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FIFTY MILLION NIGHTS
PART 1
One heartbeat, Olivia Okoro was pressed against the cool window of her small Lagos apartment, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The humid night air, thick with the smells of frying plantains, diesel fumes, and distant Afrobeat, felt suffocating. Her brother Emeka’s terrified voice still screamed inside her head: "Livy! They’re coming! The Syndicate… hide! Don’t open the door! Fifty million… it’s bad… so bad!" Then silence. A silence colder than death.
The next heartbeat, the world shattered. Not a knock. A deafening CRUNCH-BOOM! Wood splintered like matchsticks. The flimsy lock tore free, clattering across the cheap tile floor. The door flew inward, banging against the wall so hard the framed photo of their parents crashed down.
Olivia gasped, stumbling back. Her bare feet slipped on the smooth tiles. Two enormous shapes filled the broken doorway, blocking out the dim yellow light from the hallway. They weren’t just big; they were walls of darkness dressed in expensive, perfectly fitted black suits. No faces, just shadows under sharp brims. They moved with a terrifying silence, like predators gliding into her tiny living room. Their eyes, flat and empty, scanned the space – her worn sofa, the small kitchenette, her – with chilling efficiency.
Panic, sharp and icy, shot through her veins. "Get out!" Her voice came out a thin shriek. "Who are you? GET OUT!"
She scrambled backwards, knocking over a small stool. It clattered uselessly. The man closer to her moved. He didn’t run; he simply flowed forward, impossibly fast for his size. A huge, calloused hand clamped over her mouth and nose, crushing her lips against her teeth. The smell hit her – stale cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, and underneath, something metallic and sharp, like old blood. It choked her. Her scream died in her throat, a muffled whimper.
The second man produced something from his jacket. Not a gun. A thick, rough-woven sack, dark as midnight. Olivia’s eyes widened in pure terror. No. No, no, no! She thrashed wildly, kicking out with all her strength. Her bare heel connected hard with the shin of the man holding her. It felt like kicking solid concrete. He didn’t even grunt. His grip tightened, lifting her completely off the ground as easily as if she were a bag of laundry. Her legs flailed uselessly in the air. Her thin nightdress twisted around her thighs.
The rough fabric of the sack descended. Scratchy, suffocating darkness swallowed her whole. The world vanished – her home, the faint city glow, the terrifying men. Only the crushing hand over her mouth and the terrifying blackness remained. She couldn't breathe! Panic clawed at her chest. She sucked in frantic breaths through her nose, the rough sack fibers tickling her nostrils. Tears, hot and stinging, welled instantly, soaking into the scratchy fabric pressed against her cheeks.
"Quiet." The voice came from the ruined doorway. Not loud. Not angry. Worse. It was a deep, resonant rumble, smooth as expensive whiskey but cold as the grave. It held absolute, unquestionable command. Olivia froze mid-struggle, paralyzed by the sheer authority in that single word. She could picture him – another shadow, taller, broader, standing framed in the broken entrance, watching. The real monster.
