|Kairaluchukwu|

I ACHE TO scream, roll in the mud, do anything but accept his hand except I don't. Like the sacrificial lamb, I obey him and press my sweaty palm in his. His fingers curl around mine, the rings on them, cold and dominating.

His other arm wraps around my waist, tugging me close as he lowers his head and whispers, "Remember, cara mia, let our little secret be just that. A little secret."

At first, I don't react but when he tightens his grip, I jerk out a tense nod, sending him a glare. But his warning is already rolling down my spine, my hair standing on end. I cannot tell anyone what I know or they might end up having their fingers sliced or worse.

"Good." De Santis frowns in satisfaction and leads me out of the car. I scoot away slightly when his palm leaves mine to fish out the sunglasses inside his inner pocket. He wears them on, those dreamy eyes now mercifully hidden.

Turning to Aldo, who is also donned in similar sunglasses, he barks out rapid orders in Italian, whilst gesturing to the surroundings, "Fai la guardia intorno alla casa, ma solo quando entro! Dove sono i tuoi uomini?"

Aldo nods and brings out his gun, responding, "Capito capo. Stanno arrivando."

Instantly, another jeep stops by the sidewalk and while I don't see anyone come out immediately, I suspect that it's more guys associated with De Santis.

"Shall we?" His tone is sarcastic as he reaches for my hand once more. Without waiting for my reply, he leads me through the long driveway, like this is his property, not minding the fact that I have lived in this house for more than six years.

I falsified the truth when I said my parents owned half of New York. That was a bare faced lie to threaten my kidnappers. First of all, it was one parent, my mother, a restaurateur. Second of all, our house was just a wide, yellow-painted one-storey. But it was still a home, our home.

We pass my mother's red Toyota and the flower garden situated on both sides of the gravel driveway. For years, mother has nurtured and cared for her flowers. The result is a full bloom of sweet-smelling azaleas and buttercups, their yellow, pink, purple and red petals adding a beautiful touch to the tranquil scenery.

Once we set our feet on the welcome mat, De Santis lifts his controlling touch away from mine. Stealthy, I brush my tingling palm over the fabric of my jeans, dread filling every fiber of my being as I stare at the double brown door. He has claimed not to hurt my mother but I don't trust him.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Go on and ring the bell." The ice-cold tone of my captor hits me. Flinching, I do as he commands.

Moments later, we hear light footsteps and the door swings open. It is my mother, wearing her favorite red kaftan, long twists falling to her slender shoulders. Her eyes widen in surprise when she sees me standing on her doorstep.

She exclaims, "Kairaluchukwu! My dear, I wasn't expecting you today and Chukwu ekwena, what happened to your jaw?"

Without giving me a chance to reply, she stretches her arms wide and I step into them, tears already forming in my eyes. "Mummy–"

"She fell while trying to run away from me." A voice that has me stiffening cuts in, "But I caught her, just like the good old days."

"Z-Z-Zaviero?!" Shock turns mother's pitch high as she quickly pauses our embrace and tilts her puzzled face towards the tall man behind me as if seeing him for the first time. "Nna, is it really you?"

"Yes, Ma."

I arch my brows, taken aback. Did I just hear him say Ma? My tears drying up, I shift to him, expecting to see an alien. But it's still De Santis in all his domineering glory. He has removed his glasses so his eyes shine with sincerity, his manner extremely respectful, he even allows my mother to hug him.

"What?! Kaira you never told me he was coming along too. I would have prepared his favorite meal!" She shoots me the stink eye for a second.

"I never knew he was coming along too," I mutter but it's lost in my mom greeting him again in a sing-song pitch before proceeding to dance African mother style. "My son is back! Okpara m alotala!"

Taking a step back to allow the two to reunite, I cross my arms and roll my eyes, frustrated. The African mother in her should have complained about his tattoos, rings or at least, asked why he was really here. However, her soft spot for him won't bear any condemnation of his behaviour.

