Chapter Two: The Name That Shook Nairobi
The morning came far too soon.
Akira barely slept—her hands still smelled faintly of blood no matter how hard she scrubbed, and every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face. The grey eyes. The way he'd whispered her name like it meant something.
Her flower shop felt different that morning. The air was heavier, quieter. The lilies in the front window drooped as if sharing her grief. News vans were parked along the street, their satellite dishes pointed skyward, reporters murmuring into cameras.
She knew, even before she turned on the radio, that the story had already spread.
"Breaking news this morning—Italian businessman Vincenzo Martini, rumored to have ties with the European syndicate known as La Famiglia, was critically injured in an attempted assassination late last night in Nairobi's central district…"
Akira froze. The teacup in her hand slipped, shattering against the counter.
Vincenzo Martini.
Even she had heard the name. The mysterious billionaire whose investments ran half the city's nightlife, who dined with ministers and vanished for months at a time. Some said he was dangerous. Others said he was untouchable. But none had ever imagined him bleeding on the streets of Nairobi, whispering his last words to a florist.
A sharp knock on the door jolted her from her thoughts.
"Miss Mwangi?"
Two officers stood outside, their faces drawn and serious. She nodded shakily and let them in.
"I'm Detective Kamau," said the older one. "This is Inspector Wanjiku. You were the first to reach the victim, correct?"
"Yes," Akira whispered. "He—he was just lying there. I couldn't just leave him."
Kamau's gaze softened for a brief moment before turning professional again. "Did you see who shot him?"
She shook her head. "Two men. Helmets. They drove off before I could…" Her voice cracked. "He told me not to call the police."
That made both detectives exchange a look.
"Did he say anything else?" Wanjiku asked carefully.
Akira hesitated, remembering the weight of his gaze, the faint smile even as his life slipped away. "Just… my name. He asked for it."
"Your name?"
"Yes. Akira. He said it—like…" She stopped herself, realizing how foolish it might sound. "Like he wanted to remember me."
The detectives wrote something down, their faces unreadable.
"Miss Mwangi," Kamau said after a pause, "you should know that the man you helped—Mr. Martini—is no ordinary businessman. If he survives, there will be people looking for him… and possibly for you."
Her blood ran cold. "What do you mean for me?"
"Witnesses have a way of… disappearing, when it comes to men like him."
A chill swept through her body.
As the officers left, Akira locked the door behind them, her hands trembling. She turned on the small TV above the counter. The screen flickered to a live feed from Nairobi General Hospital. A crowd of journalists swarmed outside as security guards formed a barrier.
Then, the image shifted to a hospital bed. A shadowed figure surrounded by doctors and machines. The caption below read:
"Vincenzo Martini: In Critical Condition."
Akira pressed her hand against her chest, her heart twisting painfully. She didn't understand why she felt so connected to him—a man she'd met for less than an hour. But something inside her knew: this wasn't over.
And in a sterile hospital room across the city, Vincenzo's pulse flickered weakly on the monitor. His eyelids twitched as a single word escaped his lips, barely audible to the nurse standing nearby.
"Akira…"