Adrian S. D’Costa
Part 1 – The Last Supper
The night smelled of salt and rust, the sea breeze drifting from the Arabian coast into the narrow gullies of Colaba. Neon lights flickered above paan shops and half-shuttered bars, their red and blue haze blurring with the cigarette smoke that hung thick in the air. It was a Saturday night, but the streets were too quiet, as if the city itself was holding its breath.
Inside Casa Fortuna, an old Portuguese villa-turned-restaurant, twelve men sat around a mahogany dining table polished to an unnatural gleam. Each man wore an expensive suit, their watches glinting faintly under the chandelier. But beneath the polished exterior, tension lingered like an uninvited guest.
At the head of the table sat Vikram Malhotra, the man newspapers never dared name but the city whispered about with fear. He was fifty-three, lean as a blade, his silver hair combed back with precision. His eyes, black and unreadable, could make even seasoned killers shift uncomfortably. In the underworld, they called him “The Accountant,” not because he handled books, but because he calculated lives the way one calculated debts.
Tonight was not a casual gathering. It was a test of loyalty.
“Gentlemen,” Vikram said softly, slicing into his steak as though the meeting were nothing more than dinner with friends. “We are standing on the edge of a new era. The old ways are finished. Mumbai is changing. If we don’t adapt, we will be swallowed whole.”
No one replied. Only the faint clink of cutlery broke the silence.
Among those seated was Arjun Sen, a man in his early thirties, with sharp cheekbones and a permanent scar running down his jawline. He was one of Vikram’s most trusted lieutenants—born in the chawls, raised on fists and fire, he had built his reputation through brutal efficiency. Tonight, though, he felt something shift. Vikram’s words were not just a speech; they were a warning.
“The Russians are crawling into our docks,” Vikram continued, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “The Nigerians are poisoning our streets with their white powder. And now… Delhi businessmen think they can use our city as a playground.” His voice hardened. “Do you know what happens to a playground when too many children fight for the same swing? It breaks.”
A murmur ran around the table. The men knew what he meant. The underworld was no longer just about gold smuggling and extortion. It was an open battlefield of narcotics, real estate, cybercrime, and politics.
Vikram leaned back, scanning each face. “Which brings me to tonight. One among you has been whispering to the police.”
The air froze. Every man stiffened.
Arjun’s heart thudded. He had heard rumors—an informer inside their circle—but he never thought Vikram would bring it to the table like this.
Vikram gestured, and two guards dragged in a man bound with ropes. His mouth was gagged, but his eyes—wild with terror—spoke volumes. It was Ramesh Korgaonkar, a mid-level enforcer, someone Arjun had shared drinks with a dozen times.
“He thought he could trade our secrets for his freedom,” Vikram said coldly. “Gentlemen, let this be a lesson.”
The guards forced Ramesh to his knees. Vikram did not move. Instead, his gaze fell on Arjun.
“Arjun,” he said. “You will handle it.”
The words hit like a gunshot.
Arjun rose slowly, every step toward Ramesh heavy as lead. He could feel the eyes of the syndicate drilling into his back. Ramesh’s muffled pleas grew frantic. His face was red, veins bulging against the gag.
Arjun hesitated for half a second—long enough for Vikram to notice.
“Do not confuse mercy with weakness,” Vikram murmured, his voice slicing through the silence. “Weakness is betrayal.”
Something inside Arjun snapped into place. He drew his revolver, placed it against Ramesh’s temple, and pulled the trigger.
The sound was deafening, echoing against the high ceiling. Blood sprayed across the polished floor, staining the white tiles like spilled wine. Ramesh collapsed, lifeless.
Arjun’s hand trembled for only a moment before he steadied it, holstering the weapon. He turned back to the table, expression unreadable.
Vikram smiled faintly, a predator’s smile. “Good. Loyalty must be proven, not claimed.”
The dinner continued as though nothing had happened. The men returned to their food, though the taste had long vanished from their tongues.
Arjun sat back down, but the ghost of Ramesh’s eyes stayed with him. For the first time, he wondered—not about survival, but about escape.
Outside, the city buzzed with the illusion of normalcy: taxis honking, couples strolling along Marine Drive, young men laughing outside cheap bars. But in that villa, a new chapter had begun.