My father used to work for the De Santis' ages ago in Lagos as their gateman. He'd married my mother before he took the job, hence it was only once a month that I, my mother and sister saw him. Then one fateful day, his Oga, De Santis's dad had taken pity on us and allowed my father to bring his family from the village so we all could live together. My mother became the cook and that was where I met the popular onyeocha boy with silver eyes. Everyone wanted to be his friend but he had chosen me.

Unlike his mother and elder brother, De Santis and Caelian were the only ones who really paid us any attention than was necessary. Whenever their strict mother was absent, they would come stay with us in our barely furnished gateman house. De Santis was closer to me and there, we played together, ate together and slowly, he became a part of our little family. So closely knitted my mother decided to adopt him as the son she never had.

"Nna biko, come in." Her hand is on De Santis' broad shoulders as she ushers him inside. Without looking back, she admonishes me, "As for you Kaira, your degree should suffice in taking care of that bruise. That's right Zaviero nna, my Kaira is on her way to becoming a medical doctor and I own a huge African restaurant now."

De Santis' reply is a gruff murmur that escapes me while I watch Mother abandon her own blood daughter and escort this serpentine man to a couch in the living room.

A part of me wants to stay and protect her just in case De Santis has a brutal plan up his tattooed sleeves, while the other part simply wants to shout, telling her what her beloved did to her daughter. How her okpara ordered dangerous men to wait outside. But I heed his warning, watching them converse and zip my tongue shut. She is so happy to see him, a huge smile fixed on her lips and a similar warmth also emanating from De Santis.

Mother gushes over a sitting De Santis, crowding on him like a fussy mother hen, "The last time I saw you, nna, you were small. Now, you're big. Ah! What have you been eating? And that reminds me, what would you like to eat? I just finished making abacha. . ."

I tune out their conversations, close the outside door and trudge upstairs. Fear and tiredness churn within my stomach, these emotions rising with every step I take away from the living room.

What if he shoots her? Or kidnaps her? Maybe he will cut off her fingers for touching him without his permission? 

Enough! Trying to distract my overactive imagination, I study our house. It is spacious and modern, its interior painted a welcoming pastel blue. Numerous decorations and pictures adorn the walls by the stairs, but the first ones I zoom in on are the photos of my dead sister and father. Quick, I dart my eyes away, a pinch seizing my heart.

I enter inside my room and start towards the bed, about to descend into a well-deserved sleep when my mother shouts, "Kaira! Tiwa is calling!"

Yes! Finally, someone that is sane needs my attention.

Exhilaration pumping through my veins, I jump out of bed and fly down the stairs, my exhaustion disappearing into thin air.

"Tiwa said that she has been calling since but you're not picking. Why? Is everything alright, love?" Her soft brown eyes, identical to mine, are imploring as she hands her phone to me.

"Yeah, mummy. I just lost my phone," I reply and grab it, ignoring the larger than life De Santis sitting across my mother.

A frown quizzes her naturally arched brows. "How?"

"Long story." The second I say that, my gaze darts to De Santis. The culprit is staring at me, expression settled in poker mode. I quickly take my leave.

"Hello, Tiwa," I say when I am in my room. As I walk to my bed, I look out the window that faces the street. This is a very big mistake. About 7 men, all suited up in black, sunglasses fixed to their eyes, stand guard outside the house, forming an impenetrable perimeter.

Alarm bells ring ominously in my head. My suspicions were right. The other jeep that arrived earlier had been following for security, their sunglasses worn to evade identification. Terror grips me hard and I jerk my sight away from the terrifying men.

"Girl!!!!!" Tiwa, the banshee friend screams. "I called but you weren't picking my damn calls! Why?! And to think that right now, you're in New York without telling Anjali and I."

"I'm so sorry, love. Things just sort of happened." I rub my forehead, already feeling a headache developing. Those guards outside have made me too tense and Tiwa is not really helping matters.

"Things just sort of happened," she mimics, a suspicious note tinged in her Nigerian accent. "What kind of excuse is that, Kaira? You're hiding something from me, aren't you?"

