Chapter 46 Bloodlines in the Crossfire
As the heavy door shut behind her, Iva inhaled slowly, letting her spine straighten, gaze steady. The room was rich and warm with dark wood, high ceilings, and old power. But she didn't let herself flinch.
She walked forward and took the seat across from him, legs crossed neatly, hands folded in her lap. Her mind was still echoing with Adwait's voice-
"Don't let them touch your fear."
"Why am I here?" she asked calmly, her tone clipped.
Nikolai leaned back in his chair, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You're not just beauty, are you?" He chuckled-a low, deliberate sound. "I like that."
She said nothing. Let him fill the silence.
He glanced toward the desk, then reached for his laptop. "I thought when we kidnapped you the first time, your father must have painted a very convenient version of events. That story is for later." He tapped a few keys, eyes flicking to the screen. "Right now-I have a question."
Iva tensed slightly. "Which is?"
"Why was Maya with you?"
She blinked. "She's my PA. Has been for eight years."
Nikolai nodded, already typing. He turned the screen briefly toward her.
A file. A name. Maya Awasthi - Personal Assistant to Ivikaa Ambani.
The rest of the data flashed too fast to catch.
"Well, well," he murmured. "That's why the Italians couldn't touch you for years. Impressive, Viren Ambani." The laptop shut with a sharp click.
Iva's heart pounded. She kept her face still. He was speaking in pieces she didn't understand-but each word hit colder than the last.
Nikolai stood now, slowly. His voice was amused, but edged. "Seems like your father took good care of you... after saving you from us. Planted Maya beside you like a shadow. I thought Indian ministers were just rich bunch of idiots. Turns out yours is a proper strategist. First Jay... now Maya."
Her breath hitched at the name again.
Jay.
That name again.
She didn't even bother asking this time.
"And why was I kidnapped again?" she asked instead.
Nikolai's expression shifted. Sharpened.
"Your father didn't tell you that, hmm? That story's his to confess. But you want to know why this time?"
She gave a small nod.
"Well," he said, voice dropping low, bitter, "First-Rudra. He traded you in exchange for sparing his empire. His businesses. His partners." He spat the words like acid. "And second..."
He turned, pacing once toward the shelf before stopping.
"After your first kidnapping, we took the fall of a lifetime.
Financially. Our image. We lost men. Weapons.
Territory. Everything. We burned." His voice was rising now, the first glimpse of his fury unmasked.
"And somehow, you-sweet girl-were at the center of all of it.
So yes. I wanted to see you. The girl because of whom we were left in ashes. "
Iva's mouth went dry.
Rudra did that.
He gave her up.
Her thoughts became knives.
Nikolai looked at her once more, now quieter. "Well, we'll talk again after I meet your father."
He turned and walked out of the room without a second glance.
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Iva returned like a ghost. Raha was asleep, curled up into herself on the corner couch, while Maya stood quietly by the window, staring into nothing.
Iva didn't speak.
She went into the washroom, locked the door, and washed her face with trembling hands. The mirror stared back at her-blank, pale, but unbroken.
She kept whispering to herself.
"Just the night. Just one more night."
Tomorrow, her father would come again.
And maybe, this time- He would tell her the truth.
Back in the room, Iva closed the door behind her and walked straight to her bag.
She unzipped it hastily, rifling through the contents-and there it was. Her phone.
Her fingers trembled as she unlocked it and dialed her father's number. Then Adwait's. Then Rudra's. No signal. Nothing moved.
"You won't be able to connect to anyone," came Maya's voice from behind.
Iva turned, her expression sharp. "They cut us off from everything," Maya added quietly, almost apologetically.
Iva's jaw clenched. Her voice turned razor-edged. "So what are we going to do now, Mafia Maya?"
Maya flinched. "I'm not Mafia, Iva. I'm just your bodyguard. Your protector." Her tone was sincere, eyes pleading. "That's all I've ever been."
Iva looked at her for a long, silent second. Then scoffed.
"Let's save this reel for later," she muttered, brushing past her and returning to her bag.
From the side pocket, she pulled out the Bhagavad Gita-the one Adwait had given her the day she left for the U.S. It was still wrapped in its soft cloth cover, its corners slightly worn.
She held it to her chest. A single tear slipped down her cheek.
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"I don't know what's right and what's wrong anymore..."
She shut her eyes tight. "But you always said-when there's confusion, go to God."
She exhaled, voice cracking. "I don't believe in God, Adwait. I believe in you. And right now, this... this book is all I have of yours."
Her fingers moved gently over the worn edge of the book. Then she opened it.
Her eyes fell on a shloka, and she began to read aloud-softly, reverently.
