The music is loud. Dirty. Heavy with bass and secrets.
Zino sits in the VIP corner of a dingy underground club, surrounded by smoke and shadows. He's not flashy—no chains, no gold teeth, no oversized rings. But still, every eye in the room moves around him. Like planets orbiting a quiet, dangerous sun.
He drinks slowly. Eyes scanning. His crew laughs at something, but he's not listening. He's thinking.
Word on the street is that Mama Tee's gang just hit the Ojuelegba warehouse. Clean sweep. No arrests. No leads. That alone wouldn't catch his interest—but the whispers about a new girl in the crew? That does.
"She moves like she's trained," one of his men said. "But talks like she's hungry."
Zino knows that hunger. He sees it in mirrors.
He leans back, pulling out a black envelope from his inner jacket. Inside: photos. Grainy shots from a stolen phone camera. A woman in a hoodie. Holding a box. Moving fast. Calm. Focused.
He zooms in on her eyes.
Sharp. Bold. Familiar in a way that makes his blood slow down.
He's seen her before. Not here. Not in this world.
High society.
Flashbulbs. Red carpets. Charity galas.
The face is blurred, the angle bad—but the posture? The attitude?
He knows it.
He whispers, almost amused, "Ivie Obaro?"
He leans forward, elbows on the table. His voice low.
"Find out who she really is. Quietly. If she's who I think… we don't expose her."
His men pause, confused. "We don't?"
Zino smiles for the first time that night. It's not kind.
"No," he says. "We protect her."
They nod, unsure but loyal.
Zino lifts his drink again.
He doesn't know why a billionaire heiress is playing outlaw in his city—but he's going to find out.
And once he does?
She won't ever leave his world again.