She felt herself being carried, her body limp with shock now, dangling over the man's shoulder like a sack of yams. Her bare toes brushed the splintered wood of her doorframe as they stepped out. The humid night air hit the sack, making it cling damply to her face. She heard the heavy, final thud as what remained of her front door was pulled shut behind them. The familiar sounds of Lagos at night – the blaring horns, the rhythmic music from a nearby bar, the shouts of late-night vendors – suddenly seemed miles away, sounds from another life. Her world was darkness, the hard shoulder digging into her stomach, the smell of the man carrying her, and the terrifying, silent presence of the one who had spoken.
She was dumped, not gently, onto smooth, cool leather. A car door slammed with a heavy, expensive thunk. The engine purred to life, a deep, powerful growl that vibrated through the seat beneath her. They moved off smoothly, accelerating. Trapped inside the scratchy darkness, Olivia focused desperately on the sounds. The steady hum of the engine. The occasional angry blare of a horn they ignored. The low murmur of the radio – someone crooning a sad Highlife love song. The grotesque normalcy of it made fresh tears spill. Emeka. You ******, ****** fool! What did you do? Fifty million Naira. An impossible fortune. A death sentence owed to the most feared criminal network in Nigeria: the Aro Confederacy. And they hadn't taken Emeka. They’d taken her.
The car drove. Time stretched and warped inside the suffocating sack. Left turn. Right. A long stretch on a smoother road. A stop at traffic lights? She couldn’t tell. The disorientation was complete. Her arms were pinned awkwardly, her neck aching. The rough fabric scraped her skin raw.
Finally, the car slowed. It turned sharply, then descended. The engine note echoed differently. The air grew noticeably cooler, damper. Concrete dust? They were underground. The powerful engine cut off. Silence, heavy and expectant. Car doors opened. Hands grabbed her again, hauling her out. Her bare feet landed on cold, smooth concrete. Goosebumps prickled her arms and legs.
She was marched forward, each step forced. The grip on her upper arms was like steel bands. Her captors walked with silent, purposeful strides. A heavy door hissed open – automatic? More walking. The sound of their footsteps changed. Sharp clicks now, echoing slightly. Marble? Polished stone? The air changed too. Sterile. Like a hospital, but underneath… something else. Cold. Powerful. Expensive. Like money and fear had a smell.
They stopped. Olivia braced herself, trembling violently inside her scratchy prison. A hand grabbed the top of the sack. With a rough yank, it was pulled off her head.
Olivia gasped, sucking in deep, ragged breaths of the cool, sterile air. She blinked, blinded by the sudden, harsh glare of bright recessed lights. Squinting, her vision swam, then cleared.
She stood in the center of a room so vast and empty it felt like a dream. Or a nightmare. The floor was gleaming black stone, reflecting the lights like dark water. One entire wall was glass – floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a dizzying, terrifying view. Far, far below, the sprawling city of Lagos glittered like a million fallen stars, tiny cars moving like glowing ants. It was beautiful and utterly isolating. The furniture was sparse, low, and looked like sculpted metal and cold, black leather. No color. No warmth. Just sharp angles and hard surfaces. It screamed of unimaginable wealth and absolute control. A gilded cage at the top of the world.
Before she could fully take it in, a figure moved near the vast window. He had been standing with his back to her, a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette against the glittering cityscape. He turned slowly, deliberately, like a king surveying his domain.
Olivia’s breath caught in her throat. This was the voice from the doorway. The monster.
TO BE CONTINUED...

