CRIMINAL PASSION

Louise

“Si vis pacem, para bellum” is a Latin expression that, translated into Portuguese, means “if you want peace, prepare for war.”

My sister had it tattooed on her forearm when she turned eighteen. My father questioned what a rich and beautiful girl could possibly understand about wars, since the phrase seemed far too aggressive for someone so angelic as his firstborn. Iris never gave him a true answer. All she did was stretch her lips into a smile, revealing a perfect row of white teeth, pretending she could indeed be mistaken for naïve. “It’s just an interesting phrase, that’s all,” she said - daddy’s sweet little girl.

It was fascinating to watch her theater. My sister knew exactly how to win over an audience with her untamable spirit. Sometimes I felt her body was far too small for her wild, ravenous, and secretly disturbed soul.

Everything became too intense with her. Passivity was tedious. She craved action. She needed the stares, the spotlight, the leading role. If Iris wasn’t the protagonist, there was no story. If she wanted to win, then victory was already hers. If she wanted someone else’s place, she would take it; if she desired another’s affections or accomplishments, she would steal them. So cunning and skillful that, by the time you noticed, everything had already slipped through your fingers like water.

That was how she secured first place at one of São Paulo’s most competitive federal universities. Later, she landed a law internship at a prestigious firm, something no one at the beginning of their career could achieve -munless they let their married boss fuck them on his desk like a whore.

Iris, with her addiction to competition, even managed to take what was mine. According to her, I deserved someone who didn’t look at her the way my boyfriend did, and I should give him the right to choose.

And I did.

He chose her, and she… well, she chose him back.

Of course Iris, so obstinate and untamable, knew what was best for me. My admiration for my older sister outweighed any doubt or any frivolous heartbreak. Dictating choices was what she did best — especially when they were mine.

And I allowed it.

Because Iris was extraordinary.

I mirrored myself in her.

She inspired me.

She was a phenomenon from the very moment of her conception.

Her arrival into this world had come at a high cost. My mother wasn’t supposed to be able to have children, but with expensive treatments worth millions, Iris was born — and became untouchable.

The great love of their lives.

The most precious treasure of the prestigious Salles family.

When I came along, I was nothing but a shadow: welcomed, but never truly desired. A blessing, yes, but never a miracle. The irony was that I had been born naturally, without scientific intervention, without millions invested. I was the real surprise for the woman with the sick womb. Yet it was Iris who carried every title.

We were divergent. Opposites in every detail. I admitted she surpassed me in almost everything, and still, our bond meant everything to me. She was my best friend. My confidante.

Five years separated us when the accident happened.

The worst night of our lives.

All that fire, the smoke…

Her screams tore through the air as she cried out for me.

Her terrified eyes locked on mine.

Her fists pounding against the tempered glass of the door, unable to shatter it and set her free.

I couldn’t save her.

I watched my sister be consumed by the flames.

Her skin peeling from her flesh.

The moans of a maddening, agonizing end.

The guilt of Iris’s death fell squarely on my shoulders.

It devoured me.

From that night on, she — who had always dictated our paths — decreed the most torturous of them all: my parents’ grief grew stronger than everything else that remained.

Iris was gone.

And I was left behind.

The successful firstborn died — so why not the disappointing youngest?

After the fire, my mother could barely look at me.

Grief settled in like an unwelcome guest and never left.

It was our ruin.

I push the thoughts away and take a sip of my Mojito, her favorite drink, while staring at my phone screen: every July fifth feels like Iris dies all over again.

Tonight, it feels unbearable to stay at home. My lungs fill with the palpable pain that hangs heavy in that place. No amount of square footage, no luxury, can protect me from my mother’s accusing eyes, haunting me like lurking ghosts.

Sometimes it feels as if she could burst into my room and set me on fire herself, in a psychotic attempt to trade me for Iris. Because she would. Without a second thought.

That’s why I’m here at Le Rêve, at three in the morning — a nightclub in downtown São Paulo where Iris used to come with her friends on weekends. She brought me here on her twenty-first birthday. I was sixteen at the time, too young to get in, but her blonde hair and curvy body opened every door, every barrier.

I remember watching her order a Mojito from the bartender. I took a sip, hated it, but pretended to like it just to seem as cool as her friends. I tried so hard to impress her, to make her see me with the same admiration I felt for her — but the effort was pathetic.

We had nothing in common. She always seemed to shine brighter. To stand out more. Even in appearance, where we could reasonably be compared, she always stole the spotlight. My hair was blonde too, but never as radiant as hers. My eyes were green, but not like her emeralds. I was pretty — but not like Iris.

