CHAPTER 6
The building stood unassuming from the outside—just another expensive establishment in Mumbai's elite Nariman Point area. But those who knew, knew. Elysium wasn't listed in any directory, didn't advertise, and didn't welcome walk-ins.
Membership was by invitation only.
And the man who controlled those invitations ruled the city's underworld.
Samarth Ranawat moved through the upper floor of his club with the confidence of a king surveying his kingdom.
Crystal chandeliers cast soft light over leather furniture and imported liquor.
Well-dressed men and women occupied the private booths, their laughter and conversation a symphony of wealth and power.
This was the legitimate face of Elysium—the exclusive gentleman's club where Mumbai's elite came to network, to be seen, to pretend they were different from the masses outside.
But Samarth wasn't here for them.
He moved past the main bar, through a door marked "Private," and descended the stairs that led to Elysium's true purpose.
The basement was a different world entirely. No soft lighting here—just harsh fluorescents that revealed every detail. No expensive furniture—just metal chairs and reinforced tables. No laughter—just the cold efficiency of business conducted in shadows.
Abhay and Armaan flanked him as he entered the main room where three men waited. Suppliers from the Eastern European network, here to discuss the shipment of weapons that would arm Samarth's operations for the next six months.
"Gentlemen," Samarth said, taking his seat at the head of the table. "I trust the journey was comfortable?"
"Very," the lead supplier—a man named Dmitri—replied in heavily accented English. "Your arrangements were impeccable, as always."
"I believe in taking care of business associates." Samarth's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Shall we discuss terms?"
The negotiation was quick, efficient. Samarth had been doing this long enough to know exactly what he wanted and what he was willing to pay. Dmitri tried to inflate prices, citing increased risk and transportation costs.
Samarth countered with cold logic and the implicit threat of taking his business elsewhere.
They settled on a price. Money was transferred—digital transactions that would be laundered through a dozen shell companies before landing in legitimate accounts. Delivery dates were confirmed. Handshakes were exchanged.
"A pleasure doing business with you," Dmitri said. "Though I must say, you have quite the reputation. They call you The Executioner, yes?"
Samarth's expression didn't change. "They call me many things."
"But that one stuck." Dmitri leaned forward, curiosity evident. "There must be a story there."
"There is." Samarth stood, signaling the meeting was over. "But it's not one I share over drinks."
As the suppliers were escorted out through the private exit, Armaan poured three glasses of whiskey—one for himself, one for Abhay, one for Samarth.
"That went smoothly," Armaan observed.
"Dmitri's smart. He knows pushing me too far would be bad for his health." Samarth took a sip of whiskey, savoring the burn. "Any issues with the local operations?"
"Nothing major," Abhay replied. "The protection racket in Dharavi is running smoothly. The clubs are turning a profit. The drug distribution—"
"What about Rajput?" Samarth interrupted.
Abhay exchanged a glance with Armaan. "Quiet. Too quiet."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning he's planning something. We just don't know what yet."
Samarth's jaw tightened. Vikram Rajput had been a thorn in his side for months—a mid-level operator who'd gotten ambitious, started encroaching on Ranawat territory. Samarth had sent warnings. They'd been ignored.
Soon, he'd send something more permanent.
The Executioner.
The name had followed him for over a decade, earned on a night he preferred not to remember but could never forget.
Flashback - 2015
The warehouse was abandoned, the perfect place for the kind of justice that couldn't happen in daylight.
Samarth was twenty-seven, still relatively new to his father's business, still proving he had the stomach for what needed to be done.
The man tied to the chair was named Suresh—one of Raghbir's most trusted lieutenants. Or so they'd thought.
Until they discovered he'd been feeding information to Suryakant.
"Please," Suresh begged, blood running from his nose where Abhay had struck him. "I have a family. Children. Please."
Samarth stood before him, a gun in his hand, his face expressionless.
"Did you think about your family when you betrayed mine?" he asked quietly.
"He threatened them! Suryakant said he'd kill my wife, my daughters—"
"And now you'll never see them again." Samarth raised the gun. "That's the price of betrayal."
"No! Please! I'll do anything—"
The shot echoed in the warehouse.
Suresh's body slumped forward, the hole in his forehead perfectly centered.
Samarth holstered his gun and turned to where his father stood watching.
"Clean this up," he told Abhay, his voice devoid of emotion. "Make sure the body is found. I want everyone to know what happens to traitors."