Her eyes fell upon a shloka Adwait had once underlined, the ink slightly smudged from time. She read:
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(Bhagavad Gita 2.70)
the English transliteration:
"Apooriyamaanam achala-pratishtham
Samudram aapah pravishanti yadvat,
Tadvat kaamaa yam pravishanti sarve
Sa shaantim aapnoti na kaama-kaamee."
The translation, in Adwait's handwriting:
"As the ocean remains full and unmoved even when rivers flow into it,
so too does the one into whom all desires and fears enter,
yet who remains steady-only he attains peace,
not the one who longs or is shaken by longing."
Iva's fingers curled tighter around the book.
The ocean.
Unmoved.
Still, despite everything that pours into it.
Was that what Adwait meant?
"Don't let them touch your fear."
Not that she should be fearless.
But that she should let the fear come-and not move.
Her breath trembled, but she closed her eyes.
They had taken her freedom.
They had cut her off from the world.
Even Maya was no longer just Maya.
Rudra had sold her.
But they couldn't touch this.
They couldn't touch her inside, unless she let them.
She was afraid.
But she wouldn't be broken.
Just like the ocean.
Just like him.
And that night, holding onto that one shloka like it was a rope across a collapsing bridge,
Iva didn't find peace-but she found stillness.
And that was enough.
Something inside her clicked. She wasn't useless.
Not waiting. Not passive.
Even holding her ground was a kind of battle.
"I see now," she breathed. "This isn't just a book. It's you, Adwait. Your strength, your quiet stubbornness, the way you never explained but always showed."
She held the Gita to her chest again, no longer as a memory, but as a choice.
Just as she closed the Gita, her fingers brushed against something odd beneath the cover-an edge, stiff and matte. She slid her fingers under it and gently pulled it out.
A photo.
A small, Wallet-sized photograph, tucked into the sacred pages like a secret offering.
Iva froze.
It was them.
From that day-that stupid, wonderful ride in the rain. The one with Raha. She had clicked it, Her own hand was holding his tea, and he was looking at her-no, watching her-with a gaze so intense, so entirely Adwait, it made her chest ache. Their first unofficial date.
It was dim, slightly blurred, rain smudging the edges of their clothes and hair-but unmistakably them. Unmistakably the moment Raha had said got deleted.
Her fingers trembled.
He had it all along?
He had kept this?
In this book?
Her breath caught, and slowly, inevitably, she smiled-softly, like something breaking open inside her without pain this time. Not a happy smile. Not even a sad one.
Just... real.
This picture didn't belong in this war-torn world.
It didn't belong in a mafia's prison.
It didn't belong in the hands of someone who spoke like still oceans and left without looking back.
But it existed.
And it had been here, close to her heart-hidden in the folds of divinity and doubt. In the only thing he'd ever given her that didn't carry weight, or power, or poison.
Just... truth.
She held the picture against her chest, just above the shloka she had read.
"Only the one who remains unmoved finds peace."
Maybe she wasn't at peace.
But maybe she wasn't alone in the storm either.
Not entirely.
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The sun filtered weakly through the frosted glass windows, a pale light softening the cold grey edges of the Russian estate.
Iva had barely slept, but she was up before dawn, already dressed when Maya stirred.
She helped Raha brush her hair and fix the loose buttons on her cardigan.
The little girl, full of energy despite the looming tension, kept humming a half-remembered rhyme and asking, "Bhaiya kab aayenge? Mumma bhi aayengi na?"
[When will my brother come?and will my mother come?]
Iva managed a small smile. "Aayenge, baby. Very soon."
[They will.]
They made their way downstairs for breakfast. The dining table had been laid-cold cuts, black bread, boiled eggs, and thick tea that tasted like smoke. Raha poked at a croissant. Maya sat like a statue beside her.
One of the guards stepped in-broad-shouldered, face unreadable, dressed in all black.
He walked straight to Nikolai, who was standing by the hearth, pouring himself a drink far too early in the day.
The man whispered something in Russian.
Nikolai turned slightly, casting a glance at Iva-and then at Raha.
Then, aloud, in crisp English: "The families have arrived."
As Dmitri led them into the hall, Iva's eyes scanned the space sharply. The atmosphere had changed. It wasn't just tense-it was fortified. More men, more guns, more eyes. She counted them unconsciously. Easily over three hundred. Triple of yesterday. They were being watched from every shadow.
Her heartbeat drummed like a war cry in her chest.
And then- The heavy doors opened with a dull creak.
Raha gasped beside her.
Two figures stepped inside. One tall, commanding, in a slate-colored trench coat. The other, regal even in her worry, her saree fluttering like fire against the cold, stone floor.
Viren Ambani. Devaki Agnivanshi.
The moment stilled.
Raha let out a shriek of joy-"Mummaaa!"-and bolted across the hall with her arms wide open, the innocence of a child dissolving the danger around them in a blink.
Devaki dropped to her knees, her arms open just in time to catch her daughter crashing into her with full force.
