Chapter 8
534 Words
8. The new apartment sat on the edge of Victoria Island. Not flashy. Not visible from the main roads. Seventh floor. Corner unit. Two exits. Bulletproof glass on the windows that looked like regular glass. Darian had paid cash through three shell companies. No name on the lease. No cameras in the hallways. The building manager asked no questions after the envelope of money changed hands.
Inside smelled faintly of fresh paint and sea salt from the lagoon nearby. Three bedrooms. Open plan living area. Kitchen big enough for Amila to sit on the counter and help stir batter. Mila liked that part most. Watching the boy’s small hands try to crack eggs without making a mess. She always let him try anyway.
Two weeks had passed since the warehouse. Tunde’s body vanished into the Lagos underworld the same night. No police report. No headlines. Just another ghost in a city full of them. Victor’s men swept the penthouse. Found three more hidden cameras. Two in the nursery. One in the master bedroom. Someone had been watching them sleep. Eat. Fight. Love. The realization sat like acid in Darian’s stomach every time he thought about it.
He slept less now.
Mila noticed.
She never said anything. Just reached for him in the dark when his breathing changed. Pulled him close. Let him bury his face in her neck until the shaking stopped.
Amila turned three and a half. He asked questions now. Why can’t we go to the park? Why does Dada check the door five times before bed? Why does MiMi sleep with a gun under the pillow?
They answered carefully. Half truths. Gentle lies. Enough to keep him calm. Not enough to make him afraid.
But fear lived in the apartment anyway. Quiet. Patient. Waiting.
It started on a Tuesday.
Darian came home from a meeting at one of the smaller warehouses near Tin Can Island. He walked in at six thirty. Shoes off at the door. Jacket hung. Gun placed in the drawer by the entrance. Routine.
The apartment smelled like jollof rice and fried plantain.
Amila ran to him. Arms wide. “Dada!”
Darian scooped him up. Kissed his cheek. Felt the boy’s heartbeat fast against his own.
Mila stood in the kitchen doorway. Apron tied around her waist. Wooden spoon in hand. She smiled.
But the smile did not reach her eyes.
Darian set Amila down.
“What?” he asked low.
She glanced at the boy. “Later.”
Amila tugged his hand. “Come see my drawing!”
Darian let himself be pulled to the living room rug. Bright crayons. Paper covered in wild colors. A house. Three stick figures. Sun overhead. All smiling.
He praised it. Ruffled the boy’s curls.
But his mind stayed on Mila.
Dinner passed normally. Amila talked about a cartoon he watched. Mila listened. Laughed at the right places. Darian watched her hands. They stayed steady. Too steady.
After Amila’s bath and story Mila tucked him in. Kissed his forehead. Closed the door soft.
She came to the living room.
Darian waited on the couch. Lights low. City humming beyond the glass.
She sat beside him. Not touching.
“Envelope,”
- Writer
