CHAPTER 2 #2
Besides, these men are of lower rank—loyal, efficient, trained to follow orders, not to think beyond them.
They know of the Dark Prince, of course, but only by name.
There was never any official confirmation of his death.
As per them, when the head of the Bat Syndicate, my father, died, the Dark Prince died along with him.
But I’ll have to be careful around Michael.
His gaze had lingered a second longer than necessary.
Not long enough to raise alarm, but long enough for me to notice.
But I know even if Michael decides to dig deeper, Haider will intercept him long before he gets close to anything worth discovering.
Earlier today, when my security ran their luggage through the scanners before check-in, everything came up clean. No weapons. They came unarmed, probably because they didn’t want anyone here to know they are the mafia.
But unarmed doesn’t mean harmless. Each of them is capable of killing a dozen people with their bare hands if they had to. Also, the Vardhaans would have assumed moving weapons into the RK Estate, if needed, would be child’s play for them. But they’re wrong. So wrong.
They don’t realise that even the mere thought of bringing those supplies onto RK Estate would mean their end. This place is my legitimate business, and I will not tolerate any violence here.
During the luggage check, something else caught my team’s eye.
Two sleek designer suitcases, supposedly belonging to the princess, turned out to be packed with shoes.
Not just a pair or two, but four dozen of them.
Neatly arranged Louboutins, jewelled sandals, stone-studded boots, each one costing more than what a labourer here earns in a year.
It’s the kind of collection only a woman with a thing for shoes would bring.
Four dozen pairs for a month? That’s an obsession, and she doesn’t mind flaunting it with style.
Haider knocks on the door and slips inside, shutting the door behind him. For the past four hours, he’s been working. Digging, prying, and finding out what brought the Vardhaan princess here. Something I’m very curious to know as well.
I lower myself into my chair, and he takes the seat opposite me. Then he sets an iPad on the table, his fingers swiping across the screen and pulling up a series of images.
“She never ran away when her father, Shamsher, was alive,” he says, turning the device towards me.
Photographs flicker to life. Siya with her father, Shamsher Vardhaan, the formidable head of the Vardhaan Mafia empire.
He was a man in his late fifties, hardened by power and steeped in ruthlessness.
No mafia kingpin rises without being merciless, and Shamsher was no different.
However, the pictures told another story.
I had heard whispers that when it came to his family, he was different. With them, he was gentler, softer, a father before a don. And now, looking at the images of Siya with him over the last four or five years, up until his death a year ago, I can see it for myself.
They were inseparable. Father and daughter, travelling the world together.
Beaches and casinos, yacht parties off the Amalfi coast in southern Italy, horse races in Dubai, Ski resorts in Switzerland, the flashing lights of Vegas.
Name it, and they had done it all. A perfect duo, bound not just by blood but by something deeper.
And throughout it all, one thing never changed. Siya’s obsession with shoes. Even back then, she paraded in her expensive collection as if making a statement. The heels, the boots… they weren’t just fashion accessories. They were an inherent part of who she was.
I can’t help but wonder what losing him must have done to her.
Shamsher’s death had made headlines. They called it a road accident.
But everyone knew better. He and his convoy had been returning from a meeting with the Russian mafia when it happened.
Two bikers. Sharpshooters. The convoy was ambushed and taken down.
All of them were killed in seconds. The streets of Cape Town were washed in blood.
And still, the truth of who orchestrated that massacre remains buried.
My thoughts drift until Haider’s voice cuts through, pulling me back to the present. He flips through the last photo and then sets the iPad down.
“The last time you saw her was her first and only attempt to run, and you know how that ended in Mumbai. The Vardhaan men found her and took her back to Cape Town.”
I lean back in my chair and twirl the glass of whiskey in my hand, though I haven’t taken a single sip.
“And for now, if we leave the Vardhaans aside,” he continues, “Our team has detected movement this week from the Southern Mafia group—the Reddys. About four hundred kilometres from Shivtara Valley, near the Nepal border.”
My jaw tightens as the first image of the Reddys appears on the screen.
They are nothing like the men in tailored suits that we see in international syndicates.
They are more crude, their killings more brutal.
Their empire is built on narcotics, arms smuggling, and a spider web of extortion rackets.