She wrapped Raha in a fierce embrace, pressing kiss after kiss into her daughter's hair, forehead, cheeks-anywhere she could reach.
Her hands trembled as she cupped her baby's face, whispering over and over: "Mera bachcha. .. my baby... I'm here, I'm here."
Tears streamed down Raha's face. "Mumma, you're here..."
"Haan mere baccha," Devaki whispered, her voice breaking. "Main yahi hoon..."
[Yes my child, I am here.]
Across the hall, Iva's feet moved on instinct, not thought. Her composure, so tightly stitched all this while, unraveled with every step. She reached her father in moments and threw herself into his arms.
Viren caught her firmly-like he always had, like he always would.
No words were exchanged at first. Just his hand cradling the back of her head, her fingers gripping the back of his coat like a lifeline.
She hadn't cried last night. Not when Nikolai revealed the truths.
Not when Maya confessed. Not even when she read that shlok.
But now? Her tears flowed silently, soaking into her father's shoulder.
"Mujhe laga... iss baar shayad aap nahi aayenge," she whispered, barely audible.
["I thought... maybe this time you wouldn't come," she whispered, barely audible.]
He held her tighter.
"Meri Iva ke liye toh maine hamesha duniya idhar ki udhar ki hai..," he said, his voice hoarse. "Aaj main meri princess ko ke liye nahi aata??...."
["For my Iva, I've always turned the world upside down..." his voice was hoarse.
"And today, you think I wouldn't come for my princess? Then who would I even be?"]
She shut her eyes, letting his warmth remind her of home, of safety, of simpler times before all of this.
But even within this emotional reunion, her mind sharpened again. This was just the beginning. Nikolai hadn't played his final card yet. And she wasn't going to crumble-not after all this.
Nikolai entered with his usual theatrics, the sharp scent of cigar smoke preceding him like a storm warning. He walked with the arrogance of a man who had already won the war.
"Aah... Minister of India himself," he said, voice dripping with mockery as his eyes locked onto Viren Ambani. "And the Royal Agnivanshi too?" He let his gaze slide toward Devaki with an amused smirk. "How very... elite of you."
He dropped into his tall, leather chair like a king reclaiming his throne, fingers steepled beneath a cloud of smoke.
"And where is my friend Rudra?" he asked with a cold grin. "Didn't he want to see how the trade went? Or maybe he's too busy counting all the zeros I saved for him by handing over the girl."
No one responded. Only silence met his taunt-thick, dangerous silence.
"Please, sit," Nikolai gestured broadly, like a host welcoming guests to a twisted dinner. "It's going to be a long day."
He lit another cigar, the flame flaring briefly before vanishing. He took a deep drag, then leaned back, eyes gleaming like a predator testing the patience of its prey.
"Before we begin," he said slowly, exhaling smoke into the air, "just know this isn't about ransom anymore. This is about history. Unfinished business."
His gaze flicked to Iva, then Maya, then Raha-pausing just long enough to unsettle.
Then finally back to Viren.
Nikolai leaned forward, elbows on the table, cigar smoldering between his fingers. His smile no longer carried amusement-it was razor-edged.
"Let's talk, Minister." He let the words hang for a second too long before adding with venom-laced charm, "I'm moved... truly... watching a father reunite with his daughter."
He turned to Iva, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Darling Iva, you must've felt great, hmm? Seeing your parent come for you-heroic, heartfelt, very Indian cinema." He let out a dry chuckle that didn't reach his eyes.
Then, suddenly, his voice dropped, the sharpness sliding in like a blade.
"Well, I can't feel the same. I don't get reunions. Or goodbyes. Or fathers."
His hand casually pointed across the room. "Courtesy of Mr. Viren Ambani."
The silence snapped.
Iva's head turned sharply to look at her father. His jaw had clenched, but he didn't speak. His fists were closed at his sides, years of discipline keeping him from rising to the bait. Devaki's gaze flickered between the two men, her body still, but alert-coiled like a queen in battle.
Nikolai continued, his voice smoother now, like oil sliding across cold steel.
"You don't even remember him, do you, Minister?" he asked, voice echoing with bitterness.
Nikolai's voice thundered through the hall, echoing off the marble like a war drum.
"How would you remember him, Minister?" he spat, stepping forward. "It wasn't you who pulled the trigger-it was your wife, because of whom he got killed!"
With a violent flick of his hand, he hurled the crystal glass against the marble floor.
It shattered. So did the moment.
Iva flinched. Her eyes widened, snapping toward her father-and then slowly, hesitantly, toward Devaki.
"My... mother?" she whispered, the word tasting like smoke and confusion.
Nikolai gave a bitter laugh, his rage simmering under a layer of mockery.
"Oh yes, Iva darling. Your mother." He took a slow step toward her, voice sharp as a dagger.
"The reason for your first kidnapping. The reason I grew up fatherless.
