The morning sun poured gently over Nairobi, painting the streets gold—but Akira's flower shop no longer felt like home. Ever since she'd visited Vincenzo, she'd been glancing over her shoulder, locking the doors twice, jumping at every sound.
The air smelled of roses and fear.
She tried to focus on her work—tying a bouquet for a bride, humming softly to calm herself—but her hands shook every time she remembered Vincenzo's words:
"They will come for you."
Every ring of the shop door made her heart stop. Every shadow outside felt like eyes watching her.
By noon, the streets had grown quiet again. Most of the nearby stalls were closed for the day. Akira was about to flip the sign to closed when she noticed a black motorcycle parked across the road. Two men sat astride it—helmets on, engines idling.
Her breath hitched.
They didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched.
Akira's pulse raced. She grabbed her phone, fumbling to dial Detective Kamau—but before she could press call, the front window shattered.
Gunshots tore through the quiet afternoon.
She screamed and ducked behind the counter as vases exploded around her, shards of glass and petals raining down like confetti of death. Bullets ripped through her flower displays, scattering roses across the floor—red staining red.
Her phone slipped from her hand. She crawled toward the back room, heart hammering, whispering prayers through her tears.
The sound of boots. Voices—foreign, sharp, Italian.
"She's here. Finish it."
Akira's trembling hand reached for the back door—but before she could touch it, the roar of engines filled the street. Another set of vehicles screeched to a halt outside.
Gunfire answered gunfire.
She froze, her ears ringing, hearing shouts, commands, chaos. Then—silence.
Moments later, the door to the back room burst open.
A tall man stepped inside—black suit, weapon drawn, his expression hard. But when he saw her crouched behind the counter, eyes wide and covered in dust and petals, his voice softened.
"Miss Mwangi?"
She recognized him—one of Vincenzo's men, the one who had brought her to the hospital.
She nodded, unable to speak.
He lowered his gun, motioning to another guard outside. "Clear. Tell the boss we found her."
Akira slowly stood, her legs shaking. "They tried to kill me," she whispered, her voice breaking. "They shot at me… in my shop."
The man's eyes darkened. "We know. You're lucky we got here first."
He stepped aside, revealing the destruction—the shattered window, the bullet holes, the broken flowers. Her beautiful world lay in ruins.
Tears welled in her eyes. "Why is this happening to me?"
He hesitated, then handed her a small phone. "Mr. Martini wants to speak to you."
Her trembling fingers pressed it to her ear. "Vincenzo…"
His voice came through, low and rough, like smoke and fire. "Cara mia, are you hurt?"
She swallowed hard. "No, but—my shop—everything's gone."
"I'll rebuild it," he said simply. "You're coming with my men now. You're not safe there anymore."
"Vincenzo, I can't just leave—"
"You will," he said firmly. "They dared to touch what's mine. They'll pay for it."
The line went dead.
Akira stood frozen, his words echoing in her mind: what's mine.
Outside, his men guided her to a waiting car, shielding her from the eyes of curious onlookers. As the city blurred past the window, she pressed her hand against her chest, trying to steady her breathing.
She had no idea where they were taking her—only that her old life was gone, and whatever waited ahead belonged to Vincenzo's world now.
A world where blood and beauty intertwined.
Where love and danger grew side by side.
Where even a florist could become the obsession of a man born in the shadows.