A loud, shrill crying of a baby jolts awake Neva from her deep slumber. She raises her head up to peer over the safe cot by the bed.
She then turns her heavy eyes to find Ishmael's side of bed empty. Hand sliding to feel his space, her palm is cold—he's been long gone.
The baby's cry unceasing, she slips off the warm duvet, her feet touching the soft woolen carpet.
Hands reaching inside the cradle, she swiftly, carefully picks up the weeping baby, for the sleeping little one beside squirms lightly to arise from the twin's sorrow.
She sways her newborn, hushing him calmly, walking slow towards the crackling fireplace right below the massive black screen of a television—facing the bed.
"Shh... you'll wake your sister," Neva murmers, kissing the baby's forehead.
Her smile small as she gazes affectionately at the child's crumpled up features, the tiny eyes gazing at her through hazy orbs, the little pink lips painted in a cute pout.
The newborn's now quiet and nestled in her embrace, nuzzling face to Neva's chest.
"Are you hungry?" She asks, rocking him tenderly. It was difinitely a wail of hunger. All the guides from baby care books, it didn't compare with the erudition she had now that she has known after the beautiful two weeks with her twins.
Ambling towards the bed, she places the baby down. She lay herself beside after, pulling the duvet over them, turning her body to the side—she faces the infant.
Undoing the buttons of her feeding gown, she has her bosom out to feed the child. The hungry baby immediately latches onto her bud, drinking heartily, sufficing the hollow tummy.
Neva heaves out a fatigued sigh, her soft fingers caressing, brushing through the dark thin hair. "You're such a hungry boy Isaiah." Neva smiles, suddenly a serrated cramp on her abdomen abruptly draws her to the pain.
She inhales a sharp breath through her nose, teeth sinking down her bottom lip.
For reasons, she had to go through caesarean section to bring them into the world, born two weeks earlier than the given date.
The birth of the two angels invoked immense alteration in her life. It's exhausting, at times, mysterious blues had her in a suffocating grip, but she's blessed and delighted, grateful for the support her husband provided.
Now that she thinks of him, she wonders where Ishmael had gone to. Countable times she observed him vanishing out of nowhere in the middle of the night. But he hadn't done it since the end months of her pregnancy, and the birth of the twins.
She inquired about it, but he only said he had some urgent issues to care for. She's aware he's a well heeled businessman, very stinking rich indeed.
Nevertheless, what matters summoned him often, that it snatches away his night's rest?
She tilts her head to probe if he left any note for her on the nightstand, like he always did. And surely, there, under the clear glass, a square, bright yellow paper peeks out, with words in black ink scribbled over.
She looks away, it's probably the same reason. She glances down at the tranquiled boy, his lids closed, drinking from her still.
Tracing the side visage of his soft features, glimpses of his father in the sweet face surfaces in her eyes.
A sudden knock on the door pulls Neva out of her thoughts. She frowns gazing at the digital clock, it only showed three past thirty in the night.
"May I come in Madam?" A muffled, feminine voice reverbs out from behind the closed door. She was the nanny hired for the twins.
"Come in," Neva returns. The familiar woman promptly jumps into the room, loudly banging the door shut behind her.
"Careful, the children are sleeping," Neva reminds with a hushed, rigid tone.
Her face falls as the nanny approaches her closer with loud clicking of heels, without respecting her cue.
But, what throws her off the edge, is the eerie smile sliced up on the brims of her red lips. She was always dressed in a black gown, black hair tied in a neat bun, she could almost resemble a nun. Although, she has gone astray from her habitual look with such blaring lipstick and delirious behaviour.
Her unhinge demeanour echoes threats in Neva's bones. She immediately separates from the sleeping Isaiah and sits up, arranging her open garment as the nanny closens to the crib, where her daughter lay.
"What are you here for Maria?" Neva inquires, and the woman longingly peering down at the child turns her head to look up at her, arms drawn—hands calmly clasped behind her back.
"I'm the caretaker of your children. What else would I be here for, Madam?" Maria replies, revealing an innocent grin, her tone mockingly cloying.
Neva swallows tightly, her brows sunken, something's wrong with her.
Her gaze trails up from the crib to Maria, hovering over, close to the baby, scaring her for the turning reason she cannot attest to.
"You're not needed, you can go back to your room." Neva asserts sternly.
Maria lifts up her index finger over her lip, wagging it as she let loose slick noises with her tongue.
"I'm your reaper. Your freedom. Obviously, I am needed." She chuckles, shaking her head.
Neva has shivers arising in her skin, heart plummeting to thrash out her mouth, she's creeping her out. "M-Maria, get out. Now."
She cranes up her thick dark brows at her harsh emphasis. "Are you afraid of me Madam? Don't be, I won't raid you like your husband did."
Maria perceives Neva's fingers sneakily crawling to get the phone placed on the night stand. "Don't even think about it!" She exclaims, flinching Neva that she drops the device on the carpeted floor.
Neva gasps, eyes widening in horror; Maria, she's holding a gun over the baby.
"Inaya," she whispers out, her face washed in aghast.
"Why would you summon the devil? Why would you fret about his sin?" Maria shakes her head dejectedly, disgustedly.
In the shuddering frame, Neva's insides are a hurricane. Fears, confusion spin and roughly swirl a blackened wheel, blinding her actions.
What nonsense is she spouting about?
