As soon as Malachi and Miguel stepped into the grandeur of the Pegasus Hotel's foyer, a wave of excited whispers washed over them.

"Oh My God, look!"

"It's the Shaka brothers!"

Girls squealed, their faces lit up by the flash of camera phones as they tried to capture a glimpse of the famous siblings.

Even young boys, their eyes wide with awe, reached out for autographs, their small hands clutching tattered pieces of paper.

Malachi, ever conscious of his aversion to germs, found himself awkwardly navigating this sea of eager fans.

He gave a quick nod and a forced smile to each outstretched hand, while Bianca discreetly guided him through the throng.

He winced inwardly at the near-misses with small sticky fingers and whispered urgently to Miguel, "Can we just get to the reception?"

They finally reached the ballroom doors, the music, and laughter from within spilling out into the foyer.

As they entered, the scene shifted from youthful exuberance to hushed respect.

The air hummed with a mix of polished wood and faint floral arrangements, underscored by the melodic strains of a string quartet playing softly in the corner.

A sea of well-dressed dignitaries began to gravitate towards them, each wearing expressions that skillfully balanced sympathy and diplomatic decorum.

Malachi felt the uncomfortable weight of their gazes, a sensation akin to being pinned under a microscope.

Leading this formidable group was Senator Jackson, renowned for his polished demeanor as much as his political acumen.

He extended a hand warmly, his voice a well-rehearsed, low murmur.

"Malachi, Miguel, I was deeply saddened to hear of your father's passing.

He was truly a remarkable man."

Malachi, his inner monologue a flurry of "Why is he touching me?" and "I swear people need to learn to keep their hands to themselves," offered only a terse nod.

His handshake was a mere brush of the fingertips, executed with the utmost brevity before he withdrew, already feeling a rising discomfort.

"Yeah, thanks," he muttered, his eyes darting around the room, eager to find an escape from the social niceties that weighed on him like an unwelcome burden.

Miguel, ever the diplomat, responded with gracious ease, his handshake firm and his gaze steady.

"Thank you, Senator Jackson. Your words mean a lot to us during this time."

His sincerity served as an unspoken bridge, connecting him with a genuine appreciation for those around him.

Noticing the imperceptible tension rising from Malachi, Bianca subtly edged closer, her presence a calming influence.

Her hand found its way to his side, delivering a gentle but unmistakable pinch meant to urge caution.

She turned towards him, whispering just loud enough for only him to hear, "Do you want to give the family a bad name?"

With Bianca's subtle nudge, Malachi managed to rein in his unease, choosing to engage more civilly with those who had gathered to pay their respects.

As the crowd slowly dispersed, the brothers finally found a moment of calm, settling at a nearby table.

As they relaxed, an announcer stepped to the podium, their voice resonating throughout the room.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention.

We are honored to be joined by Malachi and Miguel of the esteemed Shaka clan.

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We express our deepest condolences for their loss and our gratitude for the countless contributions their family has made to the island."

With a subtle nod of shared understanding, the brothers raised their champagne glasses.

The announcer greeted the crowd with a warm welcome and mentioned that the prime minister was about to give his greeting.

As the prime minister approached the podium, you couldn't miss him in his sharp black suit, glasses, neatly cut hair, and noticeably big nose.

Malachi, meanwhile, was busy inspecting his glass but then glanced up, did a double take, and said, "Wait, he's still the prime minister?

I swear, they need to start electing younger people."

Bianca and Miguel shot Malachi a look, and Bianca, through gritted teeth, whispered, "Shut up."

Meanwhile, the prime minister grabbed everyone's attention with an upbeat, "How's everybody doing?

I see you all dressed nicely," which got the crowd laughing.

Then he got to the heart of things, saying, "We've made history.

We freed ourselves, and now we're a standalone nation."

The crowd erupted into applause.

"No more Queen—who needs a say more?

In 30 days, our clans are meeting to establish a link with the clans of the Greater Antilles, all for the benefit of our people."

Malachi, always quick to voice his random thoughts, blurted out, "Doesn't seem like a good idea."

He continued, "I mean, rushing into alliances without knowing the full picture could backfire."

