The black sedan slid silently through Nairobi's misty morning streets, the hum of its engine low and steady. Akira sat in the backseat, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her heart pounded so hard it almost drowned out the sound of the city waking up.
She didn't know where they were taking her—only that it was to him.
Vincenzo Martini.
The man whose life she'd saved.
The man whose world could destroy hers.
The driver didn't speak. Neither did the bodyguards sitting on either side of her. Their silence said everything—men used to danger, to orders, to protecting something worth killing for.
When the car finally stopped, she saw the hospital's private wing entrance—gated, guarded, discreet. Cameras turned as she stepped out. The morning air felt colder here, sharper.
One of the men gestured for her to follow. "This way, Miss Mwangi."
They led her through a quiet corridor lined with white walls and polished floors. At the end stood a door guarded by two more men. As it opened, she caught the faint scent of antiseptic mixed with something darker—cologne, expensive and haunting.
He was sitting up in bed.
Even pale and bandaged, Vincenzo Martini looked powerful. The sunlight from the blinds traced the sharp lines of his face—the strong jaw, the high cheekbones, the storm-grey eyes that flicked toward her as soon as she entered.
"Akira."
Her breath hitched. Hearing him say her name again felt unreal.
She hesitated near the door. "Mr. Martini… I—"
He raised a hand, cutting her off. "Vincenzo. Call me Vincenzo."
There was a softness to his tone, but beneath it, something deeper—commanding, magnetic, dangerous.
"You shouldn't have come," she said quietly. "The police said—"
He smiled faintly, the corner of his mouth lifting with effort. "The police are not my friends. But you… you are the reason I'm still breathing."
Her cheeks warmed. "Anyone would've done the same."
He shook his head slowly. "No, bella. Anyone else would have run."
The word bella rolled off his tongue like silk, and it made her heart skip. She couldn't hold his gaze for long—it was too intense, like he could see every secret she'd ever buried.
"How are you feeling?" she asked softly, trying to focus on anything but his eyes.
"Alive," he said, then paused. "Barely. My enemies thought they'd buried me. They failed."
The air between them thickened. She could sense the weight of his words—this wasn't just a shooting. It was war.
He leaned back against his pillows, watching her with quiet fascination. "You're not afraid of me."
"I should be," she whispered.
"Yes." His eyes darkened. "You should."
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the beeping of the heart monitor, each pulse echoing the tension that hung between them.
Then Vincenzo's hand moved slightly toward hers, fingers brushing her wrist. The touch sent a shiver down her spine.
"You saved my life, Akira. That makes you part of it now—whether you want to be or not."
Her eyes widened. "What do you mean?"
Before he could answer, the door opened. One of his men stepped in, whispering something urgent in Italian. Vincenzo's expression hardened instantly—the softness vanished, replaced by cold authority.
He turned back to her. "They know you were there that night."
Her blood ran cold. "Who—?"
"My enemies," he said. "The ones who shot me." He struggled to sit up, ignoring the pain. "They will come for you."
Akira's breath trembled. "I don't belong in this—this world of yours."
He looked at her, eyes fierce despite his weakness. "You do now. Because when they come for you… they'll find me waiting."
The words left her shaken—half a promise, half a warning.
As she left the room, escorted once more by his men, she knew her life would never return to the quiet normal she once knew. The flowers, the laughter, the peace—gone.
She had stepped into Vincenzo Martini's world.
And there was no going back.