The Redemption (Political Romance Universe #6)

PROLOGUE

RAGHAV

Josh Club – Juhu, Mumbai

Something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones… even before I see them.

I’m at the Josh club, sitting in the shadows, nursing a drink.

The bass-heavy music thrums loudly against the patterned walls, each beat pulsing harder than the last. Couples lean too close in dimly lit corners, while bartenders move behind the counter with practised ease, pouring drinks and sliding glasses across the polished wooden bar.

Laughter fills the room, some genuine, the rest just played along to keep the table pleased.

A group of college kids argue unnecessarily over a game of pool, while neon lights flicker faintly above the bar, splashing the space in bold, bright colours.

Everything looks normal. But I know… it’s not. I’ve lived too long in a world where even the smallest shift in the air can mean life or death. Where a glance, a pause, or even a twitch of a hand could change the outcome of the night.

Tonight, even the music in my AirPods, the same escape I always rely on to ease my stress, fails me. Instead of calming me down, the rhythm grates under my skin. And that’s when I know, with a bone-deep certainty, that something is definitely wrong. Or about to be.

My fraternal twin Ayaan and I are as different as chalk and cheese. He thrives in chaos, while I crave quiet. But there’s one thing we share: this uncanny sixth sense.

The ability to smell danger before it bares its teeth.

And tonight, the air reeks of it.

Just then, the door opens, and four broad-shouldered, unmistakably dangerous-looking men enter in black suits.

They are not the type who blend into the shadows, but the kind who carve fear into them.

They definitely don’t belong here. Yet within seconds, they are spread out across the club like wolves circling their prey, their eyes sweeping the room carefully, looking for someone.

One of them is constantly whispering into a phone while the others are hunting.

Who are they here for?

Me?

Maybe.

Pretending to ignore them, I swirl the amber liquid in my glass and take a slow sip. It’s strong. Just how I need it tonight. Something that burns on the way down my throat. Because the meeting I had earlier today didn’t end the way I’d expected. And I hate loose ends.

I shift in my seat, easing back into the shadows of the corner booth.

To anyone watching, I probably look like a calm, detached man enjoying his drink, dressed in an expensive black silk shirt and worn denim, with sleeves rolled to his elbows.

But beneath the surface, my every muscle is strung tight.

That’s the way I am. No matter how hard I try, the Dark Prince inside me isn’t dead yet. He only sleeps.

Almost two years ago, I killed my father, Tej Khurana, the kingpin of the Bat Mafia Syndicate. That was my last act in the mafia world. The final nail in Raghav Khurana’s coffin.

That night, drenched in grief and anger, I made a promise to myself. To bury that name with him, forever. The name Khurana no longer exists for me.

Now, I’m Raghav Kundra. Son of late Rukmini Kundra. Owner and heir of RK Estate, my mother’s prized vineyards. This was her dream. Her pristine, white empire. And now, its responsibility rests on my shoulders.

The RK Estate is tucked away in the lush Shivtara Valley of Himachal Pradesh, surrounded by rolling hills blanketed with endless green vines.

Tourists flock in hordes for exclusive wine tastings, luxurious resort stays, and curated vineyard tours.

They sip their wine, laugh freely, and flood their social media with picture-perfect sunsets over the valley.

For them, it’s a paradise. An escape.

But for me, it’s more than that. It’s a sanctuary.

I hide there in plain sight. An ex-mafia prince, now playing a vineyard Prince.

But the truth is, no matter how many barrels of wine you produce, no matter how many masks you wear, the darkness of the underworld never truly leaves you. Blood once spilled doesn’t wash away. It dries. And it stays.

My thoughts snap back to the present. My body appears deceptively relaxed, one hand loosely cradling the glass of whiskey while the other rests on the table.

That’s the trick. Look calm. Stay alert.

But my eyes are everywhere, scanning the room, always analysing for any potential threats.

They say old habits die hard. But in my case, they don’t die at all.

Take the couple at the next table, for instance.

Most would see them as any ordinary lovers, sneaking on a quiet night.

But I notice what others don’t. The woman, slightly older, clings to the man’s touch, as if she has been starved of affection.

The man is charming her with every word and looks convincing enough. Except for one small detail.