Another sip. Another grimace.

To be honest, I still hate this damn drink. And this club. I only came for her. Wherever she is, she’s probably laughing at me, thinking I’ll never reach her level — not even her flaws — while she watches me struggle to measure up, to make our parents believe I could be good, that I could ever be worth as much as she was.

I sound jealous when I talk about my sister like this. And though I hate myself for it, I’ve never been able to control the feeling.

I loved her. Desperately. But living my whole life being diminished and compared was hardly the best thing in the world.

“Another drink?” the bartender asks.

I glance at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar: disheveled hair, eyeliner smudged by intrusive tears.

The sight is so pathetic I decide to put an end to my night.

“No, thank you.”

My heels betray me, and I stumble as I try to stand and leave. The club spins. The haze clouds my vision. The pounding electronic music makes my heart vibrate in my chest. I pay the tab with my credit card and walk out. My car is parked two streets away.

I rush forward, trying to sober up. Then I dig the keys out of my purse and slip into my BMW. I could call Camile to pick me up, but at this hour she’s probably in the deep sleep of someone working two jobs — and she doesn’t deserve the burden of dealing with me. So I make the next mistake of the night: I start the engine.

A few kilometers ahead, fighting to keep my eyes clear, I hear the GPS warning about a checkpoint. Without thinking twice, I change my route.

I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with the pitch-black streets along this new path. My contacts feel dry against my eyes, making everything even worse. I blink fast, trying to adjust them, and then suddenly — a shadow flashes across the windshield.

What happens next is so fast I can barely process it.

A heavy impact shakes the car.

I slam on the brakes, the sound of the collision against the hood choking my breath in my throat. I yank the handbrake and clutch the steering wheel, my fingers throbbing with the pressure, my body frozen in shock.

What the fuck was that?

It’s like I’ve sobered up in an instant. My ears buzz, my thoughts scatter like desperate whispers. I keep staring ahead, but all I see is a shadow moving slowly on the ground.

I force myself to react.

I fumble across the passenger seat, searching for my phone, then step out of the car slowly. The BMW’s headlights cut through the dark, illuminating the man sprawled on the deserted street.

“Holy shit… I’m so sorry.” My whisper doesn’t reach his ears. I run over and crouch down to his level.

“Are you hurt?”

The guy lets out a hoarse groan as he grabs at his right arm under the black hoodie. What a stupid fucking question. Of course his shoulder popped out on impact.

My God, I’m so sorry, really, I’ll call an ambulance right now and—

Before I can dial 911, his fingers lock around my wrist. The grip is hot, strong, and it startles me. With his other hand, he snatches the phone from me roughly and locks it, as if the idea of calling were the dumbest thing in the world.

“No.”

The deep, gravelly bass of his voice hits me like a punch, thick with hate.

No?

I hit him. I hurt him.

I’m — if only slightly — drunk. He could ruin me right now, and still, he doesn’t want me to call?

Bad sign.

Get back in the car, Louise.

But the order doesn’t reach my legs. I study him more closely: he looks older than me, maybe twenty-eight, twenty-nine. Tattoos climb up his throat, ink etching dark lines against pale skin. The hood shadows most of his face, but it can’t hide the sinister gleam in his eyes. I can’t tell if they’re dark green or black because my body blocks the headlights, but the intimidating look freezes me in place.

“I…” My lips part, trying to respond. “Why not?”

I curse the hesitation in my voice as his gaze shifts over my shoulder.

He’s scanning, checking if anyone else is with me.

Fear curls tighter in my stomach. What he might do once he realizes I’m alone terrifies me. Even though he’s the one who got hit — his arm possibly dislocated — the person in danger here is me.

My eyes catch on his hands, still clutching my phone. They’re bruised, the knuckles swollen and bloodied, but not from the accident. They look like the aftermath of punching something. Or someone. Until the skin tore open.

Every detail about this man screams at me to back away.

My heart pounds harder as he starts to rise.

I stand too, on edge, and our considerable height difference only amplifies the alarms screaming inside me.

“Can I have my phone back, please?” I hold out my hand, trying to show some confidence, but I realize almost immediately how badly my fingers are trembling.

Even through the loose hoodie and sweatpants, I can see the outline of his biceps pressing against the fabric, the broad chest, the wide shoulders. He could do anything he wanted to me. My stomach twists with fear.

