Steve's POV
Some wounds don't bleed.
They whisper.
In the middle of the night.
Through the crack in a door. The hum of a power line. The silence in her breath beside me.
But the moment I saw that face on the CCTV footage… the whisper became a scream.
A tattoo. On the left cheek. Faded. Shaped like a crescent blade.
I'd seen it once before.
The night my sister died.
And now, twenty years later, the man with the marked face was back—in Lagos.
Breathing.
Hunting.
And if my intel was right…
Working for Koleosho's daughter.
Jomiloju's POV
I found him standing shirtless at the balcony.
Tattoos coiling across his spine. Sweat on his shoulders. His phone clenched in one hand.
The city pulsed beneath us.
"Another message?" I asked.
He didn't turn.
"Not a message," he muttered. "A ghost."
Something in his voice told me not to push.
But I stepped closer.
Because that's what you do when you love a man built from war—you walk into his shadows and wait for him to let you in.
Finally, he turned.
Eyes cold.
But not at me.
At himself.
"I know who killed my sister," he said quietly. "He's back."
Steve's POV
I didn't sleep that night.
I couldn't.
I replayed the footage again. And again.
He'd aged.
Hair grayer. Build thicker. But the face? The mark?
Unmistakable.
He'd been hired for a job—months ago. Back when Koleosho's empire was crumbling.
He went by many names now.
But I remembered what they used to call him.
Shango.
The butcher of Port Harcourt.
The man who had walked into my home when I was six years old… and walked out with my sister's blood on his boots.
I thought he was dead.
I prayed he was.
Now I knew he wasn't.
And that meant only one thing.
I wouldn't rest until he was.
Jomiloju's POV
He didn't tell me the whole story until dawn.
We sat on the kitchen floor, drinking black tea like rebels in hiding.
His voice was rough. Flat. Like each word cost him pain.
"My sister's name was Ifeoma," he began.
"She was eleven. I was six. We lived in Ikoyi, in a guarded compound. My father was still alive then. Still pretending to be a businessman."
He took a deep breath.
"One night, men broke in. Not for money. For a message."
"Shango was their lead. He... made it a show."
He looked at me, eyes glassy.
"They made me watch."
Steve's POV
Jomi didn't cry.
She didn't gasp or cover her mouth like most people did when I told that story.
She just took my hand. Pressed it to her chest.
Right over her heartbeat.
"Then let's end him," she whispered.
I stared at her.
"What?"
"You're not doing this alone. Not anymore. Not after everything."
She kissed my knuckles.
"I didn't come this far to let your demons win."
Something in me cracked open.
Because she wasn't offering revenge.
She was offering closure.
Together.
Korede's POV
Tracking a ghost isn't easy.
But ghosts make mistakes when they think no one remembers their sins.
The bastard had checked into a backdoor clinic in Festac.
Gunshot wound. Left arm.
Probably courtesy of a recent scuffle.
And he wasn't alone.
A woman had been visiting him. Slim. Tattooed hands. Koleosho's blood, no doubt.
I sent the footage to Steve.
Within minutes, the plan was made.
No more warnings.
No more running.
This ends now.
Steve's POV
We hit the clinic at 2:03 AM.
Quiet. Surgical.
Jomi stayed in the car, hand on her own weapon, jaw tight.
I promised her I'd come back.
She didn't believe in promises anymore.
Just action.
I kicked open the operating room door and froze.
He looked older.
But those eyes…
Still dead.
He turned slowly, saw the gun, and smiled.
"Well, well. The boy grew teeth."
Shango's POV
I remembered him.
The skinny kid with fire in his eyes.
The only one who didn't scream that night.
I should've killed him.
But orders were orders.
Now, here he was, gun shaking ever so slightly, breathing like a storm.
"You think killing me will fix it?" I said.
His lips curled.
"No. But it'll feel damn good."
He pulled the trigger.
Steve's POV
One shot.
Right shoulder.
He fell.
But he laughed.
Blood dripping from his mouth, grin twisted.
"You think I'm the end of it?" he coughed. "There are more. Always more."
I knelt beside him.
"I'm not killing you because I think you're the end."
I leaned in.
"I'm killing you because you're the beginning."
This time, I didn't miss the heart.
Jomiloju's POV
He came out five minutes later.
Silent.
Covered in blood.
I didn't ask.
I just opened the door.
He slid into the seat beside me, exhaled.
And then…
He cried.
Not loud.
Not broken.
Just quiet, exhausted grief.
I wrapped my arms around him.
And in the stillness of that moment, I knew—
He was free.