The faint smear of lipstick on his pristine white collar tells another story. It’s not the lipstick shade the woman across from him is wearing. This one’s darker, deeper. It’s from another woman. He’s cheating on her.

I don’t need to know these details, but I can’t ignore them either. That’s the curse of a man like me. Observation isn’t a habit. It’s survival. The mafia world trained me that way. One wrong detail, one missed weakness, and you’re dead.

Enemies don’t always need guns to kill you. They use what you hide. Your secrets, your mistakes, your careless moments. That’s why I notice them before anyone else does.

The men in black… they are drawing closer now.

One stands at the bar and pretends to order a drink, but his eyes are still hunting, still sweeping the room.

The other one moves slowly through the dance floor, his gaze far too sharp for a casual night out.

A third remains near the entrance, blocking anyone from slipping past, his hand often brushing the inside of his jacket, as if securing his gun.

And the fourth? Well, he’s walking straight towards me now. Are they here for me? Or did someone unlucky enough cross their path tonight? I hate probabilities. But I can’t tick off the thought that these men could be hunting me.

I may have buried Raghav Khurana… the name, the legacy, the son who killed his own father to sever ties with the underworld.

But ghosts have a way of being persistent.

And enemies don’t forgive. So, if these men really did come looking for me, they’ll know soon enough what a grave mistake they are about to make.

Because the truth is simple. You can’t kill what was born in darkness. You can only cage it.

And… this cage is starting to crack.

I study the men again, more carefully this time and notice the slight bulge under their coats. A flash of a nozzle is carelessly hidden. They’re armed. And they’re closing in.

Quietly, I slide the fork off my table and curl it into my palm, adjusting it in my fingers until it sits like a weapon. Crude, yes. But in the right hands, it can do enough damage. If they’re here for me, then tonight will end in blood. And it won’t be mine.

I finish the last of my whiskey in one gulp, the burn of it anchoring me for the storm I know is seconds away.

My grip tightens on the fork as the man reaches closer.

But just as his shadow falls across my table, he keeps walking…

right past me. He doesn’t even glance my way.

His eyes continue to scan the room, searching for someone else.

They are not here for me.

Slowly, I place the fork back on the table, but the tension inside me doesn’t loosen yet. And then, I see it. The faint silver embroidery on the man’s cuff that glints against the dark fabric. It’s an emblem of a fierce stallion. Rearing high, regal and ruthless.

I know that emblem. The Silver Stallion.

The mark of the Vardhaan Mafia Syndicate.

So, these men belong to Vardhaan?

My jaw clenches, though my face remains calm, revealing nothing.

In my old, mafia life, the world had been cleanly divided into territories and syndicates.

The Bat Syndicate had been my father, Tej Khurana’s, empire, my inheritance.

And for years, I’d ruled alongside him. He was a man feared by many and respected by none.

Since those days, our sworn enemies have always been the Vardhaans.

The mere sight of their crest, the rearing stallion, had once been enough to ignite bloodshed.

The hatred between us ran deep, carved into our bones like an ancestral curse.

We never shared ground, never tolerated even the whisper of peace between us.

If they existed, then by rule, we had to destroy them.

But that was in the past. The night I killed my father was the night the Bat Syndicate crumbled. Not because he was dead. Empires like ours do not collapse with the death of one man. They collapse when the blood meant to inherit the throne chooses to walk away.

I was next in line. The heir. The one groomed to rule the shadows he built.

But the moment I pulled the trigger, I did more than just end his life.

I ended my own claim to that empire. I vanished from the world I had once ruled.

No one knew where I had gone or why. To them, the Dark Prince, as they called me, simply faded into smoke and myth, just as quickly as he had risen.

And with my disappearance, the Vardhaans stepped in and seized what was left behind.

They thrived and ruled, expanding their power and their empire.

Even after distancing myself from that world, I never truly let it go.

Old instincts, old habits… they never fade.

I kept watching from afar, quietly tracking the movements of the underworld.

I always knew who was pulling the strings, who was rising, who was falling.

It was a game I no longer played, but one I still watched from the shadows.

But the question clawing at me now burns sharper than the whiskey in my veins: What the hell are Vardhaan men doing here in Mumbai?