The steady beep of machines filled the dim hospital room.
Vincenzo Martini had been unconscious for forty-eight hours—his body fighting, refusing to surrender. The doctors whispered about his pulse, how it dipped and climbed like a heartbeat at war with fate itself.
Then, just before dawn, his fingers twitched.
A nurse gasped softly as his eyes opened, pale grey beneath the harsh fluorescent light. He blinked slowly, confusion shadowing his gaze, the world around him unfamiliar. The sterile smell. The oxygen hiss. The ache in his chest.
He tried to sit up—pain shot through him like fire.
"Sir, please, you need to stay still," the nurse urged, rushing to his side.
His voice came out as a rasp, cracked and low, still heavy with his Italian accent.
"Where… am I?"
"Nairobi General Hospital," she replied gently. "You were brought in after—after the shooting."
He frowned, his memory struggling to piece together the fragments.
The gunshots. The betrayal. The cold pavement.
And then—her face.
Warm brown skin kissed by the streetlight. Eyes filled with fear and compassion. Hands trembling as they tried to save him.
"Akira…" he murmured, the name barely a whisper.
The nurse leaned closer. "Sir?"
He closed his eyes again, a faint smile ghosting his lips. "The girl… the florist…"
"Do you mean Miss Mwangi?"
His eyes snapped open. "You know her?"
The nurse hesitated, unsure how much to say. "The police said she called for help. She's the reason you're alive."
Something shifted in Vincenzo's gaze—an emotion too deep for words. Gratitude, yes, but also something softer, unfamiliar, dangerous.
He turned his face away, staring at the pale hospital ceiling. "Find her."
"Sir, you need rest—"
"Find her," he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The nurse nodded shakily and left the room, her footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Across town, Akira sat in her tiny apartment above the flower shop. The radio whispered the latest updates about the shooting, but she could barely listen. Every time she heard his name, her stomach twisted.
She'd spent the last two nights replaying everything—his eyes, his voice, the way he'd said her name. She'd even dreamed of him, standing in the rain, his hand reaching for hers.
Then came the knock.
She froze.
It was too early for deliveries. Too late for customers.
Slowly, she opened the door.
Two men in dark suits stood outside, their presence sharp and cold as steel. Their expressions didn't belong to police—they were too composed, too precise.
"Miss Mwangi?" one asked smoothly, his Italian accent unmistakable.
Her heart stopped. "Who's asking?"
The man smiled faintly, but there was no warmth in it. "We're associates of Mr. Martini. He's asked to see you."
Akira's breath caught. "He's… awake?"
"He's alive," the man said. "And he remembers you."
Something inside her fluttered—fear or fate, she couldn't tell.
The other man's gaze swept over her modest apartment, then fixed on her trembling hands. "You should come with us. It's… safer that way."
"Safer?" she repeated, voice shaking. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Let's just say," the first man said softly, "that the people who shot Mr. Martini might want to finish the job—and anyone who saw it."
The room seemed to tilt.
Akira clutched the doorframe, her mind spinning. Somewhere deep inside, she knew this moment would change everything. The florist who once sold roses on a quiet Nairobi street was being pulled into a world of blood, power, and secrets.
She took a shaky breath.
"Let me grab my coat."