Chapter-8
Author's pov
Zakrov, Rostavich - 1:47 AM
The jet lurched, wheels scraping against the runway like a threat. Zakrov, the capital of Rostavich, loomed outside-dark, cold, and ruthless.
Sairaj Suryavanshi leaned back, fingers tapping against the armrest. He hated this city. Not out of fear-he didn't know fear-but because Rostavich was a graveyard dressed as an empire.
His phone buzzed. New location. No weapons.His jaw ticked.
A sharp knock. The jet door opened before the pilot could react, and two men stepped inside. Not airport security. Not Alex's usual men.
"Mr. Suryavanshi."
No hesitation. No greetings. Just a command wrapped in forced politeness.
"Come with us."
Sairaj didn't move. Didn't blink.
"I assume this is an invitation, not a demand?" he asked smoothly.
The second man stepped forward, extending a gloved hand.
"No weapons."
He exhaled slowly. Unbuttoned his coat. Let them pat him down. Watch removed. Belt unbuckled. The ring on his finger tapped twice.
Why tap the ring?
Why fucking tap the ring?
I hold the man's hand and slam his head against the table.
"It's not polite, to touch someone's engagement ring, and certainly not smart to touch mine."
The second man met his gaze. Something passed between them.
Then, nothing.
They nodded, stepped back, and the world continued.
But something wasn't right.
The car cut through the Zakrov streets like a black vein, neon lights reflecting against wet asphalt. Too quiet.
Sairaj leaned back, fingers resting against his knee. Every detail felt calculated.
Then-a turn.Wrong direction.
His gaze flicked to the driver, then to the man beside him. No reaction.
His knee brushed against something cold. Metal. A gun beneath the seat.
Left for him?
Or a trap?
The car slowed.
Ahead, two black SUVs blocked the road. No visible weapons, but this wasn't a casual checkpoint.
Sairaj's fingers curled around the edge of his seat-
Then. The window rolled down.
The driver nodded. The SUVs parted.
He exhaled. Slowly.
Not a test.
A warning.
The underground club was velvet and blood. Smoke curled against golden chandeliers, drowning in perfume, whiskey, and power.
Sairaj walked in, black boots silent against marble. Every eye turned.
Alex Vitalio sat in the center, sprawled in a leather chair, the devil in a suit.
He didn't stand. Didn't need to.
A drink in one hand, the other tapping against the armrest.
"You look like you've seen a ghost, kaal.",Alex murmured.
kaal, that's what they call me in the underworld.
"Maybe I have."
A slow smirk. "Let's talk business."
Sairaj took his seat, ignoring the whiskey poured in front of him. He was waiting. Watching.*
"You want my routes," Alex said, tapping his cigar. "The Italians want in."
"I'm not asking."
Alex's eyes gleamed. The tension snapped like a wire about to cut.
"Then what are you offering, Suryavanshi?"
Sairaj leaned forward, slow, deliberate.
"I don't offer. I take."
A chuckle. Wrong reaction.
Sairaj pulled his phone out.
Tossed it onto the table.
One document. Already signed. Stamped. Approved.
Alex's smirk faded as he scanned the details.
An exclusive security contract-his own men embedded in ports across the Middle East.
"The Italians move through my routes," Sairaj said. "You control them. No interference. No risks."
Silence.
Then-a slow exhale.
Alex set his glass down.
"You had this signed before you even walked in?"
Sairaj tilted his head.
"I had this signed before you even knew you needed it."
A long pause.
Then-a laugh.
Alex shook his head, exhaling smoke.
"You son of a bitch."
A clink of glasses.
Deal sealed.
Music throbbed. The air was thick with power plays and broken loyalties.
Sairaj sat back in the booth, whiskey in hand. He should be satisfied. He wasn't.
His ring burned against his finger. A ghost of something unfinished.
Then-movement.
She slid into his lap, slow and deliberate. Pure sin draped in black silk.
Her skin was golden under the club lights, legs long, smooth, her dress barely there. Sharp green eyes cut through the dimness, and her lips-red as blood-curved into a practiced smirk.
She smelled like vanilla and something darker.
"You don't smile much, do you?" she purred, nails tracing his shoulder.
He didn't react. Didn't breathe.
Her body moved, hips rolling against his.
She leaned in, lips grazing his ear.
"Nothing? Not even a twitch?" She says.
Her breath was warm against his neck. Her fingers tangled in his hair.
She kissed his jaw. His throat. Her lips brushed the pulse at his neck.
"You're impossible, Suryavanshi," she murmured. She slid her way down to his crotch her hand skimming over the fabric, touching him. He holds her neck pulling her to face him. She angles her face, her lips hovering over his.
And suddenly- all he could see was Amber.
