The Mafia Boss's Bride

Chapter 103 : Promise?

 (Back to the Rahman Mansion)

Samir and Ibrahim found themselves in the confines of Samir's bedroom, standing face to face. Samir had just revealed the details of the encounter with Rafi. Ibrahim's face was a thunderous landscape, his jaw clenched so tight it threatened to shatter. His fists balled and unballed, a silent testament to the fury raging within him.

"You left her alone, Samir?" Ibrahim's voice was low growl, each word laced with a dangerous edge. "How could you leave Ava unguarded? How could you be so careless?" 

"I… I apologize, brother," Samir stammered. "I should have been more careful. I thought I can take care of Ava so didn't take any guard."

But Ibrahim's rage was far from appeased. His eyes, narrowed to fiery slits, burned with a possessive jealousy that chilled even the seasoned Samir. "He… he looked at my wife," Ibrahim hissed, "He tied her shoelace? What was he implying, Samir? That I can't take care of my own woman?"

The casual gesture of tying Ava's shoelace, Samir's words echoed in Ibrahim's mind, was a venomous barb aimed at his heart.

"Tell the guards. Double their patrols around the mansion. And I will make sure no one, not even a fly, gets near Ava without my express permission," Ibrahim spat.

Ibrahim stormed out of Samir's room. The ornate hallways of the Rahman Mansion seemed to shrink under the weight of his wrath. He descended the grand staircase and down the marble-floored hallway. His steps echoed through the vast emptiness.

Ibrahim reached the entrance hall, the opulent space bathed in the harsh glare of the noonday sun. His eyes fell on the shoe rack, a polished mahogany contraption gleaming against the marble floor. Approaching the shoe rack, he opened the door. The shelves housed an array of shoes - Aliya's elegant stilettos, Samir's  loafers, his own collection of bespoke Italian leather, Ava's heels. His gaze scanned the rows of shoes, searching for the white sneakers Ava had worn. 

And there they were. Ibrahim snatched them up, the fabric crackling in his grasp. He couldn't have them. He couldn't have anything that Rafi had touched, anything that bore the faintest hint of Rafi. 

Leaving the mansion with purposeful strides, Ibrahim encountered the guards stationed along the driveway. The driveway was bathed in the harsh noon sun. Ibrahim barked an order, his voice raw with barely contained emotion. "Matches," he demanded.

One guard, startled by his master's vehemence, fumbled in his pocket before producing a box of matches. Ibrahim snatched it, his eyes blazing with a fire. He strode across the manicured lawn, the sneakers clutched in his fist. He reached the backyard, a haven of emerald green and vibrant flowers, a stark contrast to the storm raging within him. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the sneakers onto the grass.

Taking a deep breath, Ibrahim struck two matches against the tough strip, creating a small flame. Then he knelt down and brought the flame closer to the sneakers, igniting a small fire that crackled and sparked as it eagerly consumed the fabric. The flames grew, their orange and yellow tongues licking at the sneakers.

The air filled with the distinct smell of burning leather, a pungent scent that carried the weight of Ibrahim's anger. And the flames danced and swayed, casting mesmerizing shadows upon the ground as they devoured the sneakers with relentless fervor.

Ibrahim's remained fixed on the flickering flames. But beneath the inferno of anger, a tremor of fear lurked, a cold serpent coiling in the pit of his stomach. He, Ibrahim Rahman, prided himself on being a master of manipulation, capable of making others dance in the palm of his hand, bending them to his will, felt a tremor of fear. Not for himself, no. That was an emotion he'd banished long ago, a weakness unworthy of his ironclad will. His fear was for Ava.