CHAPTER 3
SIYA
I toss on the bed as morning light slips through the curtains, catching on every gleaming RK crest around me. Ever since I returned to my room last night, my pulse still hasn’t slowed from what had happened in that garage.
Raghav! The infamous Dark Prince.
Whatever I’d heard growing up, all those whispers about him…
every word was true. They said when Raghav marked a man, mercy ceased to exist. Bodies didn’t just pile up, they disappeared, like clockwork.
That even the strongest men in the underworld slept with one eye open if, at all, you were his target.
I’d heard rumours of him torching entire warehouses ablaze with rivals chained inside.
He turned vengeance into an art form, wielding it as a weapon of terror that kept even the most ruthless dons at bay.
Goosebumps crawl over my skin just thinking about those stories now, because they weren’t fairy tales. They were warnings. And in my family, those warnings always came with a name.
My father, Shamsher Vardhaan, never spoke of him lightly. “The Dark Prince is not a man you cross, Siya,” he’d told me once. “If he sets his eyes on you, pray it’s not the last thing you feel.”
The Vardhaans feared him, not just because he was our enemy, but because he was an unstoppable storm that no alliance or bloodline could ever hope to stand against.
And last night, I saw that man up close, not just through the stories shared by others.
The way his hand tightened around my throat, without even an iota of hesitation, the way he held the knife a breath away from my skin…
his control still terrifyingly absolute.
And realising that I’m the only one from the underworld who knows he’s still alive, feels suddenly scary.
Until now, I’d only seen him in photographs.
Grainy shots captured by Vardhaan men, pictures meant to mark the Dark Prince as a threat, not admire him.
Yet, even in those blurred images, his presence shone through.
Raghav Khurana, with another don’s kin forced to his knees, or a rival boss shackled to a chair, held as ransom by the Bat Gang.
He had that fearless aura in those frames, along with the kind of arrogance only a man who owned death could carry.
One snap of his fingers, and lives ended.
In those photographs, he looked like the god of the underworld.
And gods like him are impossible to forget.
So when I saw him in person nine months ago at Josh club in Mumbai, I instantly knew it was him. There was no hesitation, no doubt. But what shook me more that night was watching him tear through the men who tried to hurt me, seeing the Dark Prince save a ‘Vardhaan’ from Vardhaans.
Even if he might not have known me then, he definitely would have recognised the Vardhaan emblem on the cuffs of the men.
He knew exactly whom he was fighting. We were his enemies.
He didn’t have to get involved into our fights and dirty his hands for us, and he sure as hell didn’t have to bleed for us. Yet, for a heartbeat, he did.
That night at Josh club, when those men dragged me away, I knew Raghav wouldn’t forget the woman he had tried to save from the Vardhaans. Raghav never left loose ends. He would dig, dissect, and hunt me down until he had my name, my bloodline, and my truth. And of course, he found it all.
That I am Siya Vardhaan—the mafia princess.
For him, my presence here was a challenge.
I had walked straight into a lion’s den and brushed my fingers against his mane, daring him to bare his teeth and strike.
But seems this lion doesn’t roar anymore.
He plays the part of a Prince instead, surrounded by vineyards and sprawling estates, pretending to be a ruler for his people in the Shivtara Valley.
And that is exactly why he doesn’t want me here.
But the CCTV access matter really pissed me off. Michael had confirmed last evening that my guards had full access to the estate feeds.
Full access, my ass. Raghav would never hand over his eyes to the Vardhaans. Never. He might have successfully fooled my men into believing they had eyes everywhere, especially on me. But in reality, it was he who tracked my every move through his own men, his own lenses.
And that is exactly why I staged my little escape last night. To see if the Dark Prince would come after me.
And he did.
I knew if there was one place in this entire estate where the real eyes were… it was at his private residence. Since the car shed next to the villa was open, so I decided to hide there. And as expected, he came looking for me.
Not my guards, but him.
This meant my guards still didn’t have full access to the camera feeds. Good for me.
That thought brings back everything that had happened.
Last night was our first real conversation without an audience, and it was nothing like I expected.
The mafia feared him, and I thought at the very least I would feel that same dread in my veins…
the goosebumps that arise when death stands too close. But none of that happened.