Fire.
As if it burned him. The metal on his finger, he felt it much more than he should. None of it was real, not the engagement, not the marriage..then why...
Sairaj shoved her off. Hard.
She stumbled, catching herself, startled.
Silence rippled through the room.
A slow, knowing chuckle escaped Alex.Watching. Smirking.
He lifted his drink, eyes flashing.
"Ty vlyublën."
You're in love.
Sairaj's grip on his glass tightened.
No.
But the words dug under his skin.
He lifted the whiskey to his lips.
Drank.
Alex's voice echoed.
"You're in love."
His fingers curled around his phone.
Over my dead body.
Then-a shift. Wrong.The music died.
The air changed.
Sairaj's muscles tensed as the doors swung shut-locked.
Alex's smirk faded. The air filled with silence before it exploded. Gunfire. The windows shattered. Screams. Blood.
Men hit the floor-some dead, some diving for cover.
Sairaj grabbed the nearest gun, pressing his back against the bar.
He heard a name.
Suryavanshi.
The Bratva and his own enemies had come to kill him.
Alex was cursing, pulling out his own gun.
Sairaj moved fast, calculated. Two shots-one through a skull, another straight through a man's throat.
Blood painted the marble.
A body crashed into him.
Sairaj shoved it off. The girl. She was still alive.
She was saying something-pleading, maybe.
He ignored her.
More men poured in. Gunfire rained down like a storm.
And Sairaj? He just smiled. Because now? Now, it was fun. He never had the guilt, never was afraid to search for reasons to kill, that's just how he was, lethal and dark. There was no white or black for him. He was always gray.
The room was collapsing into chaos-shattered glass, bullet casings, bodies hitting the ground.
Sairaj moved through it like a shadow, swift and deliberate. The weight of the gun was familiar in his palm, an extension of himself. He never fired blindly. One shot, one kill.
To his left, Alex ducked behind the overturned couch, cursing in Russian.
"You brought war to my city, kaal!"
"It follows me everywhere," Sairaj replied, firing two rounds without looking.
One found its mark-a grunt from a man before his body slammed against the bar.
The girl from before was still there, curled up against the counter, wide green eyes filled with fear.
"Move," he ordered. She didn't.
Fine. Not his problem.
His focus was already on the three men storming through the back entrance. Bratva, heavily armed, tactical in their approach.
They wanted him alive.
Which meant he needed to make that a problem for them.
A flick of his wrist-knife drawn from his boot.
He stepped forward before they could react.
The first man raised his gun. Too slow. Sairaj's knife buried itself in his throat, a quick, clean kill.
Blood spattered onto his sleeve.
The second lunged.
A mistake.
Sairaj caught his wrist, twisted-the gun turned against its owner.
A shot rang out. The man slumped, a hole in his skull.
The third hesitated.
That was all Sairaj needed.
One step. One strike.
The man fell, clutching his sliced artery, drowning in his own blood.
The scent of iron thickened in the air.
Silence, for a beat.
Then-an explosion.
The doors blew open.
More men. More fucking men.
Sairaj exhaled.
"Alex, we need to-"
No response.
He turned.
Alex was down. Bleeding.
A gun pressed against his temple, held by a man. Sairaj had no name for. The room tilted. .
This was a move he hadn't calculated.
The man smirked.
"Drop it, Suryavanshi."
Sairaj tilted his head, considering.
Then-he smiled.
And dropped the gun.
Because this wasn't over.
Not even close.
The moment Sairaj's gun clattered to the floor, he noted everything.
The weight of the air. The shift in balance. The way the man's finger twitched against the trigger, betraying impatience. Weakness.
Alex groaned on the floor, blood seeping through his expensive shirt. He wasn't dead-not even close.
Sairaj exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as if he were merely adjusting his suit. Calculating. Measuring. His next move had to be perfect.
"Smart man." The enemy's voice was thick with an accent he couldn't place-Eastern, but not Russian. Not Bratva. Interesting.
There were four of them now, stepping into the ruins of the club. Their leader-the one with the gun to his head-was clearly the most confident. Too confident.
A mistake.
Sairaj smiled. A slow, lethal curve of his lips.
"Tell me," he murmured, voice smooth. "Do you have any last words?"
Confusion flickered across the man's face.
And that was all Sairaj needed.
He moved.
A fraction of a second. A shift of weight.
His hand shot up, grabbing the gun at his temple and twisting it away just as it fired-the bullet grazed past his ear, deafening, but missed.
With his other hand, he struck.
His elbow slammed into the man's throat, crushing his windpipe. A gurgle. A stumble. His grip on the gun loosened-another mistake.
Sairaj didn't let him recover.
