Third person's POV.

Meanwhile the Amina people were trying to get a hold of in the other side of Abuja.

The office Amina sat in was impressive, to say the least. It was large, with high ceilings and a wide, expansive window that let in just the right amount of light. The furniture was modern but not too flashy—everything in the room exuded sophistication and understated wealth. The desk, made of dark mahogany, was positioned in the center of the room, commanding attention without dominating the space. On the wall behind the desk, a large painting of a serene Italian landscape added a touch of old-world charm to the contemporary setting.

Amina sat on one of the plush visitors's chairs, her legs crossed as she waited. Her eyes wandered around the room, carefully observing everything without touching anything. There was a glass cabinet to the side, filled with various awards and plaques, each one glinting in the soft light. She stood up and moved toward it, squinting slightly as she tried to read the inscriptions. Some of the awards seemed almost legitimate, but others made her raise an eyebrow in skepticism.

"These can't be real," she muttered to herself, noting some obscure categories she had never heard of. She was particularly puzzled by one award, "Best Innovative Solutions for Sustainable Growth in Emerging Markets." It sounded impressive, but she was certain it belonged to someone else—or maybe it was one of those bought accolades. She was just about to roll her eyes when the door to the office swung open, and in walked the man she had been waiting for.

He paused in the doorway, his gaze locking onto her with an intensity that made her heart skip a beat. He was tall, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit that hugged his athletic frame just right. His gray hair was perfectly styled, a striking contrast to his youthful face, which could easily pass for a man in his late twenties. But she knew better; she knew he was on the brink of forty, yet he carried himself with the vitality and confidence of a man much younger.

The man closed the door behind him and walked over to his desk, his eyes never leaving hers. Amina quickly stepped away from the cabinet, abandoning her scrutiny of the awards, and returned to her seat. She could feel his gaze on her as she settled into the chair, and for a moment, they simply stared at each other.

"Assalam alaikum," Amina greeted him, her voice calm and composed despite the butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

"Wa alaikum as salam," he replied, his voice deep and rich, resonating in the room like a well-played cello.

Amina found herself getting lost in his eyes for a brief moment. He was a man of contradictions—aging yet timeless, powerful yet gentle, commanding yet approachable. She couldn't help but admire how well he had aged, his gray hair adding to his allure rather than detracting from it. She had never thought gray hair could look this good on someone, but here was living proof that it could. He was nothing short of beautiful, a masterpiece of God's creation, and she would have told him so if it hadn't been completely inappropriate.

She quickly pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on why she was here. "What brings you here, Yameena?" he asked, using that nickname she usually detests but somehow doesn't mind coming from him. The way he said it, with that smooth accent, made it sound almost like a term of endearment. She smiled, despite herself.

His smile in return was brief, but it softened his features, making him look even more disarming. Even the secretary, who had been standing at the far end of the office, was taken aback. She gasped softly, her eyes widening in shock—she had never seen her boss smile like that before. He noticed the reaction, and his smile quickly faded as he remembered they weren't alone. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the secretary, who left the room quietly, still in disbelief.

Amina leaned forward slightly in her chair, getting straight to the point. "Did you do what I asked of you?" she inquired. Her tone was businesslike, but it still managed to have that childish edge to it.

"Yes," he replied without hesitation, his eyes steady on hers. "I told you I'd do anything for you, no matter what." His voice was warm, almost affectionate, and it sent a shiver down her spine. But she knew better.

He reached into the first drawer of his desk and pulled out a pink envelope, handing it to her. The sight of the envelope made her laugh—a sound that was light and genuine. "You made it pink because I asked you to?" she asked, her laughter bubbling over as she tried to keep it under control.

He watched her with a soft smile, clearly pleased with her reaction. "You asked for it, and what you want, you shall receive," he said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Amina's laughter slowly died down, and she looked at him for a moment longer, a smile still lingering on her lips. "Thank you," she said sincerely, appreciating not just the gesture but the effort behind it.

He nodded in acknowledgment, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners as he smiled again. There was a comfortable silence between them before Amina's curiosity got the better of her. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. "So, those awards... they aren't real, are they?"

He chuckled, clearly amused by her question. "Why do you ask, Cara Mia?" The way he slipped into Italian so effortlessly made her heart do a little flip. She knew he was half-Italian, and the way the language rolled off his tongue was nothing short of mesmerizing.

"They look fake," she replied, shrugging lightly. "And some I've seen other people receive."

His amusement deepened, and he shook his head slightly. "I'd advise you to get your eyes checked, Cara Mia, because you didn't read them correctly. Half of those awards I didn't receive in Nigeria, and the other half, well, I don't even know how I got them. I am a lot of things, Carina, but fake isn't one of them."

Amina believed him, but she didn't voice it out. Instead, she just smiled and shook her head. "Old man mai swagga," she teased, using the Hausa phrase that always seemed to make him laugh.

And laugh he did; the sound was rich and full of life. She loved making him laugh, even if he always laughed at her attempts to speak Hausa. To him, her Hausa was hopeless, but she didn't care—she had always reminded him that she was Kanuri, not Hausa. She would always say, "Ni ba bahaushiya bace fa, kanuriya ce," which would make him laugh even more.

She watched him laugh for a few moments, enjoying the sight of him so relaxed and carefree. But eventually, she straightened up and announced her intention to leave. "I should be going."

"Let me take you home, please," he said, his tone suddenly serious. The way he said "please" made something in her chest tighten, and she found herself nodding in agreement without a second thought.

Together, they walked out of the office, side by side. The employees they passed along the way exchanged curious glances, whispering to each other as they observed the pair. He led her to his car—a sleek, black Aston Martin that gleamed under the late afternoon sun. The drive was smooth and quiet, the car's engine purring like a contented cat as it cut through the streets.

When they finally arrived at her home, Amina unbuckled her seatbelt and turned to him with a small smile. "It was nice doing business with you, Mr. Mushin Montanari."

He returned her smile, a touch of something warm and unspoken in his eyes. "Likewise. And if you ever need anything—anything at all—I am just one call away. Don't hesitate to call for me. I love it when you need me. Run to me, Carina; run to me when the world gets mean to you," he replied with a small smile, his voice wrapping around the Italian words like a caress. He knew she needed the assurance, and he meant every single thing he had uttered, and she knew it. She believed him.

With that, Amina stepped out of the car, her heart feeling unexpectedly light as she walked toward the huge gate leading to her home. She stared at the Aston Martin pull away, disappearing down the street. She turned to walk when she noticed their gateman ogling at the car just like she was, and she laughed, which caught his attention.

"Kana ganin mota Alaji," she said to the young man who laughed together with her. It sure was one hell of a car.