[40]JAIPUR
The house was still fast asleep, wrapped in the deep silence that only comes before dawn.
Abhiraj stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung low, droplets still clinging to his shoulders.
He dressed without a sound: charcoal-grey suit, crisp white shirt, cufflinks clicking softly, no tie.
Every movement precise, quiet, practiced.
Amisha hadn’t stirred once: curled on her side, lips slightly parted, one small hand tucked under her cheek, the other resting protectively over the gentle swell of her belly.
The thick razai rose and fell in slow rhythm.
He allowed himself exactly ten seconds (no more) to stand at the foot of the bed and look at her.
Then he turned away, jaw tight, and finished dressing.
Two large suitcases and one cabin bag waited by the door (checked and rechecked last night).
He picked up the cabin bag, rolled the bigger ones himself to the threshold, and eased the bedroom door open.
In the corridor, two figures waited under the faint night-bulb glow:
Rajveer Singh Shekhawat (shawl over his kurta-pajama, arms crossed, eyes sharp even at this hour)
and Shatish (Abhiraj’s younger brother, already in a dark jacket, hands in pockets, leaning against the wall).
No driver.
Shatish was driving him himself.
Papa placed a firm hand on Abhiraj’s shoulder (steady, wordless, the Shekhawat way of saying: Go, fix it, come back).
Shatish gave a small tilt of his head, took the two bigger suitcases without being asked, and started down the stairs.
Two workers appeared silently from the shadows, took the bags from Shatish at the landing, and carried them out to the waiting car.
Abhiraj cast one last glance back through the open crack of the bedroom door (just a sliver of lamplight on Amisha’s sleeping face), then pulled it shut with the softest click.
Down the grand staircase.
Across the cold courtyard.
Past the sleeping marigolds and the old neem tree.
The black Mercedes stood with its boot open, engine already purring low.
Workers loaded the bags.
Shatish slid into the driver’s seat.
Abhiraj paused for half a second at the rear door, looked up at the dark second-floor window (his window, their window), then got in.
Door shut.
Seatbelt clicked.
Shatish met his eyes in the rear-view mirror.
“Chale, bhaiya?”
Abhiraj gave a single, curt nod.
The car rolled forward, tyres whispering over gravel, then smoothly through the huge iron gates.
The haveli shrank behind them.
One hour to the city.
Two hours until take-off.
Ten days.
Abhiraj leaned back, slipped one hand into his inner suit pocket.
Shatish drove in silence (no music, no talk, just the low hum of the engine and the occasional flicker of passing streetlights).
The road stretched ahead, dark and empty.
And behind them, wrapped in blankets and dreams,
Amisha slept on peaceful, warm bed.
Business-class cabin, first row, window seat.
The cabin lights are dim, most passengers asleep or pretending to be.
The only sounds are the steady hum of engines and the occasional clink of a coffee cup.
Abhiraj sits motionless, suit jacket off, white shirt sleeves rolled once, elbows on the armrests, fingers steepled.
Eyes open, fixed on nothing, black and cold.
Inside his head it’s a different story.
They made me leave her.
They made me walk out of my own bedroom at four in the morning while she slept.
They made me close that door without kissing her one last time.
Because of their greed, their filthy little hands in my money, I have to sit in this metal box for the next ten days instead of waking up with my palm on her belly.
120 crore.
That’s not a number.
That’s ten thousand mornings I could have spent watching her sleep.
That’s every future kick of my child I might miss.
That’s every night I won’t be there if she needs water, if she turns in her sleep and reaches for me and finds empty sheets.
They stole that from me.
His jaw flexes once, slow, deliberate.
I have built empires with these hands.
I have broken bigger men than them with a phone call.
And these rats, these nobody accountants and middle managers, thought they could touch what’s mine and walk away?
They will learn.
He feels the familiar weight tucked against the small of his back: the Glock 19, loaded, one in the chamber, concealed under the perfectly tailored shirt.
Legal permit in the wallet, diplomatic channel cleared.
He didn’t bring it for show.
I will sit in those glass cabins they’re so proud of,
I will listen to their excuses,
I will watch them sweat and lie and beg,
and when I’m done listening,
I will decide who keeps breathing and who doesn’t.
No police.
No courts.
Just me, a closed room, and ten days.
They wanted my money.
They’ll pay with everything they have:
jobs, reputations, knees, fingers, whatever I feel like taking that day.
A soft ping: seat-belt sign off.
The air-hostess walks past; he doesn’t even glance up.
His reflection in the dark window looks like a stranger: calm, polished, lethal.
Ten days, he repeats silently.
Ten days to burn it all down and fly back to her.
And when I land,
the only blood on my hands will be theirs,
and the only thing on my mind will be her smile when I walk through that door again.
He closes his eyes for the first time since take-off.
Sleep doesn’t come.
Only plans.
Ruthless, precise, final plans.
Because nobody, nobody, makes Abhiraj Singh Shekhawat choose between his wife and revenge.
They just forced him to do both.
And they’re about to find out how expensive that mistake was.
The private staircase rolled up to the aircraft door the moment the engines spooled down.
No terminal, no crowd, just a black Range Rover parked ten metres from the plane, hazard lights blinking once.
Abhiraj stepped out first, coat unbuttoned, white shirt stark against the morning sun.
Two men in dark suits were already unloading the luggage from the belly of the jet, moving fast and silent.
He descended the steps without hurry, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, jaw locked so tight the muscle twitched.
At the bottom, one of the men held out a fresh pack of Dunhill Reds and a gold lighter.
Abhiraj took them without a word, tore the cellophane with his teeth, pulled out a cigarette and lit it in one smooth motion.
First drag (deep, long, held until his lungs burned).
He exhaled slowly through his nose, smoke curling like venom.
The nicotine hit like a fist, sharpening the edges of everything.
He slid into the back seat of the Rover, door shutting with a heavy thud.
The driver (a man who knew better than to speak) pulled away smoothly.
Abhiraj reached behind his back, pulled the Glock free, and laid it on his thigh.
The matte-black slide caught the sunlight, cold and perfect.
He turned it slowly in his hand, thumb brushing the loaded chamber indicator.
Today, men will stop breathing because of this.
His jaw flexed again, veins standing out on his forearms, knuckles white around the grip.
The cigarette burned between his fingers, ash falling on the expensive floor mat.
He didn’t notice.
He was counting.
Names.
Faces.
Amounts.
And how much pain each one of them owed him for every minute he was forced to spend away from that haveli, from her laughter, from the way she sleeps with one hand on her belly waiting for his palm to cover it.
Ten days, he reminded himself.
But today is day one.
And today, some people are going to learn that stealing from Abhiraj Singh Shekhawat isn’t a crime.
It’s suicide.
He took one final drag, crushed the cigarette in the ashtray, and racked the slide once (sharp metallic click echoing in the silent car).
The Rover sped toward the city.
And the devil, freshly rested and nicotine-fueled, was finally home.