His Salvation and His Sins

A loud, shrill cry jerks Neva awake from her deep slumber.

With droopy eyes, she lifts her heavy head and peers over the cot across the bed.

She turns to find Ishmael's side of the bed empty. Her hand reaches across the white sheet—cold.

He's been gone a while.

The baby's wailing continues, relentless. She slips out from under the warm duvet, her bare feet sinking into the soft, grey woolen carpet.

She reaches into the cradle and gently picks up the crying baby, careful not to wake the sibling squirming beside him.

She begins to sway, whispering soothing words, stepping slowly toward the crackling fireplace beneath the massive black television that faces the bed.

"Shh… you'll wake your sister," Neva murmurs, pressing a kiss to the baby's forehead.

A small smile tugs at her lips as she gazes at the newborn's crumpled features—those tiny eyes peering through hazy orbs, the pout of those pink lips. Nestled in her arms, the child begins to calm.

"Are you hungry?" she asks softly, rocking him. It must be hunger. It's been two hours since she last fed them.

No book prepared her for these two beautiful, brutal weeks with her twins.

She ambles back and lays the baby down before slipping beneath the covers beside.

Pulling the duvet over them both, she undoes the buttons of her feeding gown.

The baby latches on immediately, easing the ache in that empty little belly.

Neva exhales a tired sigh. The other baby will stir soon—she'll need feeding too.

Her fingers gently stroke the baby's fine dark hair.

"You're such a hungry boy, Isaiah," she whispers with a weary smile—

Then winces as a sharp cramp cuts through her abdomen. Her face tightens in pain.

She draws in a breath through her nose, her teeth biting down on her bottom lip.

The twins had come via caesarean section.

Their birth had undone her—utterly and beautifully.

At times it's exhausting. The mysterious blues come suddenly, suffocating.

But she is blessed. Delighted. Grateful.

Especially to her husband, for his constant support.

Now that she thinks of him, she wonders where Ishmael has gone.

He used to vanish this way often during the early months of her pregnancy, but not since the twins were born.

He'd always say it was urgent business. She knows he's a wealthy man, a powerful bussiness man.

But what matters could demand him so often—enough to steal away his nights?

She glances toward the nightstand, searching for a note.

And there it is—tucked beneath a notebook, a bright yellow square of paper with his scribbled handwriting.

She looks away. It's probably the same reason again.

Her eyes return to Isaiah, peacefully nursing, lids shut.

She traces the delicate side of his face, and for a moment she sees his father in him—those little echoes that make her heart ache.

Then a knock at the door pulls her out of her reverie.

She frowns.

The digital clock on the nightstand reads 3:03 a.m.

"May I come in, Madam?" comes a muffled female voice from behind the closed door.

"Come in," Neva replies warily.

Maria, the nanny, enters—slamming the door behind her.

"Careful—the children are sleeping," Neva scolds, her voice a quiet warning.

Her face falls as Maria struts forward, the sharp clicking of heels ignoring every cue for silence.

But what unsettles her most is the eerie smile slicing across the nanny's red-painted lips.

She always wears black—hair in a tight bun, demeanor austere, almost nun-like.

Tonight, something is off.

The lipstick is loud. The behavior erratic. Her energy menaces the air.

Neva's instincts flare. She immediately shifts away from Isaiah, straightening her gown as Maria inches closer to the crib where her daughter lies.

"What are you here for, Maria?" she asks, her voice firm.

Maria peers down at the child, lingering, then slowly turns her head, eyes fixed on Neva.

Her arms stay tucked behind her back, fingers clasped like a child hiding something.

"What else would I be here for, Madam?" she coos with a sickly grin.

Neva swallows hard. Her brows knot. The tension in her body coils tighter. Something is deeply wrong.

"You're not needed. Go back to your room," Neva orders, her tone now sharp.

Maria lifts a finger, nail lacquered in crimson, wagging it in mock scolding.

"I am your reaper. I am your freedom.

Of course I'm needed," she chuckles, head tilting.

Neva's skin crawls.

"M-Maria, get out. Now."

The nanny arches a brow, unfazed by the trembling urgency in Neva's voice.

"Afraid of me, Madam? Don't be. I'm not as cruel as your husband."