Instead, the moment his fingers closed around my throat, my pulse roared against his touch.
His grip was rough. And yet, when his eyes locked with mine, I didn’t want to pull away.
Instead, I almost leaned in. There was something terrifyingly calm about him.
The kind of calm that could either kill a man or kiss a woman with the same perfection.
And maybe that’s what bothered me the most. Because even with a knife at my throat and his hand pressed against my windpipe, I didn’t feel unsafe. Not even for a single second. No man in the mafia world had ever made me feel like that.
Urgh! Enough of Raghav.
I roll over on the bed, shoving away the cushion I’d been clutching. I remember he had ordered me to leave from here at first light. I won’t.
I may be a mafia princess, but I’m not built to bow at every command like some obedient pawn.
My father raised me differently. He taught me to stand tall with pride, and never let anyone, no matter who they are, decide the course of my life.
To the world, he was the Kingpin of Cape Town. To me, he was simply my dad.
The man whose smile could melt away all my fears and pain.
Not a single day passed without him checking on me.
It didn’t matter if he was in Russia cutting deals or in Dubai silencing rivals, my phone would buzz at the oddest hours, asking me if I’d eaten, if I’d practiced, if I was safe.
I was the apple of his eye, and he made damn sure I knew it.
Without him, I would never have become the woman I am today.
Strong. Confident. A fighter. Because the truth is that in the mafia world, women are polished and groomed like dolls, trained to smile, nod, and obey.
Our brothers are taught to kill, while we are taught to curtsy.
Boys inherit empires, and girls are paraded at parties until their beauty can be bartered for a marriage that strengthens alliances.
But dad raised me differently. He gave me tutors, not tailors. He handed me books before diamonds. He made sure I could break a man’s wrist before I could dance in high heels. Martial arts, languages, business lessons… he carved a fighter out of me while the world expected a mannequin.
And my mother? She stood by him without flinching when I bloodied my knuckles.
But my brother, Samarjeet, never forgave Dad for that.
Two years older and groomed as the heir, he couldn’t stomach that I stood on equal ground with him.
He thought I was a threat to his pride. We wore cordial masks for Dad’s sake, but the moment Dad died, those masks shattered.
Samarjeet became hungry. Hungry for more land, more power, more blood.
He planned to expand his power from Cape Town to India, and found his answer in the South, with the Reddys.
The only way to expand his reach and Vardhaan’s entry into the southern territory mafia world, he sealed an alliance by promising me to their eldest son, Parag.
He traded me as if I were cattle.That was the moment I decided to burn the rules.
I might be a mafia princess with no official say in business, but one thing I’d never hand over was my right to choose who I marry. No one can decide that for me, not my brother, not a Reddy. So a week after Samarjeet brought Parag to Cape Town and they shook hands, I vanished.
My mom helped me. She pressed some money into my hands, although I had enough to survive without it, kissed my forehead, and blessed me, wishing me freedom. With a handful of loyal guards, I left everything behind and fled to India.
That was nine months ago. And for the first time, I felt the weight of the chains fall away.
But freedom never comes cheap. Samarjeet’s men hunted me like hounds, cutting down the loyal guards who shielded me and spilling blood across the streets of Mumbai.
I ran, I fought, but they still cornered me at the Josh Club and dragged me back to Cape Town like a trophy.
Cape Town – Vardhaan Mansion (Nine months ago)
Samarjeet slapped me.
The sting of the slap didn’t burn half as much as the humiliation of being dragged back into the same cage I had fought so hard to escape.
My wrists were cuffed behind me. Lucky for them, the chains held, or else my brother Samarjeet would have been nursing a broken jaw.
He never dared to raise his hand against me in the past. Not while Dad was alive.
But now Dad was gone, and Samarjeet thought he was king.
I lifted my chin, blood still oozing out from the cut on my lip, and locked eyes with him. His face was red with fury, veins throbbing mercilessly at his temples, but I didn’t flinch.
“Wow,” I spat, mocking him. “Dad must be so proud of you today.”
His nostrils flared. “Proud? As if he’d be proud of you? You’ve disgraced us, Siya.”
The rage in my chest burned hotter than the sting on my cheek.