Chapter 17: EPILOGUE
1547 Words
Six months later.
Italy.
Small town.
No name.
Not on maps.
Coast of Amalfi.
Lemons.
Blue water.
White houses.
No one knew us.
Not David and Amara.
Not Luis and Maria.
Not Elias and Ava.
Marco and Sofia Rossi.
New passports.
New faces.
Sort of.
Hair different.
Mine brown.
His shorter.
Scars hidden.
But eyes the same.
Green.
Still his.
---
I woke up to sun.
Real sun.
Not Madrid sirens.
Not Morocco heat.
Not Cape Town blood.
Just sun.
Through white curtains.
On white sheets.
In a bed that was ours.
Elias was already awake.
Sitting on the balcony.
Coffee.
No gun.
First time in a year.
No gun.
His shoulder hurt still.
Mine too.
Matching scars.
Madrid.
Vera’s bullet.
Mine was clean.
Through and through.
Hers was not.
She did not make it.
We did.
Rule 7.
“Morning,” he said.
Did not turn around.
Heard me.
Always heard me.
“Morning,” I said.
Wrapped the sheet around me.
Walked out.
Sat in his lap.
Careful of his side.
Careful of mine.
We were both careful now.
But not scared.
Not anymore.
He kissed my shoulder.
Where the scar was.
“Does it hurt?”
“Only when it rains,” I lied.
It hurt all the time.
But so did his.
So we did not talk about it.
Below us, the town moved.
Fishermen.
Old women with bread.
Kids with bikes.
Normal.
We were normal.
Almost.
“You sleep okay?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
No dreams.
Not for three months.
The doctor in Milan said trauma takes time.
We had time now.
---
Damian died.
Two months after Madrid.
Heart attack.
Or so the papers said.
We knew better.
200 million makes enemies.
Even when the Akindele family is gone.
We did not go to the funeral.
Could not.
Marco and Sofia Rossi did not know Damian Ayeni.
But Elias cried.
One night.
In the kitchen.
Over pasta.
Quiet tears.
Into the sauce.
I did not say anything.
Just held his hand.
Until it stopped.
“He was my dad,” he said.
Finally.
After everything.
“I know,” I said.
“I am sorry I never said it.”
“He knows,” I said.
“He always knew.”
We buried him ourselves.
Sort of.
Went to the cliff.
Highest one.
Over the water.
Burned a letter.
Elias wrote it.
I did not read it.
His dad.
His words.
The ashes went into the sea.
Wind took them.
Like he was free.
Like we were free.
---
Jacob visits.
Once a month.
Brings supplies.
Money.
News.
“Vera’s cousins tried to claim the reward,” he said.
Last week.
Eating lemons from our tree.
“Police said no bodies. No proof. Case closed.”
“Good,” Elias said.
“Chief’s empire?” I asked.
“Collapsed,” Jacob said.
“No heir. Board took over. Split it up. Sold it.”
No more Akindele Oil.
No more 200 million.
No more Vera.
“Anything else?” Elias asked.
Jacob shook his head.
“You are dead,” he said.
Simple.
“Elias Adebayo died in Madrid. Ava Daniels died in Madrid. Warehouse fire. Unsolved.”
We toasted to that.
With wine.
Italian.
Red.
Like blood.
But not.
---
I work now.
Small bookstore.
In town.
Owner is old.
Signora Bianchi.
Does not ask questions.
Pays cash.
Lets me read.
Elias fixes boats.
Down at the dock.
With his hands.
No guns.
Just wood.
And rope.
And salt.
He is good at it.
Says it is quiet.
Says the sea does not lie.
We come home at night.
Eat dinner.
On the balcony.
Watch the sun go down.
Every night.
Like a ritual.
Sometimes we do not talk.
Sometimes we talk too much.
About Lagos.
About Rule 1.
You are fired.
And laugh.
Now.
We can laugh now.
---
My phone rang.
Today.
New phone.
Only one person had the number.
Doctor.
Milan.
“Signora Rossi?”
“Yes.”
“Your tests. From last week.”
I held my breath.
Elias looked up.
From the sink.
Dishes.
He did dishes now.
“You are pregnant,” the doctor said.
“Eight weeks.”
I dropped the phone.
It clattered.
Did not break.
“Sofia?” Elias said.
Using the name.
But eyes on me.
Real me.
“Ava?”
I could not speak.
Just nodded.
Hand on my stomach.
Flat.
Still flat.
But not empty.
He crossed the room.