Neva's hand inches toward the phone on the nightstand—

"Don't even think about it!" Maria snaps.

Neva flinches and the phone slips from her grip, thudding onto the carpet.

She gasps in horror. Maria is holding a gun—pointed at the baby.

"Inaya—" Neva chokes out, blood draining from her face.

"Why summon the devil?" Maria sneers. "Why mourn for this… little parasite?"

She taps baby's head like a doll, smirking.

The infant stirs, whimpering.

Neva's mind spirals, her limbs frozen, thoughts blinded by panic.

"Please," she begs, tears slipping down her cheeks. "Please don't hurt her."

Maria's crimson lips stretch into a pleased smile. "Such a lovely mother you are."

"We women must look after one another, yes?

So don't worry... I'll sing them to sleep. After you."

---

Meanwhile…

In the frosty February night, a Rolls Royce speeds down an empty street, flanked by two black SUVs.

Ishmael reclines in the passenger seat, eyes closed, head tilted back, foot tapping in impatience.

His shirt is wrinkled, the top buttons undone, his navy tie loosened.

Bloodstains mar the once-crisp white fabric.

He exhales hard. He needs a shower, a moment—just one—to return to Neva, to slide into bed and wrap her in silence.

He aches to be home.

The blood on his shirt isn't his. It belongs to a man foolish enough to challenge him.

A middle-aged fool who believed his network of kingpins could threaten Ishmael—Raka.

Now he's heading home, leaving behind the ruin. This world of violence isn't what he wants tonight.

He wants her. And their children.

His soul—once cold and hollow—has been stirred by them.

The past few months have brought him closer to heaven than he ever thought possible.

He'd raze the world or rebuild it from ash—whatever it takes to keep them safe.

"Drive faster, Zev," he mutters for the umpteenth time.

"Yes, Raka," the man beside him replies, calm and composed as he pushes the car to its limit.

Zev has worked with him for six years. He knows the kind of man Raka is—tyrannical, brutal.

But lately, he's seen a softness—glimpses of light unarmored from blade and blood.

He's seen Raka with Neva. The way his eyes light up.

Zev doesn't understand it, not fully. Why a man like him would go to such lengths for one woman—a married woman. A mother.

There are many women who want him. Alluring, dangerous, relentless.

But Raka desires no other. He never has.

If Zev had ever known love, perhaps he'd understand.

Snow falls thick across the road. Trees stand like blackened sentinels in the night.

At the grand estate gates, armed guards swing them open.

As the car pulls into the drive, Ishmael doesn't wait. He bolts from the vehicle, vanishing up the porch stairs like a phantom.

Zev watches, lips twitching in amusement.

Who would've thought he'd ever see his boss like this—

A man in love, eager to return to his bride.

Then he spots the jacket Ishmael left behind. Sighing, he picks it up and follows.

---

Ishmael pushes open the grand front door, stepping into a lavish living room crowned by a glittering chandelier. The grey sofas are in place, blue pillows neatly arranged.

A staircase spirals upward toward their bedroom.

He looks up—and the world shatters beneath him.

At the top of the stairs, Neva stands frozen—pale, shaking.

Behind her, Maria looms, gun pressed to her temple like a crown of death.

"Took you long enough," the nanny says with a grin.

Neva's lips tremble. Her tear-streaked cheeks burn red. Her eyes—desperate, afraid—lock onto Ishmael.

His heart implodes. His hands curl into fists.

Maria's guise is gone—her bun undone, curls blazing red, lips a vulgar smear of blood.

How had he not seen through her?

"What do you want?" Ishmael growls.

Maria places a blade to Neva's throat, tilting her head back. A thin line of blood traces down her skin.

"Don't you dare—" He takes a step forward—

"Stay where you are," Maria snaps, turning the gun on him.

She digs the blade deeper. Neva flinches, sobbing, fists clenched.

"Stop!" Ishmael roars.

Maria pauses, blade still poised. Blood stains Neva's gown.

"What do you want?" he grits out again.

"I want your ruin," she purrs, eyes glinting.

"I'll drink the blood of your salvation and sins."

Then she laughs—a horrible, high-pitched laugh—and throws back her head in ecstasy.