deep, shadowed tweed, sleek and structured.
The third box responds with a faint, anticipatory creak as I pry it open. Inside, the loafers sit like artifacts on display—polished black leather, bold without arrogance, refined in every curve. Each stitch, each line of the sole, speaks of intention, of craftsmanship honed to the point of art.
I place them all together on the bed—the blazer, the trousers, the loafers, and the bottle of perfume gleaming like a gem among them. My teeth find the corner of my mouth as I take it all in, the scene cinematic in its perfection.
Elegant, yet devastating. Both the scent and the outfit.
My lips quiver, a subtle rebellion against the careful armor of composure I wear. Slowly, impossibly, a smile begins to unfurl—tentative at first, a mere whisper of motion, then expanding, stretching across my face like sunlight spilling into a shadowed room. It blooms into something undeniable, something rare and alive, fragile yet profound, a pulse of happiness that lingers quietly beneath the surface, deep enough to root itself in the bones of me.