"Please, please don't harm her," a falling Neva calls, tears gushing out her orbs.
Maria wears a triumphant smile on her begrudgingly red lips. "Such lovely mother you are," she pouts.
"We women should always have each other's back. It's okay honey, I shall sing them to sleep, after you."
---
In the frosty, gloomy night, a black bulletproof car speeds violently through the vacant street, in the rear follows the armored SUVs.
Ishmael was leaned back on the passenger's seat, head resting and eyes closed, manspreading legs, impatiently tapping his foot on the floor.
His features contorted in irascibilty, he's frowning, desiring to be with Neva, annoyed he had to leave her alone in the middle of the night.
He glances down at his disheaveled form, wrinkled shirt buttoned down the chest, the deep blue tie loosened far, sleeves folded up his elbow, stains of blood illustrated on the pure white shell. He would need to quickly shower before he slithers into the bed, and into her warm embrace.
Should have been there with her, rather than here in the assaulting car with Zev. Ishmael is rushing home, he had just killed off one of his many remaining rivals. He had been hiding away, but the foolish man walked in straight to their trap.
The middle-aged man had it sown in his head, the fancy belief that he could destroy Raka. Him with his many union of kingpins erecting to disgrace him.
He sighs, eyes closed and an arm over his forehead. He's aching to be with his wife, their newborn children. It flutters his heart, warmth drinking his all—his cold and devoid soul.
This few months with her, this few weeks with his son and daughter, it's been nothing short of rapture for him. And he knows, they're the closest to heaven he could ever be. He loves them more than anything, everything.
He shall collide heaven and hell as one, devastate the world or mend the earth. He will do it for them, he will always protect them.
"Drive faster Zev," Ishmael says for the umpteenth time.
"Yes Raka." Zev calmly responds, nodding once as he attempts to almost fly the car to get his Boss to his beloved.
He had been working with him for six years, he knows him than the most.
Raka had always the tyrannical, cold-blooded aura cemented around him, although he was glad, in the gone by few months, in the peaceful times like this, he would uncage himself off the armor of blades, and the brilliance in his eyes would unyoke.
Zev had appeared before Neva for many spans now, when he was with her, he could never be able to hide the gleam, the euphoria derived from her presence.
He could see she was beautiful, truly very mystic. But he just couldn't decipher why would he go to such lengths to have her, a married woman with a child. There were plenty gorgeous woman for him to pursue, he never lacked in options.
He never desired another women, never giving in to their dirty strategies.
He was different, unnaturally strange to be such man in love, for it was crazier and ruthlessly soliciting in the crime world.
The ladies could kill for such good-looking billionnaire. But Raka, he needed Neva, he yearned for her, did the impossible, hunted her—for her, he had died everyday, praying, achieving anything for a forever with her.
Perhaps if he had been in love, he might be gathering together to complete the many missing puzzle pieces.
Nights were long and cold in February, snow raining down, smothered all over the path between the blackened, naked maple trees.
The armed guards opens up the grand gate seeing the cars, allowing them the way. Reaching the mansion, Ishmael almost teleports to the porch with the speed he sprints out the door.
His lips twitches to form a smile, he never thought he would ever see him this excited. He's alike a husband in a honeymoon phase eager to see his newly wedded wife.
Glancing back at the passenger's seat, he sees Ishmael's coat hanging haphazardly on the seat. Sighing, he grabs it then walks out the car to return it.
The rumbling of cars behind comes to a stop at the driveway, steadily they veer to the massive parking lot.
Ishmael had such lustre of love in his eyes as he pushes the door open and walks through the portal to his paradise.
The front door gives way to a grandiose living room, an extravagant chandelier hovering over on the high, white ceiling.
Grey couches layered round on the floor, blue pillows neatly scattered over.
Long, high stairs in the middle led the floor to where their master bedroom is, glassed railing on the sides, looking up to glimpse at the door, his eyes widens, Ishmael has the ground beneath cracking to succumb him to the flames of acheron.
Ahead at the end of the stairs, on the landing, Neva stands there, trembling, holding a gun against her temple—Maria peeks from behind her frame.
"Took you long enough." Maria, the nanny greets, smiling brightly.
Neva's eyes draws a string to Ishmael's shaky ones, her lips quivering, fresh hot streaming down her tear stained cheek. His heart crumbles down, looking at her so fragile.
Ishmael clenches his jaw, his fists tightening, glaring at the uncanny woman. She had now curly, fiery red hair loosened, instead of her black bun, a smirk lining up the abhorrable vermillion lips.
How could he have not seen through her?
"What do you need?" Ishmael spits out, his face turning so dark in anger and trepidation as Maria brings a dagger with her other hand, aiming at Neva's neck.
Maria has Neva's head tilt back from the sharp pressure, her eyes sealed and strained, the cold feeling of the blade's spire freezing her nerves.
"You wouldn't dare!" Ishmael growls at her, almost climbing the stairs, but the gun pointed at him now has him halt.
Maria clicks her tongue, slicing slow Neva's skin, eliciting a sob out her lips, the scarlet blood trailing down her milky skin.
"Don't fucking mock me. I will make sure your dead is terribly ugly," Ishmael warns, his muscles tensed in agitation.
"Look at you Raka, throwing those, petty, petty threats. You've weakened.
What I need is your ruin. I shall have the blood of your salvation and sins on my hand." Maria snickers, her laugh unfolding to be crazed and deafening.