PROLOGUE #2
They run their operations from South Africa. The very land l once called home during my reign as the Dark Prince. They have no business here, no need to set foot on Indian soil unless the matter was serious. Unless the matter was personal.
At least I know they didn’t come looking for me. I’m glad I’m not their prey. But if I’m not the one they’re hunting… then who is?
My curiosity rises when I watch two of them exchange a brief, silent signal before motioning the others towards the far end of the club. Whoever they came for, they’ve found him.
They move fast, effortlessly slipping past drunken patrons.
None of them have drawn their guns yet. The security here is notoriously tight.
No man with guns could have walked through those doors without clearance.
The fact that they did only means someone let them through.
Someone on the inside fed them information.
Someone told them their target was here tonight.
But who?
This isn’t my war. And yet, I cannot stay seated.
Something tugs at me, a pull I can’t explain.
Without a word, I rise and slip a note beneath the rim of my glass, settling the bill without waiting for the server to notice.
And against my better judgment, I quietly follow these men into the secluded wing of the club.
The corridor narrows as I enter it, the lights dimmer, but I don’t stop.
My instincts warn me to turn back. But something inside me refuses to let me walk away. It’s as though whatever, or whoever, waits on the other side of that door has already wrapped invisible chains around me, pulling me closer without even knowing my name.
And for the first time in years, I feel the storm of my old world stirring again, as though the past I have spent so long running from is finally catching up.
Suddenly, the loud crash of shattering glass splits through the air like a gunshot. I pause. My gaze snaps forward just in time to see two of the Vardhaan men crumple to the floor, clutching their chests as they groan in pain.
What the hell!
Curiosity takes over as I move closer, keeping low, needing to see who they came for. And then, a little ahead, I finally see it. The source of the chaos. It’s not a broad-shouldered mercenary or some gun-wielding assassin who brought these dangerous men to their knees.
It is a woman.
And not just any woman. She’s a vision of lethal elegance, standing tall in the wreckage she’s created. Dressed in a breathtaking floor-length black gown with a slit rising high along one thigh, she is surrounded by three Vardhaan men like a dark vision carved out of smoke and fire.
I freeze again on realising a woman like her is their target.
Who is she?
Her face is partially hidden behind a masquerade mask, but her eyes are visible.
And they aren’t merely beautiful; they’re the kind of eyes that command attention, and demand submission.
One of the men lunges at her, but she sidesteps smoothly and kicks the man hard into his gut, revealing her sleek black Louboutin stilettos with a gold buckle glinting under the dim lights.
She’s lethal, elegant, and rich.
I sum up her description in my mind as the man she just kicked collapses to the floor.
Another attacker rushes in and swings a knife at her.
She dips low and spins on her heel, the slit of her gown flashing the smooth expanse of her leg and the gleam of her heel as she sends the blade flying from his grip.
Her movements are so goddamn fluid, it almost feels choreographed, as if she was trained to make violence look beautiful.
Lethal, elegant, rich… and dangerous.
I’ve seen skilled women before. Agents. Assassins. Even Trisha Chaudhary, the GLEN spy, whose combat skills had impressed me back in South Africa. She could dismantle an army with her bare hands. But this woman… she’s something else entirely.
This one is fire wrapped in silk. A storm wearing the mask of royalty. Trouble disguised as temptation. And I can’t tear my eyes away.
Who is she?
I stay hidden in the shadows, watching as she dismantles the Vardhaan men with ruthless stunts.
One by one, they fall. Broken. Defeated.
And then, she does something that steals my breath away.
She reaches up and yanks the pin from her bun.
Instantly, her long dark hair spills down around her shoulders.
Before anyone can react, she drives that pin straight into the neck of one of her attackers.
His strangled groan echoes through the corridor as blood spurts down his collar. It’s brutal, even ruthless.
And… I’m spellbound.
But in the haze of admiration, I notice something she does not.
As she fights the next attacker, the man she stabbed with the pin stumbles back to his feet, rage fuelling the last of his strength.
He sways, then steadies, stepping back just far enough to grab a heavy vase from the corner, his eyes locked on her back.
I can guess exactly what he is about to do.
Before the thought even finishes forming, I’m already moving.
I had no intention of stepping in. No desire to expose myself to the Vardhaan men. This isn’t my war. But there are lines you don’t cross. Not even in hell. Not even in the mafia.
As he raises the vase, ready to smash it against her skull, my boot strikes it first, sending it flying from his grip. My hand clamps around his throat, and I slam him to the floor, pinning him beneath me, squeezing hard as my grip tightens. He wheezes like a dying rat.
I lean closer.
“Even the mafia has a code,” I growl against his ear. “You do not touch a woman without her permission. And you never stab her in the back.”
The b*stard claws at my wrist, his face turning crimson as my grip tightens further. He’s seconds away from blacking out when his other hand scrapes across the floor and closes around a knife that must’ve slipped from one of the others.
With a sudden, desperate lunge, he swings it upward towards my throat. A sharp sting burns across the side of my neck as the blade grazes my skin, and warm blood trickles down.
I twist suddenly, wrenching the knife from his grip and slamming his arm down against the floor, before tightening my grip around his throat again. Each passing second drags him closer to unconsciousness. That’s when I feel it.
Her gaze.
When I look up, she’s already staring at me, surprise flickering in her eyes at my intrusion. Our eyes lock over her golden eye mask, and for the first time in years, the world around me blurs. I forget where I am, forget the danger, forget the bodies scattered around us.
It’s just her.
And me.
Two predators.
Recognising the same darkness in each other.
Her lips part as if she’s about to speak, then press shut again as she swallows hard. Is it recognition? Fear? Shock? I can’t tell. And the worst part is, I don’t even want to analyse it. I only want to keep looking at her.
And that has never happened to me before.
I don’t know who she is. But I know one thing.
If the Vardhaans are hunting for her, or if she has any connections with them, I should walk away.
Not for my own sake, but for hers. Not for my own sanity, but for the people who’ve become my family over the last two years.
Even the smallest thread connecting me back to the mafia world will bring havoc in their lives, which is something I cannot afford.
Just then, we hear the sounds of heavy boots coming our way. My pulse kicks up. She hears it too. And for the first time, the calm in her eyes flickers. Panic flashes in her eyes on realising there are not just three or four men, but at least a dozen coming towards us.
In the next instant, she tears her gaze from mine and runs for the back door. One of her stilettos slips free in her rush, clattering across the floor behind her, but she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even glance back. She vanishes into the night like someone who’s been running her whole life.
I release the man lying unconscious at my feet and push myself upright. I see her fallen stiletto lying a few steps away, pick it up, and head after her. But by the time I push through the back exit into the alley, it’s already too late.
They’re here.
The Vardhaan men close in on her like hunters circling their prey, but this time she doesn’t fight. She surrenders, standing tall, her chin lifted in defiance even as three sleek black sedans screech to a halt beside her, their doors flinging open with force.
When one of the men tries to shove her into the car, she shrugs off his grip, demanding her dignity back, and mutters something that instantly makes him step back at once. Only then does she step into the waiting car… on her own terms.
The others pile in after, and in seconds, the convoy pulls away, swallowed by the night, leaving me standing in the alley with nothing but her abandoned Louboutin in my hand.
I’m still staring at the empty street when a familiar voice cuts through my haze.
“Raghav?”
It’s Meher, my brother Ayaan’s wife.
Of all the people I could have run into tonight, it had to be her. Her eyes widen in disbelief as I turn around. She looks at me as though she’s seen a ghost. Maybe that’s exactly what I’ve become. A living ghost.
“What are you doing here?” I ask before she can say anything.