With that, he took a sip of his drink, as if to wash down the thought.

Deon, dressed in a stylish green suit with his arms casually out of his jacket, jumped into the conversation with a mischievous grin.

His locs were tied up in a bun, the sides of his head shaved, and a few locs hung over his shoulder adorned with gold clips at the ends.

"Really, Malachi? You think it's a bad idea?" he teased.

"Think about it—forming alliances could give us the upper hand we've been missing.

We'd have new resources, more support... or are you too scared of a little change?"

He was enjoying the moment, stirring the pot with his sharp counterargument.

Malachi set his glass down sharply, fixing Deon with a steely gaze.

"Negro please," he retorted, his voice cutting through the room's chatter.

"It's narrow-minded attitudes like yours that push away those who could guide us.

Many in the Caribbean look skeptically at Jamaica, while our prime minister is more fascinated with money than meaningful progress.

He'd sell us out if it meant lining his pockets."

He nodded towards the podium where promises flowed freely.

"Change is needed, but not the nonsense these so-called leaders offer."

Malachi paused the weight of his grandfather's legacy clear in his stance.

"We're not here just to uphold old reputations.

This is our time to lead, to be the change our elders hoped for."

His words hung in the air, leaving Deon silent and the room reflective, aware that new leaders were stepping onto the scene.

Bianca's jaw clenched, a smile blooming on her face.

Her head bobbed, a nervous tic.

Miguel clapped Malachi on the back, his hand heavy.

"Albert Einstein himself couldn't have said it better!"

The music started, a lively beat filling the ballroom. Bianca, noticing the group of elite guests observing Malachi from behind, subtly moved closer.

She whispered, "Malachi, dance?"

Miguel's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Malachi, initially hesitant, began, "Nah, I'm—"

Before he could finish, Miguel subtly faked a cough, his hand briefly disappearing inside his collar.

Malachi gave Miguel a look of bewildered annoyance, mouthing, "What the heck are you doing?" He then changed his mind, a smile spreading across his face. "On second thought," he said.

Bianca, seizing the opportunity, grasped his hand and pulled him onto the dance floor.

On the dance floor, as the soft music enveloped them, she wrapped her arms around his neck with a tender familiarity.

He swallowed nervously, his bottom lip folding under his teeth, a small "hmph" escaping as he tried to contain his uncertainty.

They were eye to eye, her smile warm and inviting.

"What?" he managed to ask, trying to mirror her ease.

"What do you mean, what?" she teased gently. "Would you rather I just not make eye contact?"

He glanced away for a moment, a bashful smile tugging at his lips. "No, no," he replied quickly, spotting a guy in a black and white suit dancing with a girl nearby.

The guy nodded at Malachi in camaraderie, and Malachi nodded back before returning his gaze to her.

"Mal, are you okay?" she asked, concern underlying her gentle tone.

"Yeah, I am," he replied, though the words felt thin.

"For real, Mal, are you okay?" she pressed, sincerity in her voice.

"I'm good. Are you good?" he deflected, lightly.

"Don't ask me because I asked you," she retorted softly, understanding yet insistent. "I asked because I know what it's like to lose someone, and you just lost your father."

He spun her around gracefully, the world blurring past in a whirl of colors. "Honestly, I'm a mess," he admitted, a weight lifting slightly as the truth spilled out. "Not only that, everybody expects me to be like him. Plus, I look exactly like him."

Her eyes softened, offering a beacon of light in his storm of doubt. "You can be your own man, Malachi. Make a name for yourself—not just as Shaka or your father's son. Be the man you're meant to be."

Those words found a place in his heart, and he held onto them fiercely. She rested her head against his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat as if it played the melody of his true self.

"Do that," she whispered, "and that's the kind of man I like."

He liked the sound of that reassurance. "Oh, so you do like me," he teased, a hint of confidence seeping in.

She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with amusement, but then her gaze shifted to the massive window.

A blurry figure moved over the glass outside.

"What was that?" she asked, a flicker of alarm in her voice.

He followed her gaze, heart racing, but before he could react, there was a deafening explosion.

The wall shattered, and debris slammed into Malachi's head, the world going dark as he was knocked out.

To be continued .…