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
FINALE
The grand villa, once a gilded cage echoing with tension and Amanda’s venomous whispers, had transformed into a sanctuary bathed in golden light and the vibrant hum of genuine joy. The "Welcome Home" party wasn’t just for Jessica; it was a rebirth for the entire household. Paper lanterns, reminiscent of the secret baby shower but multiplied a hundredfold, adorned every archway and balcony, casting a warm, celebratory glow. Lush floral arrangements overflowing with crimson hibiscus, golden birds of paradise, and fragrant white jasmine replaced the sterile opulence. The air thrummed with the infectious rhythms of highlife music and the laughter of Scar’s men – no longer just guards, but an extended family sharing in their leader’s profound relief and happiness.
Jessica stood near the sweeping staircase, a vision in flowing ivory silk. The lingering shadows of fear and hardship were gone, replaced by a radiant serenity that seemed to emanate from her very core. She watched Scar move through the crowd, his usual intimidating presence softened into an almost boyish delight. He greeted his men with firm handshakes and claps on the back, his deep laughter ringing out freely, a sound many hadn’t heard in years. His eyes, however, constantly sought hers, anchoring himself in her presence. Every few minutes, he would weave his way back to her, his hand finding the small of her back, his lips brushing her temple, a silent, possessive reassurance. "Mine. Safe. Home."
Amidst the joyful chaos, Scar spotted Ghost standing near the open terrace doors, a quiet sentinel observing the celebration. Chioma was beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm. Scar excused himself from a conversation and walked towards them, his expression turning solemn. The music seemed to fade slightly as he approached.
"Ghost," Scar said, his voice low and thick with emotion. He stopped before the man who had been a shadow, a weapon, and ultimately, a savior.
Ghost straightened, his usual impassive mask in place, but his eyes held a flicker of wariness.
Scar didn’t offer a handshake. Instead, he placed both hands firmly on Ghost’s shoulders, a gesture of profound respect and intimacy reserved for the closest of brothers-in-arms. He looked directly into Ghost’s eyes, his own dark gaze unwavering and sincere.
"Words are cheap," Scar began, his voice rough. "But they are all I have right now to express what can never truly be repaid." He paused, the weight of the past months heavy in the silence. "You saved her life. You saved *my son’s* life. When I was blind with rage, walking in darkness, you were the one who held the light. You saw the truth when I refused to. You risked everything – your position, your life, my wrath – to protect Jessica when I couldn’t, when I *failed* her." Scar’s voice cracked slightly. "You brought her back. You kept her safe. You gave me back…" He glanced towards Jessica, his eyes softening, "...everything."
He squeezed Ghost’s shoulders. "My gratitude isn't just for tonight. It’s a debt etched into my bones. You have my loyalty, Ghost, not as an employer, but as a brother. Now and always. Whatever you need, whenever you need it – it’s yours. Without question." He finally released him, stepping back slightly, but the intensity of his gaze remained. "Thank you. For Jessica. For my son. For my life."
Ghost, a man of few words, swallowed hard. The stoic mask fractured, revealing a depth of emotion rarely seen. He gave a single, sharp nod, his voice gruff when he finally spoke. "Just bringing you home to what matters, Boss. To *who* matters." He glanced at Chioma, a softness touching his eyes. "We did it together."
Chioma beamed, tears glistening. Scar nodded, the profound understanding passing between them. He clasped Ghost’s hand firmly this time. "Together," he echoed. The moment solidified a bond forged in fire, stronger than any empire.
Weeks later, the villa was hushed, filled with a different kind of anticipation – sacred and primal. Jessica labored not in a sterile hospital, but in the sun-drenched master suite Scar had transformed into a birthing sanctuary. Chioma, now officially Jessica’s sister and confidante, was her unwavering pillar, alongside a trusted midwife. Scar paced the adjoining sitting room like the lion he was, his usual composure shattered. Every muffled cry from Jessica sent a jolt of terror and helplessness through him. He heard William’s low murmur trying to offer reassurance, but the powerful kingpin was reduced to a bundle of raw nerves, praying to deities he’d long ignored.
Then, cutting through the tense silence, came a new sound – a strong, indignant wail. A sound that stopped Scar’s heart before setting it pounding with a frantic, overwhelming joy. The door opened. Chioma emerged, her face radiant, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Boss…" she whispered, her voice thick. "Come meet your son."