I just want him to hand me the damn phone and stop looking at me like I’m the most disgusting thing he’s ever seen — like he’s imagining dumping my body somewhere in this darkness.

I take a step back.

If he tries anything, I’ll run.

“Listen, I don’t know what your deal is, but I just want to help, so—”

“Get in the car.” He holds the phone out toward me.

“Call someone to pick you up before you kill somebody.” His accusatory tone burns me with shame. He knows I’ve been drinking.

“Only after I call an ambulance. I need to know you’re okay.”

“If you call, the cops will show up right after,” he answers flatly. “And neither of us wants that, do we?”

I shake my head slowly, keeping my eyes locked on him.

The last thing I want is to drag my parents into this mess — not today, not on the anniversary of Iris’s death.

But what are the odds? Getting hit by a drunk, reckless girl behind the wheel of a BMW and refusing both help and police involvement? On top of that, with his shoulder possibly dislocated? Come on. He’s holding all the cards here. Nobody’s that good of a Samaritan. And he definitely doesn’t look like the type.

“So… I just think I might need some kind of guarantee,” I say, uncertain. “You know, you could still file a report, claim I hit you and then drove off like some crazy bitch.”

His eyes narrow at me, like I’m a joke. But I’m not wrong. It wouldn’t be a bad move. He got hit by a half-million-dollar car. I’ve got the rich daddy’s-girl label stamped across my forehead, and honestly? He’s got the look of someone who’d take advantage of that.

“You want a guarantee, Barbie?” His jaw tightens, his gaze sharp and challenging.

I try to hide my panic in the second he steps closer. Strong. Threatening. Dangerous.

There’s barely an inch between us when my attention drops to his waist — just as he lifts the hem of his hoodie and flashes the weapon tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

“Right here, Louise.”

I stop breathing.

My name rolls off his tongue like a threat.

My legs shake uncontrollably, and I make a move to run, but he grabs me by the waist and yanks me back, pressing the barrel of the gun under my chin and forcing my face upward until my eyes lock with his.

My soul leaves my body.

Cold sweat drenches me. Tremors hit so violently that, ironically, if this man pointing a fucking gun at my face weren’t holding me up, I’d already be on the ground.

For a split second, panic hijacks my brain — how the hell does he know my name? Then his hand leaves my waist and rises to the chain around my neck.

My necklace.

The damned necklace.

“Not very smart, walking around with a collar that spells your name.” He rips it off with brutal force, and I gasp. The barrel still digs into my chin.

“Don’t… please…” I whisper.

His eyes bore into me with such intensity that I can see the violence burning in them. Then, wordlessly, he tucks the gun back into his waistband.

I stagger backward, clutching my throat as if the heat of the barrel and the grip of his fingers had left a burn etched into my skin.

“I’ll keep this,” he says, holding up the necklace. “For the damage you caused.”

Iris gave me that choker shortly before she died, with the letters L.O.U.I.S.E. She had one just like it with her name. We wore them whenever we went out together — people always asked where we’d bought them. They looked so beautiful, so special.

Now… now it just looks incredibly stupid.

But it’s mine.

She gave it to me.

It was the last gift she ever gave me.

It means something.

My eyes sting, filling with tears.

I want it back.

Give it back, you fucking bastard.

But the words don’t leave my mouth.

“Do I need to be clearer about keeping the cops out of this, or was our little chat enough?”

My gaze drops to the weapon tucked against his side, and I swallow hard.

“It was enough.”

His stare lingers on me for what feels like an eternity, and I swear he enjoys the quick surrender, the fear dripping from every pore of my body.

Rooted to the spot, I can only watch as he slips the choker into his pocket, turns his back, and vanishes into the darkness, leaving me stranded in the single beam of light cast by my car’s headlights.

The moment he’s out of sight, I finally let out the breath I’ve been holding, blood rushing back into my veins.

Holy fuck.

I need to get out of here before he changes his mind and that gun becomes the last thing I ever see.

I take a shaky step to the side, onto the patch of asphalt where he had fallen, and that’s when I notice a slip of paper.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I pick it up between trembling fingers. It looks like one of my mother’s law office business cards. Only this one is entirely black, front and back, with a chilling image of a three-headed hound snarling in the center.

Whether it belongs to him or not, I have no idea, but I feel an urgent need to keep it.

One last glance around, then I hurry back into the car. My skin still burns with the ghost of the gun barrel and the heat of that bastard’s touch as I drive off, the suffocating sense of being watched clinging to me all the way.