The Mumbai Syndicate had drawn its line in blood. And Arjun Sen, once a loyal soldier, felt the first crack in his allegiance.
He knew one thing for certain—there was no turning back.
Part 2 – Shadows in the Rain
The city never really slept, but when the monsoon rolled in, Mumbai felt like it was drowning in its own secrets. Sheets of rain battered tin roofs and washed the alleys clean of yesterday’s blood, only to leave them ready for tomorrow’s stains.
Arjun Sen leaned against the balcony of his Worli apartment, cigarette glowing faintly in the dark. Below him, the streets looked like black rivers, headlights cutting through the downpour. He hadn’t slept since the dinner at Casa Fortuna. Ramesh’s face haunted him—the muffled cries, the pleading eyes. He told himself he had no choice, that Vikram had ordered it, but guilt had its own mathematics. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard the echo of the gunshot.
A knock at the door pulled him back. Arjun flicked the cigarette into the rain and turned.
It was Inspector Meera Deshpande. She didn’t bother with introductions anymore. She had been circling the syndicate for months, always a step too far to catch them, yet never far enough to be forgotten. In her mid-thirties, with sharp eyes that cut sharper than any blade, she carried herself like someone who had buried her share of ghosts.
“You smoke too much, Arjun,” she said casually, stepping inside uninvited. Rainwater dripped from her hair onto the tiled floor.
Arjun narrowed his eyes. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“And yet, here I am.” She walked past him, glancing around the spartan apartment. No family photos, no decorations—just bare walls and the smell of solitude. “Ramesh Korgaonkar is missing. His wife filed a complaint yesterday.”
Arjun’s jaw tightened. “And you came here because?”
“Because,” Meera said, fixing him with a steady look, “I know what you did.”
The silence between them stretched like a taut wire.
“You think you can walk into my house and—” Arjun began, but Meera cut him off.
“I don’t think, Arjun. I know. Vikram made you pull the trigger. That’s how he works—he stains your hands so you can’t wash them clean. But I also know something else: you’re not like him. Not yet.”
Arjun stared at her, rage and fear wrestling inside him. “If you know so much, why are you still alive?”
Meera’s lips curved in a faint, humorless smile. “Because I’m useful. And because you haven’t decided which side you’re on.”
She moved closer, lowering her voice. “Help me bring Vikram down. You don’t have to die with him.”
Arjun turned away, fists clenched. “Get out.”
Meera studied him for a moment longer, then left, her footsteps echoing down the stairwell.
When the door shut, Arjun exhaled shakily. He wanted to believe he was in control, but the truth gnawed at him—Meera was right. Vikram had bound him with blood.
Later that night, in a dimly lit warehouse near the docks, Vikram Malhotra held court again. Crates of electronics and contraband lined the walls, the scent of diesel and salt heavy in the air. The men around him listened as he laid out their next move.
“The Russians have docked a new shipment,” Vikram said, pointing to a map spread on the table. “Heroin. Enough to flood every college campus in the city. They think they can slip it past us.”
He looked up, his gaze sharp. “We’ll take it before they do.”
Arjun stood silently at his side, the perfect lieutenant. But inside, he was unraveling. Every word Vikram spoke sounded like a nail sealing a coffin.
One of the younger men, Sahil, barely twenty-four, spoke up. “Boss, the Russians… they won’t take this lightly.”
Vikram smiled coldly. “That is why we hit them harder than they can imagine. Fear is currency, Sahil. Without it, we are nothing.”
Arjun caught the flicker of doubt in Sahil’s eyes. He recognized it—he had seen it in the mirror hours ago.
The raid went down two nights later, during a lull in the rain. Armed with pistols and machetes, Vikram’s men stormed the docks like phantoms. Gunfire cracked against the roar of the sea, Russian voices shouting in the dark. Arjun moved like a machine, taking cover, firing, advancing. By dawn, the Russians were either dead or scattered, their shipment hijacked.
Back at the warehouse, Vikram oversaw the unloading of crates, his smile sharp and satisfied.
“Loyalty, gentlemen,” he declared, raising a glass of whisky. “This city bends only to those who seize it.”
The men cheered, adrenaline still burning in their veins. But Arjun said nothing. His eyes drifted toward the open sea beyond the docks. For the first time, he wondered what lay beyond Mumbai’s horizon—whether escape was still possible, or whether he was already buried too deep.
