Obsession Under Jakarta Skies

Chapter 4

“Start the car, Dorian. And for God’s sake, stay away from the panic button.”

The Toyota’s engine turned over with a pathetic, metallic cough before finally settling into a low rumble. Dorian pulled away from the curb, his eyes darting between the rearview mirror and the road.

"So, the plan is just to waltz back into the Kertawati lion's den?" Dorian asked, shifting gears. "You saw the surveillance photos, Silas. Riven’s guys are watching you. They’re watching her. If you show up at her place now, you’re just handing them a target with a bow on it."

"She’s already a target, Dorian. But she’s not at her place," Silas said, staring at the burner phone screen. "Nadia sent a blast to the Commissioner ten minutes ago. Anastasia left the safe house. She told her security detail she had a 'private engagement' she couldn't miss."

Dorian whistled, swerving to avoid a slow-moving Bajaj. "A private engagement? After someone literally tried to turn her living room into a Swiss cheese factory? The woman has ice water in her veins. Where’s she headed?"

"The Velvet Lotus," Silas replied, his jaw tightening.

Dorian slammed on the brakes, sending both of them lunging forward against their seatbelts. "Are you kidding me? Helena Prameswari’s place? Silas, that’s not a nightclub. That’s a neutral zone for every shark, snake, and bottom-feeder in Jakarta. If a cop walks in there without a warrant, he doesn't walk out."

"Which is why I’m not going in as a cop," Silas said, unzipping his hoodie to reveal the ruins of his tailored suit. "I need a better jacket. And you need to find me a way into the VIP list."

"I hate it when you get that look in your eye," Dorian groaned, pulling back into traffic. "It usually ends with me writing a report about why a police vehicle is at the bottom of the Ciliwung River."

*

The Velvet Lotus was a masterpiece of neon and shadows, tucked away in a corner of Senopati where the streetlights always seemed to be flickering. The bass from the speakers was a physical weight, thrumming through the pavement and vibrating in Silas’s chest as he stepped out of a black town car.

He had traded the hoodie for a sharp, midnight-blue blazer that fit him like armor. His hair was slicked back, his expression a mask of bored, aristocratic indifference.

"You look like a million bucks," Dorian’s voice crackled in his earpiece. "Or at least like a guy who’s about to lose a million bucks at the baccarat table. Remember, Silas, you’re 'Aris Jatmiko' tonight. High-stakes investor, low-stakes morals."

"I know the drill, Dorian. Just keep the feed clear," Silas muttered, stepping toward the heavy velvet ropes.

The bouncer, a man the size of a small refrigerator, didn't even ask for ID. He took one look at the cut of Silas’s suit and the way he carried himself, and simply unclipped the gold chain.

"Enjoy the evening, sir," the bouncer grunted.

The interior was a sensory assault. The air was thick with the scent of expensive tobacco, sandalwood, and the underlying ozone of the fog machine. Women in shimmering cocktail dresses and men in bespoke linen moved through the haze like ghosts in a gilded cage. As Silas wove through the crowd, he felt the weight of a dozen gazes.

"You’ve got a fan club already," Dorian chirped. "The blonde at the bar hasn't looked away since you walked in. Careful, Aris. Don't get distracted."

"I’m not looking at the bar," Silas said, his eyes scanning the upper tiers of the club.

"Then look at three o'clock," Dorian said, his tone sharpening. "The lady of the house is coming your way."

Helena Prameswari didn't walk; she glided. She was draped in a gold-sequined gown that looked like liquid fire, her dark hair piled in an intricate arrangement that must have taken hours. She held a long, slim cigarette holder in one hand, her eyes sharp and predatory.

"I don't believe we've had the pleasure," Helena said, her voice a sultry rasp that cut through the music. "And I make it my business to know every handsome face that enters my Lotus."

Silas offered a faint, practiced smile. "The city is full of faces, Helena. I prefer to stay in the shadows of the bank accounts."

Helena laughed, a low, melodic sound. "A man who values privacy. How rare. And how very expensive. What brings you to my little corner of the world, Mr...?"

"Jatmiko. Aris Jatmiko," Silas said, taking her hand and bowing his head just enough to be polite, but not enough to be subservient. "I heard this was the only place in Jakarta where the drinks are cold and the secrets are kept."

