PROLOGUE — “Smoke Over the Lagoon”

(Lagos, Nigeria – 1992)(Lagos, Nigeria – 1992)

The night air in Lagos carried the weight of diesel, salt, and secrets. The Lagoon shimmered under half-dead streetlights, and the hum of generators filled the gaps between silence and danger.

At the far end of Obalende, a small nightclub called The Velvet Drum pulsed with low saxophone notes. Men in linen suits smoked cigarettes that burned too slow, and women laughed too loud — the kind of laughter that hides hunger.

Amara Nwokedi walked through the back door like she owned the place, even though everyone knew she didn’t. She wore a black silk dress that clung to her like sweat in the heat. She wasn’t from money, but she had learned how to make money talk for her.

Behind the bar, Chike Madueke wiped glasses and watched her from the corner of his eye. His face was cut from hard work — wide jaw, quiet eyes, a scar near his temple that people said came from a deal gone wrong in Apapa.

“Evening, Miss Amara,” he said, his voice smooth but carrying the grit of a man who’d seen too much for his age.

“Don’t ‘Miss’ me, Chike. You make it sound like I’m someone’s schoolteacher,” she replied, leaning on the counter. “Pour me the whiskey. The one from Chicago — not the local fire.”

He hesitated, then reached under the counter for a dusty bottle of Jim Beam, imported through less-than-honest means.

“You keep ordering that,” Chike said. “You’ll have to marry the man who smuggles it in.”

Amara smiled — the kind of smile that could open vaults or close hearts. “Maybe I already did.”

A pause. Music swelled. Somewhere outside, a gunshot cracked like a firework, followed by the familiar rush of footsteps and shouts. Nobody inside flinched. Lagos nightlife had its own soundtrack — chaos, muffled by laughter.

Amara sipped her drink, eyes on the door. “He’s late again,” she murmured.

Chike looked up. “Who?”

Before she could answer, the door opened. A tall man stepped in, flanked by two others in dark suits. Tunde Adeyemi — Lagos’s most feared broker in stolen cars, diamond routes, and dreams.

“Amara,” he said, voice smooth as tar. “You look like sin I can’t afford tonight.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Then why are you here, Tunde?”

He leaned in close. “Because, my love, I just closed a deal with some men from Johannesburg. And I think we’re about to own half of Africa.”

Amara glanced at Chike, who froze behind the bar, hiding his reaction. He had heard rumors — about a diamond syndicate, about blood money moving through ports, about a betrayal being planned.

“Johannesburg?” Amara said softly. “That’s a long way from here.”

Tunde nodded. “That’s why you’re coming with me.”

The saxophone wailed again, long and low, as if the city itself sighed.

In that moment — before the flight, before the diamonds, before Chicago and New York — Amara didn’t yet know that every man in that room w

ould either die for her, or because of her.