Zurianne never imagined that saving her mother's life would cost her own freedom. Forced into an arranged marriage with Christopher Whyte the infamous Jamaican Don feared by many,she braces herself for a life of cold stares and ruthless commands. Bu...
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The twins were already asleep when my phone lit up on the desk. One glance at the caller ID, and I knew this wasn't any regular update. I stepped into my office, shut the door behind me, and answered.
"Boss... yuh need fi hear dis." The driver's voice was low, but the weight in it told me everything.
He didn't even get to finish before the images started flashing in my mind—Zurianne, late night roads, and trouble finding her.
I didn't rush for the door. Didn't bark questions. I just sat there in that chair for a moment, still as stone, letting the heat crawl up my spine. I had told her not to leave the house. Not to put herself in a position where I couldn't protect her.
And now... gunshots.
When they finally pulled up outside, I stepped into the hallway. Zuri came in first, eyes darting like she expected me to explode on the spot. My gaze locked on her, sharp enough to make her shift her weight. She froze halfway across the room.
That look I gave her? It said everything. She could have died. And she knew it.
But I didn't say a word. Silence was worse. I walked right past her without breaking eye contact, heading straight for my office.
"Driver—inside. Now."
The man entered, shoulders tense, hat in hand. I closed the door behind him and pointed at the dashcam unit like it was a loaded gun. "Run it."
The footage flickered to life, the grainy light of Kingston's streets flashing across the screen. I watched Zuri in the passenger seat, head snapping around at the first burst of gunfire. The crack of bullets rang through the speakers, each one tightening my chest.
The car trailing them came into frame—black SUV, windows tinted so dark it was almost a mirror. But then... a flash of a face. Just enough for me to know.
Colombian Cartels.
I leaned in, elbows on my desk, eyes narrowing as the license plate came into view under the streetlight. Numbers and letters etched themselves into my memory like I'd carved them there with a knife.
The driver paused the video, looking at me like he wasn't sure what to say.
I sat back, slow. My hand drummed once on the armrest before curling into a fist.
"This..." I said, voice low, calm, dangerous, "...is war." The driver swallowed hard.
*************************
The following evening, the air inside the house was heavy, too quiet for a home with two toddlers. I heard the front gate buzz, and a minute later, the familiar sound of Suzan's voice drifted in from the foyer.
"Mi babies!" Her laugh rang through the hallway, warm and rich, the kind that could soften even the hardest day. She swept into the living room, her arms already reaching for the twins. They squealed in delight, their little legs kicking as she hugged them close, planting kisses on their cheeks.
