Jomiloju's POV
Casa D'Obsidian wasn't a house.
It was a message carved into the coastline—a monument to power, opulence, and secrets too heavy to bury. Its walls shimmered black under the Lagos moonlight, veined with obsidian streaks that caught the streetlamps like broken glass. No one entered this place by accident.
Tonight, the ghosts were dressed in tuxedos.
And I came as their blood-red prophecy.
The dress clung like flame. Satin, sleeveless, backless. Cut high enough to scream and slit enough to silence. I'd chosen it with a purpose—to haunt the memory of everyone watching.
Steve stepped out behind me.
Charcoal suit. Shirt open at the collar. No tie. No jewelry. Just the cool arrogance of a man who'd walked out of bullets and still looked like a secret.
His hand brushed mine lightly before we walked in.
"You look like war," he murmured beside my ear.
I smiled without turning. "I'm dressed for a funeral."
He didn't ask whose.
He didn't need to.
The doorman took one look and said nothing. Just opened the black-lacquered doors with a bow that said I see you, and I know you're dangerous.
The ballroom was a cavern of mirrors and music.
Every reflection doubled the danger. Gold chandeliers swung from the high ceiling like guillotines. Musicians played strings with fingers too clean to be innocent. Guests floated—men in masks, women in temptation—like predators circling a prize no one dared name aloud.
And then the scent hit me.
Power.
Old, oiled, perfumed.
Like legacy. Like blood dried on silk.
Steve's POV
I kept my hand near my hip, just above the line where my jacket concealed the weapon.
This wasn't a party. It was a theater of lies.
And Jomi was the performance.
She moved like smoke through the crowd—ungraspable, intoxicating, inevitable. The crimson mask over her eyes only heightened the danger. Everyone watched her. Not because they knew her. But because she had become the moment.
We didn't speak as we entered the inner circle.
Senators passed us with champagne and steel beneath their smiles. War profiteers toasted peace with poisoned hands. Exiled royalty danced with assassins. It was a masquerade of monsters.
But the real power was invisible.
Watching.
Waiting.
Plotting.
I caught Bako's eyes across the hall.
He lifted his glass in mock salute.
I didn't return it.
Instead, I whispered into the mic in my cuff. "We've got company. Target moving west wing. Jomi, hold position."
Static answered me.
No voice.
No confirmation.
A cold chill ran down my spine.
Jomiloju's POV
Tolani emerged from the shadows like a riddle dressed in emerald.
Her champagne flute gleamed like glass filled with promises she wouldn't keep.
"You wore it," she said, eyes trailing down the gown like an insult.
"You sent the invitation," I replied.
She smirked. "Welcome to your debut, sister."
I sipped from my flute, not taking my eyes off her. "This isn't a debut."
"No?"
"It's bait."
Tolani leaned in close, voice velvet and venom. "Then let's see who bites first."
She disappeared into the crowd before I could ask what the hell that meant.
The orchestra changed tune.
The crowd shifted.
A masked man brushed past me. Tall. Lean. Silver lapel pin.
He slipped something into my hand—so subtle I almost missed it.
A note.
Folded. Plain. Unmarked.
I stepped away from the crowd and unfolded it.
You want the truth? Come alone.
Every instinct screamed no.
But instincts were Steve's job.
I had my own reasons.
The hallway was velvet-lined and silent, lit only by wall sconces shaped like spears. No guards. No cameras I could see. The further I walked, the colder it got.
The door at the end was already open.
He was waiting.
Koleosho's POV
She looked so much like her mother, it ached.
Oluremi had that same spine—like iron covered in silk. Same eyes too. Cold fire. Righteous rage.
But this girl… Jomiloju… she was something else.
Not innocent.
Not naïve.
She was forged.
Sharpened.
Dangerous.
"You came," I said.
She didn't sit. Didn't blink. "Say what you need to say."
I admired that. No stalling. No pretenses.
"I could have you killed before you leave this room."
"You could've done that years ago," she replied. "But I'm still standing. That means either you're a coward—or you see use in me."
I smiled faintly.
"Sharp tongue. Just like your mother."
Her jaw tightened.
Good.
"You think you know everything. That I'm some villain in a mask."
"Aren't you?"
I ignored the bait. "I didn't know about you until it was too late. By then, Oluremi had claimed you as Dorotoye's. I respected her loyalty."
"You respected her silence," she snapped.
I stepped closer.
"I'm not here to ask forgiveness. I'm here to tell you that power isn't always a choice. Sometimes, it's blood. And you—like it or not—are mine."
That hit something.
She flinched.
But didn't back down.
"You think because I share your blood, I'll kneel?"
"No. I think you'll realize you were never meant to kneel to anyone."
Steve's POV
The west wing was a trap.
Every instinct screamed it, but I ignored it too long.
Bako wasn't trying to kill me.
He was trying to delay me.
I doubled back toward the ballroom.
That's when the silence hit.
No music.
No chatter.
Just the eerie sound of stillness in a place that never paused.
Then—screams.
Then—gunshot.
One.
Clean.
Sharp.
Echoing off marble and mirror.
Jomiloju's POV
He raised the gun so casually, it didn't feel real.
Koleosho stood between me and the exit. No expression. No hesitation.
"You were always a wildcard," he said. "But even wildcards get played."
I stared him down.
"If you shoot me," I said quietly, "you'll never find what you're really afraid of."
He blinked.
The tiniest hesitation.
That's all I needed.
Because a heartbeat later, the wall behind him exploded in a scream of fire and plaster.
Steve's POV
Smoke poured into the corridor as I charged in with the crew.
Shots fired. Screams rang. Guards spilled in like rats fleeing light.
Through it all—I saw her.
She didn't cower. Didn't scream.
She stood in the middle of the chaos like a goddamn omen—dressed in red silk and silence.
I ran to her, grabbed her arm. Blood—shrapnel graze—nothing fatal.
We moved like one.
No looking back.
No questions.
No fear.
We fled through the corridor, past dying music and crumbling illusions.
Scene Shift: Safehouse — Hours Later
The room was dim, sterile, and silent.
A bottle of cheap antiseptic sat beside the couch. Her dress was torn at the shoulder, blood dried like rust near her collarbone.
I cleaned the wound carefully.
She didn't wince.
Didn't speak.
She just stared at the wall like it had answers I'd never understand.
"Done," I said quietly, taping the last bandage.
She nodded, eyes still distant.
Then—finally—her voice.
"He's not my father."
Soft. Final.
I sat down across from her.
"No," I said. "You're the daughter of your own damn fire."
She looked at me.
Not with gratitude.
Not with tears.
But with something stronger.
Conviction.
Resolve.
War.
And I knew then—whatever they'd started tonight?
Jomi was going to end it.