Scar moved as if in a dream, pushing past her into the room. The scent of blood and effort hung in the air, but it was eclipsed by something purer, sweeter. Jessica lay propped on pillows, exhausted but glowing, her face a picture of awestruck love. And in her arms, swaddled in soft white linen, was a tiny, perfect human being. A shock of dark hair, a button nose, and eyes screwed shut as he voiced his displeasure at the bright new world.
Scar approached slowly, his massive frame seeming too large, too clumsy for this fragile miracle. He sank to his knees beside the bed, his eyes fixed on the tiny face. Jessica smiled weakly, shifting slightly. "Sebastian… meet your son. Adebayo Sebastian Scar."
Tentatively, reverently, Scar reached out. His large, scarred hand, capable of such violence, trembled as he gently traced the curve of his son’s impossibly soft cheek. The baby’s cries subsided slightly, tiny fingers unfurling. As Scar’s fingertip brushed that miniature hand, the tiny fingers instinctively curled around it with surprising strength.
The dam broke. A single tear, then another, escaped Scar’s tightly shut eyes, tracing a path down his scarred cheek. A sob, raw and unexpected, ripped from his chest. He bowed his head, his forehead resting gently against Jessica’s arm beside the baby, his shoulders shaking silently. The fear, the rage, the betrayal, the relentless pursuit of power – it all dissolved in the face of this profound, terrifying love. He wept for the man he’d been, for the pain inflicted, for the miracle granted.
"He’s perfect," he choked out, lifting his tear-streaked face to look at Jessica, his eyes blazing with a love so fierce it stole her breath. He placed his other hand over hers where it cradled the baby’s head. "Both of you. My world." He leaned down, pressing the most tender kiss first on Jessica’s sweaty forehead, then on the downy head of his son. "I swear on my life," he whispered, his voice thick with conviction, his gaze locked on the tiny face, "I will protect you. Both of you. With every breath, every drop of blood. Nothing will ever harm you again. You are my heart. My sanctuary. My *everything*." The Lion of Lagos had found his true purpose, not in territory or fear, but in the fierce, unwavering protection of his pride
Four months later, Adebayo was a thriving bundle of energy, his dark eyes already holding a disconcerting echo of his father’s intensity, often softened by a gummy smile that could melt stone. Life settled into a blissful rhythm. Scar embraced fatherhood with a fierce, almost comical devotion, often found pacing the nursery at 3 AM with Adebayo asleep on his broad chest, or conducting business meetings via video call with the baby propped in a sling.
One quiet afternoon, Jessica found Scar in his study, engrossed in building a ridiculously complex block tower for Adebayo, who watched with rapt fascination. Sunlight streamed through the windows. Jessica sat beside him on the plush rug, leaning her head against his shoulder. "He’s getting so strong," she murmured, watching their son grab a block.
"He’s a Scar," Scar rumbled proudly, carefully adding another block. "Strength is in the blood."
Jessica took a deep breath, a secret smile playing on her lips. "Speaking of strength… and blood…" She reached into the pocket of her flowing dress and pulled out a small, familiar plastic stick. She placed it gently on the carpet beside the tower.
Scar froze, his hand hovering over the next block. His gaze snapped from the test to Jessica’s face, then back to the test. Two clear pink lines. His breath hitched. Understanding dawned, slow and then blindingly bright. He dropped the block, ignoring Adebayo’s startled gurgle. He turned fully to Jessica, his eyes wide, searching hers.
"Jessica?" His voice was barely a whisper, filled with disbelief and burgeoning hope.
She nodded, her smile widening, tears sparkling in her eyes. "Another little lion cub. Or maybe a lioness this time. Due in about seven months."
A roar of pure, unadulterated joy erupted from Scar, startling Adebayo, who blinked and then let out a delighted squeal. Scar swept Jessica into his arms, lifting her off the rug, spinning her gently despite her laughing protests. He buried his face in her neck, his laughter mingling with tears of profound gratitude. "Another chance," he breathed against her skin, setting her down but holding her close. "Another miracle. You give me everything, my lioness. Everything."
He kissed her then, deep and slow, pouring all his love, his relief, his awe into the touch. Later that night, after Adebayo was asleep, their reunion was a slow, tender exploration. It wasn't the frantic claiming of the past, nor the desperate passion after Amanda’s exposure. It was a celebration of life, of their enduring bond, of the future stretching bright before them. He worshipped her body, the subtle new curve taking shape beneath his hands, whispering promises against her skin, their movements a beautiful, synchronized dance of love and creation.