Fuck. Tiwa is like a cougar. Once she sinks her teeth into a juicy tidbit, it takes her a long time to let it go.

"No, someone stole my phone and I couldn't contact you guys. Also, before I left, Greg and I were looking for you. . ."

"Greg?! Did you just say Greg?!" My friend hoots loud enough that I have to keep the phone a safe distance away from my poor ears.

"Yes, Greg." I am already regretting mentioning his name but I forge on, "We left the club together to. . ."

"You left the club together!!!!!! OMG, Kairaaaaaaaa! You sneaky devil! you followed Greg home, didn't you? Tell me how was the sex?"

Her question irritates me and for the nth time, I register just how sex crazed Tiwa is. I have never judged her for being free with her body but thinking everyone is like her irks me.

"No, Tiwa, it's not. . ."

"No dey cap, jhoor! Abi una do or una no do?"

"We did not do anything, Tiwa and that's the end of my explanation. Now, I've got to go. Greet Anjali for me. Tell her I'm good and will talk to you both later. Bye," I cut the call immediately before slumping in a fatigued heap on the bed.

Tiwa calls again, I ignore it. The phone vibrates once more, another call, but this time from Anjali. I still don't pick, choosing to deal with them later. Right now, I am too exhausted.

Sinking further into the comfy sheets, my heart breaks as I relive past memories. I met Tiwa on the first day of college. She'd helped me adjust my lab coat during lab practicals because the Nigerian secondary school I'd been enrolled in, had been lacking in practical classes. We'd hit it off immediately. She understood me and I did, her. Then Anjali joined our clique in second year when she'd transferred from pharmaceutical science to Biology. We became the unbreakable trio, the three musketeers. Always doing things together. Except years passed and we kind of drifted apart, especially when they both stopped focusing on school and more on partying.

Mother's phone pings. I frown, if it is Tiwa, I will not even spare it a second glance but it's a gmail message from my own account. Mother had insisted I add my work mail to her phone. Curious, I swipe it open.

Dear Miss Kairaluchukwu Olisa,

Congratulations! After a careful review of your application, we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted as a medical intern at Cancer Research Biologics. You are hereby invited for an interview on the 5th of June at our main office on 44th New York Street. The time and exact venue will be relayed to you after you indicate your interest.

Please reply to this message on or before the 30th of May if you are still interested in the position.

Looking forward to seeing you on campus,
Admissions Office,
Cancer Research Biologics.

"Yes!! Thank you Lord! Thank you so much!" I scrabble into a kneeling position and mutter words of praise to God before bounding out of bed to relay the wonderful news to my mom. At least, this is one good part about my life right now.

"Mummy!!!!!" I yell as I breeze down the stairs. "I got it! The medical internship at Cancer Biologics!"

I expect an equally excited yell back from her but I get nothing. Puzzled, I slow my steps and enter inside the living room.

My mother and De Santis are both standing, engaged in a heated discussion. The atmosphere is tense, rippling with edgy emotions. The abacha she offered him is left lying on the wooden center table, untouched.

"But how can this be? I was never informed about this," I hear mother say in a serious tone, her disposition worried.

"Yes you were, the moment you signed the contract, Mrs. Olisa." His voice is no-nonsense, curt. Mother's shoulders droop.

What contract? Although I am curious as to what is happening, not even De Santis can lessen my joy right now.

"I have happy news, Mummy," I call out to her, grinning from ear to ear and waving her phone screen. Simultaneously, De Santis and Mother swivel their necks in my direction.

"Oh, there she is." De Santis' facial features are expressionless, his voice, wintry. "I suppose you will be telling her or shall I?"

I blatantly overlook the man standing beside her and focus on my Mother. She is not meeting my stare, her eyes fixed on her wringing hands.

Anxiety sinks inside my gut. Something is wrong. Just as I open my mouth to ask, a ringtone blares to life.

De Santis retrieves the culprit, his phone. He glances at it and clenches his jaw. Raising up an arrogant finger, he orders, "Not a word from either of you."

