That night, long after the call with Haruni and the embers in the fireplace had dimmed to a dull orange glow, Zarki rose from the chair where he dozed off. He stood slowly, as though carrying the weight of centuries on his shoulders. The silence around him was deafening. Even the wind outside seemed to pause, unsure whether to whisper or wail.
He couldn't stay in that house. Not tonight.
He called no guard, summoned no driver. Zarki simply threw on his long black overcoat lined with camel fur, took his cane, not because he needed it, but because it made him look like the legend he had become, and walked out. Past the astonished doormen, through the empty courtyard, across the wide gates that guarded the house of the most powerful man in Wamboli.
He didn't head to town. He turned toward the hills, toward the castle no one visited anymore, the one he built during his fabled rise to power. It was a monument, really. A lonely stone giant carved into the cliffs, draped in vines and mist. Locals called it Barlan Gudu "The House of Thoughts." And tonight, that was what Zarki needed.
As he drove himself along the winding path in his ancient Mercedes, the one Combo used to polish with a toothbrush just to make it shine brighter, memories came flooding back. Combo's laugh. Combo's loyalty. Combo's fierce protection of the Zarki name. His right hand. His brother, even if not by blood. And now Combo was dust.
When Zarki reached the stone steps of the castle, the gates creaked open like they'd been waiting. Inside, the air was thick with time. Cobwebs on gold-plated chandeliers. Echoes of a past too grand to die. He walked up to the tallest tower, the observatory, and stood there in silence. Staring at the stars.
That was when the doubt crept in. Was he truly doing the right thing? Was it noble or mad to tie his entire legacy to a race for childbirth? Was he about to unleash chaos on women who, for all their flaws, had once loved him in their own crooked ways?
He stayed there till the sky turned pink.
Then, with a sudden surge of resolve, he got back into his car and turned around.
This time, he drove to a modest neighborhood on the edge of Wamboli, the home of the late Combo Kura. It was a house Zarki had built for him after their first million-dollar deal. A strong house, with a lion statue at the entrance and a fence of polished cedar. But now it looked faded, touched by grief.
Zarki parked and stepped out. The air here felt heavier. Neighbors peeked through curtains. Children froze mid-play. A silent reverence followed him as he walked to the front door.
Combo's widow opened it herself. Her eyes were swollen, not just from tears but from the kind of crying that breaks your bones. She gasped when she saw him, not from surprise, but awe. Zarki had not visited for days.
She dropped into a deep, trembling bow.
"Rise," Zarki said, lifting her with both hands. "You are the wife of Combo. My brother. You bow to no one."
He entered the house. It smelled of earth, sorrow, and boiling porridge. Combo's youngest children sat in the parlor, two boys and a girl, all dressed in navy-blue uniforms, their bags stacked beside the sofa like little monuments of hope.
Zarki didn't speak at first. He looked at each child. Then, he slowly lowered himself into the armchair that used to be Combo's. The room fell silent.
"I have come," Zarki began, "not as a visitor, but as blood."
The children sat straighter. "Combo served me not like a man serves a master, but like a heart serves the body. His loyalty breathed life into everything I built. Without him, I am a castle with no guards, a king with no scepter."
He turned to Combo's wife. "You were his queen. And now you are a queen in mourning. But you will not be left behind."
Tears welled in her eyes. She tried to speak but Zarki raised a finger.
"I am not here to pity you," he said. "I am here to make you ready."
He pulled out a leather pouch from under his coat and tossed it on the center table. It hit the wood with a weight that spoke of gold. The children gasped. Combo's wife's hands trembled.
"That," Zarki said, "is just the beginning."
He spent the next two hours teaching them what most men guard with their lives, how his businesses operated, where the money came from and where it went, how shares were split, which partners to trust and which to watch like snakes. He gave them names, figures, passwords. He drew diagrams on Combo's wall calendar. Even the children took notes, wide-eyed, as though learning the secrets of a buried kingdom.
He said to Combo's children, "You all must learn to speak the language of power."
He turned to Combo's wife. "You are not just a widow. You are now the custodian of legacy. Do not let pity bury your dignity. Raise these children like Combo would have."
She nodded, her hands over her mouth to keep from sobbing aloud.
Then Zarki stood. He walked to the door, paused, and looked back at Combo's family after the visit.
He left without waiting for applause, praise, or even thanks. It wasn't needed. What he had given was not charity. It was a restoration of balance.
As he stepped into his car and drove away from the neighborhood, the sun broke through the clouds at last.
But even the warmth of the morning did nothing to ease the storm brewing in his heart, for he knew that while he had revived one house, five more were preparing for war.
Zarki poured himself a glass of old whisky after he arrived his estate, lit a cigar, and sat alone on the veranda. Each sip burned, each drag clouded his mind. He drank and smoked not for pleasure, but to silence the war within.