Kartavya's Pov

I was resting on the bed, thinking about the Russian deal.

For some reason, whenever I thought about it, only one person came to mind — Dharini.

Of course, I had seen her at the restaurant. Was she still working there after I fired her? Of course she would — she needed a job. But hadn’t she found work at another company yet? How quickly could she have gotten another position?

My mind wandered through all the positive and negative possibilities before I forced myself to focus again. The Russian deal was important — not just for the company’s profit, but for the far greater gains it could bring to my illegal business.

As that thought settled, the scene from the day before yesterday replayed in my mind.

Yesterday’s Scene

The door to my cabin opened without a knock. Someone walked in and sat down casually in front of me.

It was none other than my friend, Pratik Rajvansh — a lawyer by profession, but far more involved in my world than most people realized.

“You didn’t even call me when you arrived,” he said, leaning back in the chair.

I smirked. “I came only yesterday. And you’re already here today complaining that I didn’t call? Seriously? Anyway, I was planning to come to your place this evening.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but let it pass.

“So,” he asked, “why are you suddenly here? Is there a problem with the company?”

I looked at him for a moment before answering.

“The Russian company offered me a deal — a cybersecurity project. If it goes well, the profits will be huge.”

He nodded, but I continued, lowering my voice.

“And the legal profit isn’t the important part. The real gain will be for the illegal side of the business.”

Pratik’s expression sharpened. He knew exactly what I meant — he was involved in that world too.

“What kind of profit for the underworld business?” he asked.

“Connections,” I said. “The company is linked to the Russian mafia. If this deal succeeds, we could build ties with them… maybe even form an alliance.”

He leaned back slowly, absorbing the idea.

“So you’re saying the Russian mafia could become our allies?”

I shrugged, a faint smirk on my face. “Maybe. Or maybe not.”

He held my gaze. “You know the Italian mafia and the Russians already have connections… maybe even deeper relationships.”

I paused, meeting his eyes.

“Connections and relationships,” I said quietly, “can break the moment one side decides to switch loyalties.”

The smirk returned to my face.

“So you’re saying we’ll break whatever connections or relationships exist between the Russians and the Italian mafia?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

I gave a faint smile. “Maybe we can.”

He shook his head and let out a short laugh. “No wonder bhai calls you a wolf. You’re that cunning.”

He sank deeper into the chair, then added, “You said you were coming home. When?”

I glanced at the file in front of me — most of the work was already finished.

“Fifteen minutes,” I replied.

He smiled. “Alright then. I’ll take the car out from the parking. But come fast — I won’t wait too long.”

I nodded and returned to studying the file while Pratik walked out of the cabin.

When I finally finished, we drove to his home — though calling it his home never felt accurate. It was mine too in many ways; I had spent more time there than anywhere else.

It wasn’t just a house. It was a palace — the pride of Rajasthan — home to the Rajvansh family and ruled by Pratik’s elder brother, Anubhav Rajvansh.

A famous industrialist.

A respected name in business circles.

And, in quieter shadows, a legend of the underworld.

Who didn’t know the name Anubhav Rajvansh?

As I stepped inside, a strange familiarity wrapped around me — part comfort, part respect, and something close to awe.

As I entered, Prapti Aunty, who was no less than a second mother to me, saw me and immediately came forward to hug me.

She called everyone to the hall, and one by one they gathered around, greeting me with warm hugs. Just as I had said — this house felt like mine, and so did the people in it, no matter how far away I went.

Then came Shivam Uncle, to whom I was deeply attached. Before my own father, it was his presence that shaped me — not because I loved my father any less, but because I had spent more time with Shivam Uncle than with anyone else growing up.

And then he arrived — my idol, Anubhav Rajvansh.

He was like an elder brother to me. Of course, he was Shaurya bhai’s best friend, but he had never treated me as anything less than family.

In the underworld, I worked under him — his right hand — but here, in this house, he was simply someone I looked up to with deep respect.

Then came the chaos itself — Drishti Rajvansh.

Her voice filled the palace before she even appeared. She was the youngest among all of us, yet everyone’s favorite — and perhaps my favorite too.

Soon after, Dhruv Uncle and Anubhuti arrived. I hugged them both warmly.

