Teni knew too much. And Baba Kòfó—he was the root of this problem. He had to have told her. There was no other way she could have known. Deòlu had been careful, meticulous, making sure no one ever saw her on those cursed Wednesday nights.
Her heartbeat drummed against her ribs. The thought of people whispering, laughing behind her back, calling her names—no, she wouldn’t allow it. If Teni was planning to use this against her, she would regret it.
She picked up her phone and dialed a number of her go to go deal man that has been working for her for years. The line rang twice before a deep voice answered.
“She’s still running her mouth?”
Deòlu exhaled slowly. “She’s becoming a problem. And she knows too much.”
A small chuckle on the other end. “And the other one?”
“He’s useless to me now.”
There was silence, then, “Consider it done.”
Deòlu ended the call and placed her phone down gently on the marble table. She took another sip of her wine and leaned back against the velvet chair. By morning, this problem would be gone.
The night was quiet when the two men parked a black SUV a few blocks from Teni’s apartment. They had followed her from the club, watching as she laughed with her driver before stepping into the compound. She had no idea she was being hunted.
The plan was simple—wait until she was inside, then strike. Quick. Clean. No noise.
Meanwhile, the second team had already arrived at Baba Kòfó’s shrine, deep in the outskirts of Lagos. They moved swiftly through the overgrown path, their footsteps silent. The plan was even simpler there—go in, take him out, burn everything.
But things rarely go as planned.
Teni’s driver had been watching. The moment he noticed the SUV that had been tailing them since Victoria Island, he made a call. Not to Teni. Not to the security guards at her estate.
To the police.
At the same time, Baba Kòfó, a man who had spent decades making deals with spirits and desperate souls, had already sensed something was coming. He had abandoned his shrine that evening, leaving nothing behind but a few burning candles and an eerie silence.
The men barely had time to react before the blinding glare of flashlights surrounded them.
“Drop your weapons!” a voice barked.
Gunshots cracked through the night, but it was over before it even began. They were outnumbered. The police dragged them to the ground, their hands twisted behind their backs.
By the time their phones were searched, the messages were found. The money transfers. The voice recordings. The orders.
Everything led back to one name.
Deòlu.
She was lounging on her plush sofa when her phone rang again. She picked it up lazily, a satisfied smirk already forming.
But the moment she heard the voice on the other end, everything in her body went still.
“They got them.”
She sat up sharply. “What?”
“The hitmen. The police have them. Deòlu, they have proof.”
The phone almost slipped from her fingers.
Her heart pounded so hard she could barely hear herself breathe.
Proof.
She could already see the headlines. Ikoyi Socialite Linked to Murder Plot. Lagos Queenpin Exposed. The whispers, the rumors, the downfall.
She shot to her feet, pacing, her mind racing.
She had to run. No, that would make her look guilty. Deny everything? The evidence was too strong.
And then—
A knock.
Loud. Sharp. Unforgiving.
Her blood ran cold.
She turned, and through the glass door of her penthouse, she saw them.
Police officers.
Standing. Waiting.
She swallowed hard, her entire body shaking as reality crashed over her.
She had played the game for too long.
Now, it was playing her.
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