Then he picks the call and shows his back to us. Angry Italian sentences reach our ears, ramping up every negative feeling residing in my body. Seeking comfort, I slide closer to my mother and link my fingers in her clammy ones. An inaudible sigh escapes her lips as she squeezes back gently.

The call ends and De Santis turns forwards. His silver eyes glitter dangerously, malicious. "Change of plans, Mrs.Olisa. Kaira and I will be getting married in Las Vegas tonight."

***

"You make such a beautiful bride, Miss. Parfaite," the French designer whispers in my right ear before tucking the veil into my packed curls.

Numb, I don't reply, as I stare at the mirror. Not even the gorgeous wedding gown is enough to elicit a response out of me. Voluminous, elegant and luxurious, the dress fits perfectly on my tall frame. The neckline is modest and the white sleeve covers my arms. Veins of silver run through the white, netted fabric that is cinched around my waist before falling down in a flattering curve around my body.

My features, including the bruise, are expertly covered beneath a layer of makeup that makes my skin itch. The faux locs have been loosened and my natural hair, slicked down to form a curly bun.

We are the only ones in the bridal showroom, all the workers gone except the dark haired woman who scurries around me, tutting and working on making my appearance perfect enough for my groom.

"You are marrying Mr. De Santis, yes? You are such a lucky woman." A tinge of envy lies in her statement.

Yes, I am so lucky, I itch to scream. So lucky, a killer decided to marry me, forcing me to be his wife. So blessed, my dreams to become an intern were ruined. So fortunate, he'd whipped out a contract my mom had apparently signed before we left Nigeria, because the house, car and restaurant, nothing was hers. It was all his. We were swimming in debts of over millions of dollars and the only way to repay that debt was to marry him.

I shake my head and plaster a fake smile on my lips. "I am."

Afterwards, I refuse to entertain any form of conversation with her. She notices and finishes her work in silence. Then, it is time for me to leave.

The night is overcast, gloomy, same as my mood. Lights twinkles as we drive past colorful buildings I've never been to. Las Vegas is as bright and beautiful as the media has made it but my eyes are blurry. I cannot notice any beauty, not in this state of vagueness. Everything appears muddy, and is happening too fast for me to fully understand what is going on. One minute, I am at home, the next, in a plane, then, in a dressing room and now, apparently heading to a church.

The car stops in front of a modern church and Aldo proceeds to unlock the door for me. "This way, signora."

Biting the insides of my cheeks, I clutch the sides of my white gown and alight. For a minute, I survey the deserted area, already contemplating the possibility of running.

Yes, run away, Kaira. Kick this bald headed fool in the nuts and run the fuck away. Run, Kaira, Run. Run now!

Heart pounding, my fingers tighten over my dress, as I swallow nervously and start to pick up my long dress. However, my ghastly thoughts must show on my face because Aldo holds my arm in a firm manner and steers me up the church stairs. The glossy doors are closed but when he whispers something to the intercom wired around his left ear, the huge doors open.

We make our way in. Seconds later, Aldo's hold disappears. He steps to the side and falls into position like his fellow stone faced guards lining each pews. At the farthest end, right in front of the altar are two lone figures. The priest in his white garb and my soon-to-be husband, darker than night in his black suit.

"Now, dear, please don't just stand there. Come along," the priest says warmly.

Petrified, I don't respond, much more engrossed in trying to calm down.

"You heard the man. Come. Along," De Santis' freezing tone bites through the stifling air.

That one caustic command is enough to get me to act. I take a deep breath, ears ringing from the rush of blood streaming through my veins and start heading in their direction.

My head is lowered as I pass men who stare ahead, faces empty and solemn. I know if I look up, the tears I am trying to stall would spill out.

This is a nightmare, not at all how I envisioned my wedding to play out. As an Igbo girl, I should have two weddings, the traditional and the white. Mother would've dressed me up, my friends standing at the altar and smiling at me, nodding their heads in agreement as I walked down the aisle. I would have married my soulmate and danced the night away, relatives and well-wishers cheering us on. But no.

