Chapter 5 — Red Ink, Cold Shadows
1206 Words
The ink was still fresh.
It bled through the photograph like a wound—vivid, ugly, intentional.
“Wrong questions get deadly answers.”
Amira’s fingers trembled around the edge of the photo, her breath shallow. The image—her mother's lifeless, bullet-wounded center head—wasn’t just a threat.
It was a promise.
She looked around her apartment like a stranger. The curtains fluttered slightly. The window was cracked open. Not enough to break anything, but enough to say: I was here.
Panic warred with instinct. She dropped the photo on the table and backed toward the kitchen drawer where she kept her father’s old switchblade. Her fingers found the cold handle and pulled it free.
Then she froze.
A floorboard creaked.
Every inch of her body went still. Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning everything else out.
Then—
A voice.
"Put that down. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have already."
She spun around, blade raised.
There was no one there.
She turned again. The hallway. Nothing.
The bedroom—empty.
Her phone. Where the hell was her phone?
She grabbed it from the couch and dialed the only number in her mind.
It rang once.
Twice.
“Amira?”
Xander’s voice was low, calm.
“There was someone here,” she said, too fast. They left a photo. Of my mother. Dead. The same image from the case file. But it’s been marked. With a message.”
“I’m on my way,” he said immediately. Don’t move. Lock everything.”
He hung up.
Amira didn’t realize she was crying until the tears hit her lips. Not from fear—at least not just fear. It was something else. Rage. The kind that boils under your skin and makes your hands shake.
How dare they?
How dare someone use her mother like this?
---
Twenty minutes later
Xander arrived, dressed in dark jeans and a gray fitted shirt, no tie, no jacket—just raw tension in human form. Two security men flanked him, swept the apartment without a word, then gave a nod.
He turned to her. “Let me see it.”
Amira handed him the photo.
He didn’t blink. Just stared.
Then he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped the photo carefully, and slipped it into his inner coat pocket.
“They’ve made it personal,” he said.
“Who?” she asked, her voice brittle. “Obinna Faleye?”
“Could be. Or someone protecting him.”
“You told me he ordered the hit. So why isn’t he in prison?”
Xander gave her a long look. “Because Obinna Faleye runs half the political structure in this country. He doesn’t leave fingerprints. He leaves shadows.”
Amira sank onto the couch. “So I’m just supposed to do nothing while these ghosts keep playing chess with my life?”
“No,” he said. “You’re going to do what I say." Exactly. No improvising. No press. No files. No late-night sleuthing.”
She looked at him, furious. “You’re not my handler.”
“No,” he said coldly. “But I might be the only one who can keep you alive long enough to learn the truth.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this.”
He stepped closer. “Do I look like a man who enjoys threats to women I care about?”
The room shifted.
“Care?” she echoed.
Xander said nothing.
She saw it then—a flicker behind his eyes. Something wounded. Something real. But it vanished just as quickly.
Amira’s shoulders slumped.
“I can’t keep living like this,” she whispered. I walk around with a smile, pretending I’ve moved on. But I haven’t. I never did. Every day I wake up and remember what I lost. And every night, I fall asleep wondering why no one paid for it.”
Xander knelt in front of her, gently taking the knife from her hand. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t force her. Just waited until she let go.
“You will get your answers,” he said. “But not like this.”
Amira met his eyes. “Then show me where it starts.”
---
Later that night
Xander’s Private Archive Room — King Global Towers
If the upper floors of King Global were steel and glass, the basement archives were shadow and silence.
Xander typed a passcode, placed his thumb on a biometric scanner, and the steel door opened with a hiss.
The room inside was vast—floor-to-ceiling files, digital screens, redacted folders, and encrypted footage. This wasn’t just storage.
It was a war room.
“You keep all this on private servers?” Amira asked, eyes wide.
“Yes. Because if anyone ever got access to it, people would die.”
He led her to a far wall and typed in another passcode. A digital file opened.
“June 17th, five years ago. "The day your mother was killed,” he said.
He pulled up a map of the area. “Security footage was wiped at the scene, but I managed to get a backdoor angle from a neighboring compound. Watch.”
The grainy footage began. A shadowy car. Two men. One on the lookout, one entering the house.
Not Xander.
Her breath caught.
“It wasn’t you,” she whispered.
“No,” he said. “But I know who paid them.”
He clicked on another file.
A man’s face appeared.
Dark skin. Sharp jawline. Expensive agbada. Eyes cold like marble.
Obinna Faleye.
Amira stared.
Then she said, “He looks… familiar.”
Xander frowned. “What do you mean?”
She paused. “I think he came to the funeral. Briefly. I remember his face. He gave me money. Told me my mother was ‘a shining light.’ Then he left.”
Xander’s jaw clenched. “That’s his style. Sends flowers to graves he dug himself.”
Amira stepped back from the screen. “So what now?”
Xander turned to her.
“Now,” he said, “we build a case so airtight it crushes him. But that means one thing—”
“What?”
“You’re going to have to get closer to him.”
Amira blinked. “What?”
“He hosts an annual black-tie fundraiser. Only the elite get invited. Politicians, power players… and women he wants to collect.”
She recoiled. “You want me to be bait?”
“No,” he said. “I want you to be brilliant." Beautiful. Unforgettable. Enough to make him drop his guard.”
Her chest heaved. “And if I say no?”
Xander stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch lingered.
“Then he wins. Again.”
Amira looked away. Her skin still burned where he touched her.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
“Do more than think,” he replied. Make a decision. Because the clock’s already ticking.”
As she turned to leave, Xander’s voice stopped her.
“Oh, and Amira?”
She looked over her shoulder.
“You wear red again… and he’ll notice you. Just like I did.”
---
- Writer