A sharp pivot. A knee to the gut. A precise strike to the side of the head. The man collapsed before he could even process his failure.
The next two lunged at him-bad timing.
Sairaj ducked, sweeping a leg out and taking the first one down before slamming his palm into the other's chest, sending him stumbling.
Gunfire erupted behind him. Alex-still in the fight.
Sairaj didn't look back.
He grabbed the fallen man's knife, spinning it between his fingers before driving it home.
One. Two. Three.
By the time he turned, only one enemy was left standing.
A woman.
Not just any woman.
Sairaj recognized her now-Valeria Petrov.
The Petrov Bratva's favorite assassin.
She tilted her head, amusement flashing in her dark eyes. "I was starting to think you wouldn't remember me, Suryavanshi."
"Hard to forget the woman who once tried to put a bullet through my skull,"Sairaj replied, voice dry.
"I wasn't aiming for your skull." She smirked.
But before she could say another word, Alex moved.
Fast. Brutal. Precise.
His fist collided with Valeria's face, a sharp crack slicing through the tension. She stumbled, blood trailing from her mouth.
"Bloody bitch,"Alex snarled, wiping his knuckles. "I knew it was you."
Sairaj arched a brow, impressed.
Valeria spat blood onto the ground, laughing. "Still standing, Vitalio? I must be losing my touch."
Alex bared his teeth in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Or maybe I'm just getting faster."
Sairaj rolled his shoulders, stepping forward. "Enough games."
His voice was calm. Controlled. Deadly.
Valeria wiped her mouth, eyes gleaming. "Then let's talk business."
Because this wasn't about the fight anymore. It was about power.
And Sairaj never played to lose.
Valeria barely had time to react before Sairaj pulled the trigger.
The gunshot cut through the night like a blade.
One bullet. Straight to the skull.
She collapsed instantly, lifeless.
Sairaj exhaled, lowering his arm. He stepped closer, watching as blood pooled beneath her, soaking into the dirt. No struggle. No last words. Just silence.
"I was aiming for the skull," he murmured, voice almost soft.
The last men standing.
Alex let out a dark chuckle, wiping the blood from his face. Relief. And something else-respect.
"You were always the cruel killer", Alex says looking at Valeria's dead eyes. The bullet leaving a grotesque mark right between her brows.
"Why do you think they call me Kaal", I say tearing my gaze away from her dead body.
He clapped a hand on Sairaj's shoulder. "I would have been dead if it wasn't for you." He shook his head, a grin pulling at his bloodied lips. "I don't need the access. You have my word."
Sairaj merely nodded, tucking his gun back into his holster. "We both know you were nowhere near dead Alex asshole Vitalio, you planned this, you wanted her to show up, you wanted her to be killed in her own territory, and I was the best bait you could keep to lure her out".
Alex just smirks.
He held his hand out, one brief firm shake.A deal made in blood was the only deal that mattered.
Before either of them could speak, hurried footsteps echoed in the wreckage.
A woman.
She ran to Alex, dark hair wild, her white shirt instantly staining with his blood as she threw her arms around him.
"Alex!" Her voice cracked, her hands frantic as they roamed over his body, searching for injuries.
Alex only smiled. Soft. Familiar. Unlike anything Sairaj had ever seen on him.
"I'm still alive," he said simply.
She pulled back, cupping his face, pressing frantic kisses to his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. "You better be," she whispered fiercely.
Then she turned, her sharp eyes landing on Sairaj.
For a second, she simply looked at him. Taking him in. Then, she nodded.
"Thank you," she said, voice steady.
Sairaj inclined his head slightly.
Then, as if this was just another night, she dusted herself off and smiled. "Stay for dinner," she offered.
Sairaj's lips curled at the edges, amusement flickering in his otherwise cold expression.
"Should I expect another assault?" he asked.
Alex barked out a laugh, shaking his head. "Not unless you insult her cooking."
Sairaj huffed, exhaling slowly, the adrenaline settling. He'd survived the night. "Maybe some other day", I state.
"Invite me to the wedding, Suryavanshi", Alex states, teasing.
I simply nod and walk to the car, the street lights dimming as I walk. Nothing worked, not even all the action, to soothe my raging nerves, a specific someone has a strong hold on my thoughts these days. Even the smoke doesn't seem to erase her out of my system.
Everything, stilled, the war for tonight came to an end. But there was a war brewing inside him , spreading through him like molten lava. The war was when, between all the chaos, she was on his mind.
All the damn time.
He walked into the Vitalio hotel bar, rolling his shoulders back, exhaustion laced with irritation. Whiskey. His voice comes out sharp, clipped.
A sugar-coated voice hums from his left. A blonde sin. Always blondes.
"Whiskey? Straight?" she muses, sliding onto the stool beside him, her knee grazing his. "You look like you need something stronger. Or someone."