"The drinks are freezing," Helena whispered, stepping closer until he could smell her cloying, floral perfume. "The secrets, however... those require a certain level of trust. Or a very specific type of currency."

"I’m sure we can find a middle ground," Silas replied.

"Perhaps. But a man like you isn't here for the house gin," Helena said, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. "You’re looking for someone. I can see it in the way you’re ignoring the most beautiful women in the room."

"I have specific tastes," Silas countered.

"I can tell," Helena said, tapping the ash from her cigarette. "I might have the information you’re seeking. About the shipping lanes, perhaps? Or maybe about a certain orchid that’s been the talk of the town?"

Silas felt his pulse quicken, but he kept his face a blank slate. "You’re well-informed."

"Information is the only thing that doesn't depreciate in value," she said. "I’ll tell you what you want to know. But I need a favor first. Something... delicate."

"I’m not a hitman, Helena."

"Oh, I have plenty of those," she dismissed with a wave of her hand. "I need someone with a badge’s eye but a criminal’s conscience. There’s a ledger in the office of a rival of mine. Bring it to me, and I’ll give you the name of the man who bought that orchid."

Silas felt a wave of discomfort. To do this meant crossing a line he had spent his career protecting. "That’s a steep price."

"The truth always is," Helena said, leaning in. Her hand trailed down his lapel, her fingers lingering near his heart. "Think about it, Aris. You know where to find me."

She began to turn away, but Silas’s gaze shifted past her, toward the glass-walled VIP booths that overlooked the dance floor. His heart missed a beat.

In the center booth, bathed in a soft, amber glow, sat Anastasia Kertawati. She looked radiant, her composure back in place, wearing a dress of silver silk that made her look like a fallen star. But she wasn't alone.

Sitting across from her, leaning in with a wolfish grin, was Riven Adhyatma.

"Silas, tell me you’re not seeing what I’m seeing," Dorian’s voice hissed in his ear. "Is that the heiress with the man who just tried to ventilate her apartment?"

"I see it," Silas growled, his hand clenching into a fist at his side. A hot, irrational flare of jealousy burned in his gut, clashing with his professional instincts.

"She looks... comfortable," Dorian noted. "A little too comfortable for someone sitting with a murderer."

"I’m going up there," Silas said.

"Wait! Silas, don't! Your cover—"

Silas ignored him, moving toward the stairs. He pushed past a group of laughing socialites, his focus narrowed entirely on the booth. He watched as Riven reached out, his hand covering Anastasia’s on the table. She didn't pull away. In fact, she leaned closer, whispering something that made Riven throw his head back and laugh.

The air in the club suddenly felt stifling. Silas reached the top of the stairs, his eyes locked on the pair. He saw Riven reach down beside his chair and lift a small, sleek silver briefcase onto the table.

Riven flipped the latches with a distinctive click-click that Silas could almost hear over the music. He slid the case toward Anastasia.

"Is that...?" Dorian started, his voice hushed.

"It’s the right size," Silas whispered. "The murder weapon. It’s got to be."

Anastasia didn't look shocked. She didn't look scared. She reached out and placed her hand on the lid of the briefcase, her eyes meeting Riven’s in a look that was hauntingly intimate.

"She’s taking it," Silas muttered, his voice thick with disbelief. "She’s taking the gift from the man who killed Wijaya."

As if sensing his gaze, Anastasia turned her head. Her dark eyes found his across the crowded club. She didn't flinch. She didn't look surprised to see him. Instead, a slow, enigmatic smile spread across her lips—the same smile she had given him in the blood-stained ballroom.

She tapped the top of the silver briefcase twice, a clear, deliberate gesture meant only for him.

"She knows I'm here," Silas said, his voice like flint. "She’s not the victim, Dorian. She’s the architect."

"Silas, get out of there," Dorian urged. "Riven’s guys are moving. They’ve spotted you!"

But Silas didn't move. He stood at the edge of the VIP tier, caught between the woman who had haunted his dreams and the briefcase that held the key to her ruin. The music swelled, the neon lights flared, and for a moment, the rest of the world vanished, leaving only the detective and the heiress staring at each other across a sea of secrets.