South India may be their base, but their true muscle lies in their connections within Delhi’s political circles.
A few parliamentarians are practically their lapdogs—funded, fed, and owned by them.
I study the screen for a moment, then look up.
“Vardhaan and Reddy? What’s the connection?” I ask.
“Siya Vardhaan is the connection,” he responds, the revelation hitting me hard. “She’s promised to Reddy’s eldest son, Parag Reddy. They’re not formally engaged yet, but the marriage is set to take place later this year.”
Haider swipes to the next image.
“This is Parag Reddy, shaking hands with Shamsher’s son and Siya’s elder brother, Samarjeet Vardhaan, in Cape Town last year. That’s when their alliance was fixed.”
I glare at the photo which appears on the screen. With broad shoulders, a square jaw, and a face that reeks of arrogance and inherited power, Parag Reddy looks like a man who knows he was born into money tainted by blood, and has no problem bathing in more of it.
“As per the rumours, Siya doesn’t want this,” Haider adds. “Could be the reason why she tried to run nine months ago. But they caught her, dragged her back, and now she’s here again. Only this time, she hasn’t run.”
“Yet,” I reply, realising that on the surface, she’s just here for another vacation. Her guards are in place and every move is accounted for. But if she uses this as her opportunity to disappear again, the Vardhaans will come for the ground she ghosts from. And that ground is RK Estate.
Now that is bad news.
Before I can formulate a solution to this, there’s a sharp knock at the door. Haider instantly shuts the iPad and slides it away as Esha walks in.
“Sir… Miss Vardhaan’s guards are demanding full access to our CCTV feeds for her entire stay here. I told them it’s not possible, but they’re… pushing. I’m not sure how to handle this.”
Haider’s lip curls in frustration, the old gangster in him ready to show the Vardhaans their rightful place, which is six feet below the ground. Buried and lifeless.
He turns to me, waiting. I keep my expression calm, even though a storm builds under my ribs.
“Haider will handle it,” I tell her. “You don’t need to worry.”
Relief washes over Esha’s face as she gives a small nod. The moment she turns to leave, her gaze flicks to Haider, lingering for a beat before she pulls it away and walks out.
The second she’s gone, I turn to Haider. “Give them the access.”
He doesn’t like that. “You’re letting them in?”
I set my glass down, my gaze fixed on his.
“If we refuse, they’ll smell something suspicious. And I don’t want Siya Vardhaan’s dogs sniffing too close to me.”
Haider narrows his eyes in understanding as I continue.
“Give them access, but code blue only.”
He nods. Code blue in our language means limited access. Enough to keep them occupied, but not enough to see behind the curtains I’ve drawn here. Giving me a tight nod, he walks out, leaving me alone with the silence again.
I reopen the iPad, the screen lighting up as Parag Reddy’s face stares back at me.
Siya Vardhaan is promised to him? I let out a humourless laugh.
She deserves someone far better than this snake.
No wonder she’s against this alliance. But that won’t change anything. If Siya refuses, there will be war.
My hand curls into a fist before I can stop it.
Why the hell does this it prick me so much?
Whether she marries him by her will or by force…
it shouldn’t matter to me. Siya Vardhaan is not my concern.
The more I stay out of this, the safer my past remains.
The safer Shivtara Valley remains. The safer RK Estate remains.
*****************
Midnight
It’s a full moon night. I’m standing a little away from my villa at the very top of RK Estate, looking down at the terraces of vineyards and guest cottages spilling across the mountainside below.
Sleep is a luxury I haven’t earned in years.
I take a long drag from my cigarette, holding it for a few seconds before exhaling, trying to ease my restlessness.
Usually, it works. Inhale, exhale, measure the world in slow pulls until the beast inside me quiets down.
But tonight, the beast is roaring for a different reason.
It isn’t fuelled by rage or memory of my past.
It’s her. Siya Vardhaan.
My thoughts keep pulling me back to the woman who dared to lie to my face today.
Every piece of information I’ve uncovered about her has only unsettled me further, something no one has ever managed before.
Just then, my phone vibrates, and Haider’s name flashes on the screen.
He never calls at this hour unless something’s wrong.
“She’s not in her room,” he says, the moment I answer.