This was the opposite. No family. No one to walk me down the aisle. No music. Nothing but a charade, every pace I make, drawing me closer to a doomed future.

"Don't cry, Kaira," I mutter, already feeling tears prick my eyes. "You can do this."

Finally, after the most painstaking trek of my life, two pairs of shoes, one, modest and the other, sleek and polished appear in my vision.

Slow, I lift my lashes, his handsome face, the first thing I see. Partly resigned to my fate, I allow myself to examine the man whom I will be bearing his last name soon.

He is dressed in a black suit, an embodiment of the grace and power he exudes. His expression is cast in stone, long black lashes fanning his high cheekbones. Thick, raven, curls crown his head, his mixed ancestry glowing through those thick brows, warm olive skin and full, sensuous lips. Paired with his alluring silver eyes, he is every woman's dream and my every nightmares.

Those eyes hold mine captive, shimmering with resentment before he looks away and instructs, "Get on with this, priest."

We circle to the priest and he officially starts the ceremony. When he reaches the dreaded words I never envisioned hearing so soon, I flinch.

"Zaviero, do you take Kaira to be your wife? Do you promise to be faithful to her in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love her and to honor her all the days of your life?"

"I do," De Santis says and angles his body towards mine. I lower my gaze immediately, unwilling to consent to this farce.

"The rings."

A guard close to the altar comes forward, bearing a pillow containing two boxes. When and where De Santis purchased it, I have no idea. The guard unfastens the velvet, gray box to reveal a glowing diamond gold ring which he offers to his boss.

My heart starts to pound fiercer than before, my breathing labored. De Santis extracts the ring and reaches for my hand. Then, he ever so slowly slides the ring over my fourth finger. His touch is freezing, just like the ring, a dead weight that signifies our twisted bond. Once the ring reaches the base of my finger, I retrieve my palm, quick and blink furiously to stall the tears.

The priest smiles, obviously content with how things are faring and utters, "Kaira, do you take Zaviero to be your husband? Do you promise to be faithful to him in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love him and to honor him all the days of your life?"

Silence descends on the hall, smothering.

"Kaira?!" snaps De Santis and he lifts my chin, still tender from yesterday. Fire glows in those gray orbs, anger tightening his words. "Answer the man."

"No is my answer." Struggling to hold the tears at bay, I declare in a resolute loud voice that belies my fear, "I will not marry you, De Santis. I will not be your bride."

Everything falls away and it is simply DeSantis and I, adrift in the frothing waves of a turbulent sea. We glare at each other, a war brewing in our midst, stormy and disastrous. The priest coughs discreetly and his men look on, frozen in time.

"No?" A furious tick forms in his jaw and he withdraws his fingers. "And what about your family's debt and your half-baked promise? That you would do whatever I asked of you."

The foolish words I had uttered for Lorenzo's sake echoes in the confines of my head. Why oh why had I spoken up?

Quick anger at my dire situation simmers in my veins as I shoot daggers at him. "This wasn't part of our bargain, De Santis and you know it!"

"Stupida. Therein lies your foolhardiness, Kaira. Thinking you can twist the narrative. No. What we know is that you will do whatever I ask of you and take my last name, this instant!"

I narrow my gaze, matching the venom in his. "Not in this life or the next on—"

"Enough!" he snarls, nostrils flared in annoyance. "Let it be known that what happens next occurred because you have forced my hands. Aldo."

What?! I circle around to see Aldo march forward and pass a phone to him. De Santis watches whatever plays on the screen, nods and shows it to me.

My mouth falls open, eyes widened in disbelief. On the screen is a clear view of my home in New York, yellow, bright and filled with life. It would have been an everyday, normal scene if not for the sniper on the stairs, apparently waiting on my mother.

"Please." Shutting my eyes, I press trembling fingers against my lips to stifle the sobs rising in my throat. "Please, don't hurt her. She's all I have. Please."

"I won't hurt her. You will and right now, her life depends on how agreeable you are because, one word Kaira. And I mean, just one word from me and your dearest mother gets shot."

