Mafia Captured

11. Fated to Love You

Sahira sat stiffly in her seat, her heart still racing from the chaos they had barely escaped. The low hum of the private plane vibrated through her, but it brought little comfort. The world around her felt unsteady. She cast a glance at Abrar Reza, her father-in-law, seated across from her. Once a man of imposing stature, Abrar now seemed smaller, diminished—his broad shoulders weighed down by exhaustion, his face marked with the deep lines of too many years and too many buried secrets. His silver-streaked hair had thinned since she last truly studied him, and the furrows etched into his skin told the story of a man burdened by unspeakable loss.

Sahira's heart twisted painfully at the thought of Arsalan. Though she had convinced herself she despised him, did she really? Somewhere deep within, something stirred—a sense that something was terribly wrong.

Abrar spoke briefly with the pilot before returning to the cabin. His heavy sigh as he sank into his seat seemed to echo in the small space, amplifying the weight he carried. His once piercing eyes, now dulled by worry, seemed distant, clouded with thoughts he couldn't share. Sahira's mind was a whirlwind of questions, confusion gnawing at her. They had fled so quickly, so abruptly. She was grateful the children had fallen asleep; keeping them calm would have been impossible otherwise.

Across from her, Johra sat in a similar state of turmoil. Her mind reeled, trying to piece together the fragments of their shattered world. Our home... gone, reduced to ashes, she thought, the image of the fire still vivid in her mind. But it wasn't just the flames that haunted her—it was the silence that followed. No explanations, no warnings, just a desperate scramble to escape. She wasn't used to this level of uncertainty, not with Karim always so steady, so in control. Her leg bounced anxiously, her fingers twisting and fidgeting with the hem of her scarf. Johra was the type who always sought answers, who couldn't sit still when things didn't make sense.

But none of this made sense.

Finally, unable to contain her questions any longer, Johra leaned forward, her voice tight with fear and confusion. "Uncle, what's happening? Our home—it's gone. Someone set it on fire. Why are we running? From whom? And where are we going?"

Abrar stared out of the small window at the vast darkness beyond. His silence felt heavy, and Johra could sense that it wasn't because he didn't know the answers. It was because he didn't know how to tell them. His usual authority had softened, eroded by the weight of the events they had just fled. He took a long, slow breath, as though searching for the right words. He wasn't ignoring them; he was protecting them.

"I know you're scared," he finally said, his voice gravelly and rough. "But it's not safe to talk about it now. Not until we're clear of this mess."

Johra's frustration simmered. Clear of this mess? What mess? Just hours ago, their lives had been normal—perfect, even. She glanced at Sahira, hoping her sister held some answers, but Sahira only stared down at her son, Arham, who lay asleep in her lap. Her face was carefully neutral, masking whatever storm brewed inside her. But Johra knew her sister better than anyone. Beneath that calm facade, Sahira was barely holding herself together. With each silent sob, she whispered a prayer in her heart, clinging to the one hope that Allah was with her, even in the darkest of moments.

Just then, the plane's in-flight entertainment system flickered to life, pulling their attention to the screen. The cabin filled with the voice of a news anchor, smooth and detached, as the headline scrolled across the bottom:

"Breaking News: Prominent neurosurgeon Dr. Arsalan Ansari, known for his humanitarian work, is under investigation for alleged ties to the mafia. Sources claim he is linked to the infamous Ezel, a feared figure in the criminal underworld. Investigators are now looking into connections with drug trafficking, money laundering, and murder."