Adebayo was six months old, a sturdy, curious baby with his father’s intense gaze and his mother’s gentle smile, when Jessica walked down the aisle. Not in a cathedral, but at dawn on the private, white-sand beach of a secluded Seychelles island. The guests were few but deeply cherished: Her parents, beaming with pride and tearful joy; Chioma and Ghost, holding hands; William, Kola, Musa, and a handful of Scar’s most trusted men, now truly family.
Jessica wore not a traditional white gown, but a stunning creation of layered, whisper-thin ivory silk that flowed like water around her, subtly cinched beneath her breasts to accommodate the gentle swell of her second pregnancy. Her hair was woven with fragrant frangipani blossoms. She carried a simple bouquet of tropical white orchids.
Scar waited for her beneath a canopy woven with vibrant bougainvillea and seashells, barefoot in the sand, wearing crisp white linen trousers and an open-necked ivory shirt. He held Adebayo, dressed in a tiny linen suit, who stared wide-eyed at the ocean. But as Jessica approached, guided by her father, Scar’s gaze locked onto hers. The raw love, the fierce protectiveness, the awe he’d felt holding his son for the first time – it all shone in his eyes, amplified a thousandfold. Tears tracked freely down his face as she reached him.
The ceremony was simple, profound. They spoke vows not written by anyone else, but forged in the fires they’d walked through together. Jessica promised her strength, her unwavering love, and the sanctuary of her heart. Scar vowed his protection, his absolute fidelity, and his endless gratitude for the family she’d given him. He included Adebayo in his vows, promising to be his guide, and placed a gentle hand on Jessica’s belly, whispering a promise to the child yet to come. When they kissed, the rising sun painted them in gold, the turquoise waves their witness.
Their honeymoon wasn't just a vacation; it was a month-long immersion in peace, connection, and the simple joy of being a family. They spent mornings building sandcastles with a delighted Adebayo, afternoons napping in hammocks strung between palm trees, Scar’s hand resting possessively on Jessica’s growing bump. Evenings were spent sharing fresh seafood under the stars, Adebayo asleep in a sling against Scar’s chest, Jessica leaning against his shoulder. They talked – truly talked – about their fears, their hopes, their dreams for their children. They swam in crystal-clear lagoons, explored vibrant coral reefs, and simply existed in a bubble of love, far removed from the shadows of Lagos.
One moonlit night, after settling Adebayo in the villa’s nursery, Scar led Jessica back to the beach. He spread a blanket on the sand, the only sound the gentle sigh of the waves. He pulled her down beside him, wrapping his arms around her from behind, his hands cradling her belly. He rested his chin on her shoulder, looking out at the vast, star-strewn ocean.
"From the slums of Lagos," he murmured, his voice a soft rumble against her ear, "to the devil’s mistress… to my wife. My queen. The mother of my children." He kissed her temple. "My Jessica. My sanctuary."
Jessica leaned back into his embrace, covering his hands with hers on her belly, feeling the tiny flutter within. She looked up at the endless sky, then back at the sleeping villa where their son dreamed. "Our sanctuary, Sebastian," she whispered, turning her head to capture his lips in a tender kiss under the watchful moon. "Built together. Forged in fire. Found in love."
The Lion had found his true kingdom – not in fear or territory, but in the boundless, fiercely protected love of his lioness and their cubs. The Devil’s Mistress had become the Queen of his heart, and their story, scarred but unbreakable, was only just beginning. The future stretched before them, bright as the dawn over the Indian Ocean, filled with the promise of peace, family, and the enduring strength of a love that had conquered hell itself.
THE END

Nigerian Singer, 𝗨𝗴𝗼𝗰𝗰𝗶𝗲 Lends Her Voice Against The K!lling Of Innocent Babies In Benue State

Injustice against one, They say, is injustice against all and it is a good thing that our Celebrities are using their huge platforms to speak for the masses.

Afrobeats Singer Ugoccie condemned The Massacre of over 200 innocent people in Benue State.

Ugoccie disclosed that she came across the live video made by Nigerian activist VDM to cover the incident and it traumatized her to the point that her entire day was Ruined because of it.

It is terrible that someone would have the heart to hurt innocent babies not to mention burning them alive

This Should Be condemned by all. Say A prayer for Benue State . No one deserves this level of human cruelty against his own kind

Moral Lesson: To you That Is Reading this, May God Not Allow You And Your Family Be Victims of Any Kind . Amen

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