His aloofness is a stab to my chest. I pry my eyes open and nod quickly, beads of sweat forming on my forehead despite the wintry chill enclosing me. "I understand."

"Perfectta." A corner of his lips curls up into a sneer, a battle trophy.

The ceremony continues. The priest, who I am beginning to loathe because how can he stay still and watch a woman get threatened, asks again, "Kaira, do you take Zaviero to be your husband? Do you promise to be faithful to him in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love him and to honor him all the days of your life?"

God forgive me for partaking in this sham of a marriage.

"I do." Tears blur my vision as I pick up the ring that is being held out. Tugging De Santis's finger close, I slip the ring over the inked roses and bones etched on his skin. My fingers are shaky as I do so but I achieve the task. Done, I aim to remove my fingers, however his strong fingers entwine around mine, a frigid cage.

"No, siamo uno adesso. We are one now." He shoots me an intense stare, one that lingers on my lips. I shiver.

The oblivious priest bobs his head in satisfaction, closes his bible and proclaims loudly, "With all the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Zaviero, you may kiss your bride."

My lashes flutter close, tears trailing down my cheeks as De Santis jerks me near and wraps a possessive arm around my waist. A waft of spicy, earthy cologne hits my nostrils, tantalising.

His other hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing away the glistening salty drops beneath my eyelids. "Your eyes are so beautiful, mia cara. I'd like you to keep them open as I take what's mine."

Rage and sadness flares within my very soul, agonizing. I want to howl in pain, scratch his silver orbs out whilst shrieking like a lunatic but I do as he wants. After all, he owns me. I am under his control now. A bride, bought and paid for.

I snap my eyes open. They bore into his brimming with desire and lust. Without another word, he slants his head down.

Just as he closes the space between us, eager to press his lips against mine, a loud sound reverberates in the building.

There is an outburst of red, droplets of crimson splattering on my white gown, and I am thrown forward, ears ringing violently.

"Noooo!!!" De Santis growls. "Siamo sotto attacco, uomini. Scendi e spara!"

He covers me with his huge body and carries me, the frantic rush of his movements jostling me to and fro.

"M-m-my head hurts. W-what is happening, Z?" I cough, too dizzy and weak from the smoky air to remember my previous conviction to stop calling him Z.

He starts to say something but it's lost in the chaos. The last thing I remember is the rusty, metallic smell of blood, my husband's spicy scent as he presses my face into his chest, his frenzied heartbeat and the incessant echoes of gunshots.

Then, I know no more.

A/N: CLIFFHANGERRRRR! Yes! Who missed me?! I know I missed you all! I am so sorry it seemed like I abandoned Kaira and Zaviero but never! Your fave writer is back and better!!!!

I have some questions about the chapter.

What are your thoughts and how dyu see the plot so far? What do you think is going to happen next?

Dyu like this story? Who is your fave? Zaviero? Kaira? Mrs. Olisa? Aldo? Or Caelian? (ik Caelian hasn't made any show yet but he will in the next chapter!)

Also, apologies if I sound drunk while writing this or if you see any grammar errors. I spent nearly 11 hours today editing so all I can see rn are words, sentences and more words. Also, it's nearly 4 am in the morning and I haven't slept a wink but you know the best and funny thing rn? I miss it! Yes, even the late nights and slurred words, I really do miss them and it feels good to be back!

Till next time (which is this week),

Nita!

Translations:

Fai la guardia intorno alla casa, ma solo quando entro. Dove sono i tuoi uomini?: Stand guard around the house but only when I enter. Where are your men?

Capito capo. Stanno arrivando: Got it boss. They are coming.

Chukwu ekwena: God forbid.

Okpara m alotala: My first son is back.

Oga: Master/Sir.

Onyeocha: White.

"No dey cap, jhoor! Abi una do or una no do?": Do not lie. Did you or did you not have sex with him?

Siamo sotto attacco, uomini. Scendi e spara!: We are under attack, men! Get down and fire!"