Three steps.
On his knees.
In front of me.
Hands on my stomach.
Over mine.
“Really?” he said.
Voice broke.
Like Madrid.
But different.
Not blood.
Not fear.
“Really,” I said.
Crying.
Finally.
Happy tears.
First ones in a year.
He pressed his forehead to my stomach.
Stayed there.
Long time.
Breathing.
“Hi,” he whispered.
To the bump.
To nothing.
To everything.
“I am your dad.”
Then he looked up.
At me.
Eyes green.
Wet.
“Rule 9,” he said.
We did not have a Rule 9.
Until now.
“What is it?” I asked.
“We protect this,” he said.
Hand still on my stomach.
“With everything.”
“Everything,” I said.
Back to him.
Promise.
New one.
Best one.
---
Night.
Balcony.
Two chairs.
One blanket.
Me in his lap.
Again.
Always.
My stomach still flat.
But we knew.
We both knew.
“No more running,” he said.
Quiet.
To the water.
To the stars.
“No more hiding.”
“No more new names,” I said.
“No more guns,” he said.
“No more Vera.”
“No more 200 million.”
“No more Rule 1.”
We sat there.
Long time.
Counting stars.
Counting breaths.
Counting days we survived.
“Rule 10,” I said.
Finally.
Last one.
He looked at me.
“What is it?”
I smiled.
Touched his face.
Scar on his jaw.
From Lagos.
From Day 1.
“We are free,” I said.
He breathed out.
Like he was holding it.
For a year.
For 31 chapters.
“We are free,” he said.
Back to me.
Testing it.
Tasting it.
True.
He kissed me.
Slow.
No fear.
No blood.
No Vera.
Just us.
Just Marco and Sofia.
Just Elias and Ava.
Just free.
The sea moved below.
Lemons fell from trees.
Italy was quiet.
We were quiet.
And for the first time in forever.
We did not sleep with a gun under the pillow.
We did not sleep with one eye open.
We did not sleep with the door locked three times.
We slept.
In each other’s arms.
Hand on my stomach.
His heart under my ear.
Baby between us.
Alive.
All three of us.
Rule 6.
We stop running.
Rule 7.
We live.
Rule 8.
We end this.
Rule 9.
We protect this.
Rule 10.
We are free.
And no one was taking us from each other.
Not anymore.
Not ever again.
But peace never lasts.
Not for people like us.
Not for people with blood on their hands.
Three knocks.
On the door.
Midnight.
Hard.
Not Signora Bianchi.
Not Jacob.
Not anyone we knew.
Elias was on his feet.
Gun in his hand.
Old habits.
He said no more guns.
But some promises are hard to keep.
I stood up too.
Hand on my stomach.
Eight weeks.
Still flat.
But still there.
Rule 9.
We protect this.
“Marco Rossi?”
Voice outside.
Italian.
Male.
Deep.
Not police.
Worse.
Elias looked at me.
One look.
Whole conversation.
Run?
Fight?
Hide?
Then the door opened.
Not by us.
By him.
Key.
He had a key.
Man in a suit.
60 years old.
Silver hair.
Scar on his neck.
Same as Damian’s.
But older.
Deeper.
“Elias Adebayo,” he said.
Not Marco.
Not Rossi.
Real name.
First time in six months.
My blood went cold.
“Who are you?” Elias said.
Gun up.
Pointed.
No shake.
Even with the scar.
The man smiled.
No teeth.
All cold.
“I am the reason Damian is dead,” he said.
“And you are the reason my daughter is dead.”
Daughter?
He stepped inside.
Closed the door.
Two more men behind him.
Guns too.
Pointed at me.
At my stomach.
“Vera was not Chief Akindele’s only child,” the man said.
“She was my youngest. My favorite. And you killed her.”
Elias did not lower the gun.
“I did,” he said.
No lie.
No regret.
“She shot my wife.”
“Your wife,” the man said.
Looked at me.
At my hand.
On my stomach.
“And your unborn child. Congratulations.”
Ice.
In my veins.
He knew.
He knew everything.
“My name is Viktor Kovac,” he said.
“Vera’s mother was my wife. Before Akindele stole her. Before she had Vera. Before she died.”
He pulled out a photo.
Old.
Tossed it on the table.
Vera.
As a child.
On his lap.
Smiling.
Real smile.
Not the one from Lagos.
“You took my daughter,” Viktor said.
“So I will take yours.”
Rule 10.
We are free.
We were never free.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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