He doesn't react. His fingers tighten around the glass as the bartender sets it down, the liquid catching the dim light.
She leans in, her perfume sickly sweet, nails dragging lightly along his forearm. "I know a better way to unwind."
He exhales through his nose, amusement flickering for half a second. A few months ago, hell, even a few weeks ago, he might've taken her up on the offer. She's his usual type-statuesque, beautiful, and completely disposable.
But tonight, his body is running high on something more potent than lust. Adrenaline. Frustration. A certain woman calling him a bad kisser.
His jaw clenches. The ring on his finger feels heavier than before.
The blonde takes his silence as an invitation, leaning even closer, lips almost brushing his ear. "You're staring at your drink like it's gonna take the edge off. I can do that for you."
He finally turns his head, eyes locking onto hers. They lack warmth, lack interest.
"Not tonight."
Surprise flashes across her face before she recovers, a slow smirk curling her lips. "Oh? So you do have limits."
He doesn't answer. Just downs the whiskey in one go and gets up, leaving her with nothing but a faint trace of his cologne.
Sliding off his bloodied shirt, he steps into the shower, letting the scalding water rinse away the chaos of the day. He doesn't glance at the ring on his finger. Doesn't need to. He already knows it's there, burning against his skin like a silent challenge.
His phone buzzes.
A text.
Biwi.
A smirk twitches at the corner of his lips. Her second time texting today. He'd expected her to be seething after the Bentley. Counted on it.
But this? This is something else.
"You bastard. You're out parading with your hoes while telling me to end things?"
His grip tightens around the phone.
End things.
So she hasn't yet. And that realization settles inside him like an undeniable truth-one he has no intention of fighting.
Another text follows.
A tabloid headline. A picture. The blonde from downstairs, fingers laced around his arm. The title screaming at him:
"Is Amber Agnihotri out of the picture?"
His jaw locks.
He presses call.
She picks up on the first ring, her breath sharp, angry.
"Tsk tsk, language, biwi."
Her fury crackles through the phone, and I revel in it. God, she's easy to provoke.
"Asshole. I'm not your biwi." her voice slurred. She's drunk.
A smirk tugs at my lips.
"Jealous?" I taunt, because I know she is. She can lie to herself all she wants, but that tabloid got under her skin.
Her scoff is sharp, but I hear the way her breath hitches. She inhales deeply before speaking again, maintaining her composure. And she's nowhere near composed.
"I'm not jealous. I won't be disrespected, Sairaj. I don't care who you sleep with, but I won't take disrespect in public."
A dark chuckle rumbles in my chest. She doesn't care? Then why did she text me the moment she saw it? Why is she seething like I put a dagger through her pride?
"Tell me if I'm out of the picture, Sairaj," she bites out. "I'd happily take the ring off."
I go silent. Just to watch her squirm.
Then, smoothly, "Then take it off."
Silence stretches between us, thick and telling.
She won't. We both know it.
I can hear the way her breath falters. She's staring at the ring, debating, fighting herself.
I hum, because I already know the answer. She won't take it off, because she belongs to me.
"You won't," I murmur, my voice quieter now, but sharp. "Because no matter how much you fight this, you know you're mine."
I can practically taste her frustration.
"You're delusional."
"Maybe," I allow, leaning back, twirling the glass in my hand. "Or maybe I just know you better than you know yourself."
The silence between us shifts. Something tightens.
"You can keep playing your mind games, but I will find a way out of this engagement, Sairaj. Over my dead body will I marry you."
I let out a slow, dark laugh. So dramatic, my biwi.
"Careful, biwi. Don't make promises you can't keep."
The moment the line cuts, I stay still, rolling her words in my head.
"I don't care who you sleep with."
Interesting.
She doesn't care? Who I sleep with?
Good for her.
I roll the whiskey glass between my fingers, staring at the liquid as if it holds all the answers. My jaw clenches, the words echoing in my head.
She doesn't care.
Then neither do I.
This marriage will always be just business and revenge-revenge she would never know about. That's all it will ever be. The images from that night, the screams, the burning ware house,.blurring my vision. And i throw the glass, the pieces shattering to silence the voices, the voices of tha past that haunt me to this day. And she doesn't even remember any of it. None of it.
Revenge, that's all it will ever be. I say it to the empty room, my voice low, firm. As if saying it out loud to remind myself.
As if it drowns out the way my stomach twisted when I saw her name flash on my screen. As if it erases the fury that surged through me when I imagined her taking off that ring.
As if I believe it.
Author's note:
It was a little heavy on the violent side, but I hope you're one of those who like their man in action. If you're loving the story, please let me know in the comments.💕
Write a comment ...