Raghbir approached him as they walked out.
"No hesitation," his father observed.
"Hesitation is weakness."
"And mercy?"
"Mercy is for those who haven't betrayed us."
Raghbir studied his eldest son for a long moment. "They're going to start calling you The Executioner, you know. After tonight."
"Let them." Samarth's voice was cold. "Fear is more useful than love."
"And what about your own family? Your future wife? Your children?"
Samarth's jaw tightened. "I don't need a wife. I don't want children. This business requires my full attention."
"Every man needs—"
"I'm not every man."
He'd meant those words then. Believed them completely.
He'd had no idea that eight years later, his father would force him into a marriage that would upend everything he thought he knew about himself.
Present
"Boss?"
Samarth blinked, pulled from the memory. "What?"
"I asked about security for the gala," Abhay repeated. "We're expecting several high-profile targets. We need to make sure there are no vulnerabilities."
"Double the usual detail. Run background checks on all the catering staff. No one gets close to the family without clearance."
"What about Mrs. Ranawat?"
Samarth's hand tightened on his glass. "What about her?"
"She was at the market today," Abhay said carefully. "Buying books. Alone. No security detail."
"She doesn't need one."
"With all due respect, boss, that's bullshit." Armaan's blunt words made Samarth's eyes narrow dangerously. "Your wife is too beautiful to be walking around unprotected. Every man who sees her wants her. And some of those men are dangerous."
"She knows the rules. She doesn't go anywhere that matters."
"The market matters if someone decides to grab her."
"No one would dare—"
"Rajput would," Abhay interrupted. "If he's planning something, leverage would be valuable. And your wife is the perfect leverage."
Samarth's jaw clenched so hard it ached. "She's not important enough to target."
The words tasted like ash in his mouth.
Both Abhay and Armaan stared at him like he'd lost his mind.
"Boss," Abhay said slowly, "she's your wife. That makes her important whether you want to admit it or not."
"The marriage is a political arrangement—"
"We've all seen the way you look at her," Armaan cut in. "The way you react when other men notice her. That's not political. That's possessive."
"Watch yourself, Armaan."
"Someone needs to say it." Armaan downed his whiskey. "You can lie to yourself all you want. But don't lie to us. We've known you too long."
Samarth stood abruptly. "This conversation is over. Assign her a security detail. Discreet. She's not to know about it."
"Finally," Abhay muttered.
"And find out who sent that bracelet. I want a name by tomorrow."
"We're working on it."
Samarth left without another word, climbing the stairs back to the legitimate world of Elysium. He spent another hour making appearances, shaking hands, playing the role of successful businessman.
All while his mind churned with thoughts of his wife.
Alone at the market.
Vulnerable.
Beautiful.
Too beautiful.
By the time he left the club, it was past two in the morning. He should go to his office at the estate, work until dawn like he usually did.
Instead, he found himself driving home, parking in the private garage, and entering through the side entrance that led to the residential wing.
The house was dark and quiet. Everyone asleep.
Except—
Light spilled from beneath the kitchen door.
Samarth approached quietly, pushing the door open.
And stopped.
Nimisha sat at the kitchen island, her hair loose around her shoulders, wearing one of those modest cotton nightgowns that somehow looked more sensual than lingerie.
She had a plate in front of her with what appeared to be chocolate cake, and she was eating it with the kind of focused enjoyment that made his chest tighten.
A small smudge of chocolate marked the corner of her mouth.
She looked up, startled, her eyes widening when she saw him.
"Samarth. I didn't hear you come in."
"Clearly." He closed the door behind him, his eyes tracking the movement of her tongue as she licked chocolate from her lips. "You should be asleep."
"I was hungry."
"At two in the morning?"
"I have a fast metabolism." She set down her fork, suddenly self-conscious. "I couldn't sleep, so I came down for a snack. I hope that's okay."
Why was she asking permission to eat in her own home?
Because it's not her home, a voice whispered. It's yours. She's just living in it.
He moved closer, drawn by something he didn't want to examine too closely. "What are you eating?"
"Chocolate cake. The cook made it yesterday, and I've been thinking about it all day." She smiled slightly. "I'm weak when it comes to chocolate."
He could see that. Could see the genuine pleasure in her expression as she took another bite, the way her eyes closed in bliss.
When was the last time something so simple had brought him joy?
He couldn't remember.