The reason this entire bloody war started.
And I'm sure your father never told you the real story, hmm?
After all, a princess must be fed silky lies. Soft truths. Gilded memories."
He straightened his coat, reining in his fury with practised menace.
Viren's voice cut through the tension, low but commanding.
"Nikolai. Don't start now."
But Nikolai whipped around, eyes ablaze.
"Why not, Mr. Ambani? Wasn't it already started by Christina Ambani?" His voice cracked with pain and accusation. "Don't you dare silence me now. Not when she's right here. Not when your lies raised her and buried my father."
Devaki stepped forward slightly, protective, her hand subtly in front of Iva, but her face was unreadable.
Nikolai's chest heaved, his voice quieter now, but no less venomous.
"You took everything from me. And now you stand here, pretending to be the savior."
He looked at Iva again, but this time something unreadable passed in his eyes-pain, recognition, maybe a twisted form of kinship in loss.
"Welcome to the real story, Iva. Not the one your legacy wrote for you. The one soaked in blood... in betrayal... in your mother's silence."
Nikolai's voice dropped to a slow, dangerous rhythm-like venom oozing from an old wound. His eyes were locked on Iva, not in hatred, but in cruel satisfaction, as if each word he uttered was a blade meant to carve away another piece of her innocence.
"So... your mother. American, right?" he began, pacing now, eyes glinting with something between mockery and memory.
"Did you ever ask how she really fell for your Indian father? No, of course not. You know the romantic version, the one with candlelight and patriotism. Let me tell you the original story-unedited."
He stopped, leaning forward just slightly, his tone shifting to a biting whisper.
"Your mother was a spy. A double agent. Sent to India under deep cover. She worked for us... and the Americans. Clever enough to handle both. Cold. Calculating."
Then, a cruel smile tugged at his lips.
"But-ah! The American heart. So easy to corrupt, so easy to soften. She fell in love. Not with a soldier. Not with a revolutionary. With a minister. A polished man of diplomacy."
He scoffed.
"A fucking minister."
He looked at Viren with a sneer before turning back to Iva.
"And for him... she gave up everything. Her country. Her family. Her mission. Her allegiance. She walked away from it all just to become 'untouchable' in India-Minister Ambani's beautiful wife."
The room was silent except for Nikolai's words-each one heavier than the last.
"But she wasn't just a runaway bride. She carried information. Our information. Critical intelligence-codes, maps, alliances. And she gave it all to him."
He pointed at Viren. "And because of that, my father was killed."
He stepped back, breathing heavily now.
"She betrayed two nations, Iva. One for love, and one for... whatever the hell else she thought was worth it."
Iva stood frozen. Her knees felt weak, like the floor beneath her had cracked open.
She looked at her father-his silence was worse than denial. His jaw was clenched, eyes dark, but he said nothing.
Nikolai straightened, brushing invisible dust from his coat.
"So next time you think of your perfect, graceful mother..." He looked at her sharply.
"Just remember-she wasn't a heroine. She was the reason my world burned."
Viren scanned the hall quickly-his trained eyes noticing the sheer increase in firepower, the cold discipline of Nikolai's men, the suffocating tension crawling across the room. His own men were outnumbered. This wasn't a rescue mission-it was a pressure cooker.
He turned his gaze back to Nikolai and said in a low, firm voice:
"I want my daughter back. What do you want?"
A pause. A dangerous pause.
Then Nikolai let out a sharp laugh, bitter and humorless.
"That easy, Mr. Viren? Just like that?"He took a step forward, the edge of his coat brushing the polished floor. "Last time also you said the same thing. 'What do you want?'" His voice hardened, seething with resentment. "And what did you do, huh? You brought Jay into it!"
Suddenly, rage overtook him. He lunged forward, but Dmitri was quicker-his hand gripped Nikolai's shoulder, holding him back just in time.
"Boss." Dmitri's voice was calm but firm. "Not like this."
Nikolai's chest rose and fell like a storm restrained. His fists clenched. The mention of Jay had clearly ripped open an old wound that still bled fire.
Iva looked between the two men, her head spinning. Jay? That name again. Every time it came up, people flinched. No one explained. But today... there was no more room for secrets.
She looked at her father now, with a new kind of demand in her voice.
"Who is Jay, Papa?"
Viren didn't answer. His jaw locked. His silence screamed louder than any words.
"Mrutyunjay," Viren finally said, the name escaping his lips like a ghost long buried but never forgotten.
Iva blinked.
"Mrutyunjay" she echoed slowly, tasting the unfamiliar name as if it held a secret code to everything that had ever been kept from her.
Two of India's most powerful families-here on foreign soil, not as rulers, but as desperate parents. And their daughters? In the hands of the Russian mafia.
In the land of blood deals and burnt bridges, it's not who holds power-it's who's willing to bleed for it.
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