After greeting everyone, I asked about Pratikshit.

Aunty smiled and said, “He’s gone out with his friends.”

I nodded quietly.

After meeting everyone inside, the atmosphere had been unexpectedly warm.

Too warm.

Respectful greetings. Measured smiles. Polite conversations.

But warmth in powerful families is rarely simple. It always carries history.

Now I stood in the garden with Shivam Uncle.

The evening air was calm. Soft light stretched across the lawn as pigeons gathered near his feet. He fed them slowly, deliberately.

Looking at him, no one would guess the strength he carried.

Not the physical kind.

The kind that survives betrayal.

He had raised Anubhav and Anubhuti alone. Balanced reputation, legacy, and scandal in one steady hand. There was always a quiet loneliness around him — the kind that doesn’t ask for sympathy.

I had never seen his wife.

The former Queen.

There were rumors. Endless ones. That she had left him for another man. That she had abandoned Anubhav when he was still a boy.

I remember being a teenager when Anubhav bhai had once fought with his classmates over those rumors. He never denied them.

He just broke someone’s nose.

Reality? Only the elders truly knew.

“Uncle, how are you?” I asked softly.

He looked up at me and smiled — calm, unreadable.

“I’m good,” he said. “But you tell me. You were supposed to return after two years. What changed?”

I inhaled slowly.

“Work,” I replied. “A Russian deal. It’s large. Profitable. And… strategic.”

He stopped feeding the pigeons.

Strategic.

That word carried weight between us.

“It could give us strong leverage,” I continued carefully. “And possibly… connections to the underworld.”

He stared at me.

Not angry.

Just assessing.

The silence stretched for several seconds before he spoke.

“Do you really believe the Russian mafia would betray the Italian mafia?”

His tone was calm.

But the question wasn’t.

I held his gaze.

Of course I knew.

He had introduced us to that world long ago.

Shivam Uncle wasn’t just an elder.

He was once a former Indian mafia leader.

He had stepped away from that life publicly, but shadows never truly disappear.

I had grown up watching deals whispered instead of spoken. Power measured in silence instead of noise.

“I know the risks,” I said quietly.

He nodded once.

“Do you?” he asked again, softer.

The pigeons fluttered briefly before settling.

“You’re walking into a battlefield disguised as business,” he continued. “Russian and Italian networks don’t simply coexist. They calculate. They test loyalty. And when betrayal happens… it’s never small.”

His eyes searched mine.

“You’ve built something powerful, Kartavya. Don’t let ambition blind you.”

I felt a flicker of irritation.

“It’s not ambition,” I replied. “It’s expansion.”

He gave a faint smile.

“That’s what ambition always calls itself.”

The words hit deeper than I expected.

The garden suddenly felt quieter.

More exposed.

“You remind me of your father,” he added softly.

That made my jaw tighten.

“In what way?” I asked carefully.

“In the way you chase control,” he said. “And the way you hate weakness.”

The breeze shifted.

I didn’t respond.

Because part of me knew he wasn’t wrong.

After a moment, he resumed feeding the pigeons.

“You think you’re choosing strategy,” he said quietly. “But make sure you’re not choosing war.”

And for the first time that evening, the Russian deal didn’t feel like opportunity.

It felt like a line being drawn.

Present

Now, I understand what he meant.

At least… I think I do.

Maybe this deal isn’t just about expansion.

Maybe it isn’t just about power.

Maybe it is connected to the mystery that unfolded years ago — the one no one speaks about openly, but everyone remembers in silence.

The disappearance.

The betrayal.

The war that never officially happened.

For years, pieces of that story never fit together.

And now… the Russians.

The Italians.

Old alliances shifting.

It doesn’t feel like coincidence anymore.

It feels like something unfinished returning.

I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

The room is quiet, but my mind isn’t.

If this deal connects to the past… then I’m not just negotiating business.

I might be reopening wounds that never healed.

The thought is unsettling.

But strangely…

It also feels necessary.

Because some mysteries don’t fade with time.

They wait.

And maybe — just maybe — this is the moment the truth begins to surface.

With that thought lingering heavy in my chest, exhaustion finally pulls me under.

And I fall asleep — not peacefully.

But with questions.