Chapter One: The Night of Red Petals
The evening air in downtown Nairobi was thick with the scent of rain and roses. Akira Mwangi leaned against the doorway of her flower shop, Bloom & Grace, her fingers tracing the petals of a half-open lily as she hummed softly to herself. It was closing time—her favorite hour. The streets had begun to empty, and the glow of the streetlamps painted everything in shades of gold and shadow.
Then came the sound.
A sharp crack—louder than thunder, faster than thought.
The lily slipped from her hand, falling to the ground as screams erupted in the distance. Akira froze, her heart hammering in her chest. She turned toward the street just in time to see a man stumble out from between two cars. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a tailored black suit that now bloomed red across the chest.
Another gunshot split the silence. He staggered, then fell hard onto the wet pavement, his head landing inches from a puddle that reflected the dim streetlight.
Akira's breath caught in her throat. She wanted to run—every instinct screamed at her to—but her feet refused to move. The world seemed to narrow to just the sound of his shallow breathing, the faint steam rising from the rain-damp asphalt, and the dark pool spreading beneath him.
The shooters—two men in black helmets—disappeared into the night on a motorcycle, their taillights blinking like the eyes of devils.
Akira swallowed hard, her legs trembling. "Oh my God…" she whispered, before finally forcing herself forward.
She knelt beside him, her trembling hands hovering above his wound. "Sir—can you hear me? Please… just hold on."
The man's eyelids fluttered open, revealing striking grey eyes that seemed almost unreal—haunting, beautiful, dangerous. He looked straight at her, as if trying to memorize her face through the haze of pain.
"Don't… call…" he rasped, his voice low and heavy with an Italian accent. "No police…"
But Akira was already fumbling for her phone, tears brimming in her eyes. "You're bleeding too much. You'll die if I don't—"
He reached out weakly, his gloved fingers brushing her wrist. "Please…" His grip faltered. "…Just your face… I need… to see you…"
The words broke something inside her.
"Help is coming," she said softly, pressing her scarf against his chest to slow the bleeding. Her hands were stained red, trembling as sirens began to echo in the distance. "You're going to be okay, I promise."
He gave a faint, almost ironic smile—one that hinted at secrets, at power, at a life far bigger than the street where he now lay dying.
"Name…?" he breathed.
"Akira," she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Akira Mwangi."
He repeated it, barely audible. "Akira…"
The sound of his voice saying her name would never leave her.
As the police cars skidded to a stop nearby, flashing red and blue over the rain-slick street, Akira looked down at him one last time. His eyes were still open, fixed on her face as the paramedics rushed in.
That night, as they carried him away, the petals from her dropped lily floated through the puddles—white stained red—marking the place where a florist met a fallen mafia king.
And somewhere between the chaos and the sirens, a bond was born—fragile, forbidden, and destined to bloom in blood.