As the sun rose, casting a blood-red glow over the water, a single thought pierced his mind: How long before I’m the one on my knees, like Ramesh?
Part 3 – Blood in the Water
The sea was always a witness. It swallowed secrets, carried whispers, and returned corpses bloated with truth. That morning, the Arabian waves spat out one such body at Haji Ali—a Russian, throat slit, tattoos faded under saltwater. The newspapers would call it “gang rivalry.” The police knew better.
And Inspector Meera Deshpande knew best.
She stood on the shore, raincoat clinging to her, hair tied back tightly. The constables dragged the corpse onto the rocks, cameras flashing. The Russian syndicate would not let this insult pass. Retaliation was a matter of time.
“Send the body to JJ Hospital,” Meera ordered. Her eyes lingered on the tattoos—a black wolf, an Eastern cross. She had seen those marks before, back when Moscow’s shadows had first touched Mumbai’s docks.
As she turned away, her phone buzzed. An unknown number. She hesitated, then answered.
A voice, low and taut, spoke: “You don’t know me. But if you want Vikram Malhotra, you need me alive.”
She froze. “Who is this?”
The line clicked dead.
Across the city, in a dimly lit bar tucked between forgotten warehouses, Arjun Sen sat nursing a glass of rum. The room smelled of sweat, liquor, and damp wood. A ceiling fan whirred above, useless against the monsoon humidity. He stared into the amber liquid, but his thoughts churned darker than the sea outside.
Sahil slid into the seat opposite him, nervously glancing around. His shirt clung to him with rain, his hands restless.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Arjun muttered.
“Neither should you,” Sahil shot back. He leaned forward. “Listen, Arjun… last night, when we hit the docks—did you see Vikram’s face? He was… enjoying it. Like it wasn’t business, but sport.”
Arjun didn’t answer.
Sahil lowered his voice. “This isn’t the same world anymore. It’s not smuggling gold or liquor like our fathers did. It’s blood, drugs, children on the streets with needles in their veins. I didn’t sign up for this.”
Arjun’s gaze hardened. “Then why are you here?”
Sahil’s voice cracked. “Because if I leave, he’ll kill me. The way he killed Ramesh.”
The name was a blade. Arjun clenched his jaw, the memory flashing before him. He knew Sahil was right. There was no leaving Vikram Malhotra’s syndicate—only dying out of it.
Before he could respond, the bartender switched the TV channel. Breaking news flashed: “Russian national found murdered on Mumbai coast—suspected mafia link.”
The entire bar fell silent. Men exchanged uneasy looks. Everyone knew what it meant—war was coming.
Arjun pushed his glass away. “Go home, Sahil. Stay out of sight.”
But in his gut, he knew there was no safety left for any of them.
That night, Vikram Malhotra held another gathering, this time in his glass-walled high-rise office overlooking the Queen’s Necklace. The city glittered below, oblivious to the storms brewing in its veins.
Arjun stood beside him, a loyal shadow, while the others listened.
“The Russians have insulted us for the last time,” Vikram declared, pacing slowly. His voice was calm, but his eyes burned. “They bring their filth to my city, they dare steal from my docks, and now they bleed on my shores.”
One of the men, Iqbal Sheikh, a veteran smuggler, spoke cautiously: “Boss, the Russians are backed by Dubai money. If we hit them again, it won’t just be them—it’ll be the Emiratis too.”
Vikram stopped. For a moment, silence reigned. Then he smiled, thin and dangerous. “Then let Dubai learn what happens when it wagers against me.”
Arjun felt a chill. This wasn’t strategy anymore. It was madness dressed as power.
After the meeting, Vikram called Arjun into the private lounge. The room was quiet, lined with bookshelves and expensive cigars. Rain streaked the glass walls, the city lights blurred behind it.
“Arjun,” Vikram said softly, pouring himself whisky. “Do you know why I chose you at Casa Fortuna?”
Arjun’s throat tightened. He said nothing.
“Because loyalty isn’t a word. It’s an act. You didn’t hesitate, even if your eyes betrayed you. I saw it.” Vikram handed him a glass. “You’ll inherit all this one day—if you don’t falter.”
Arjun took the whisky, his reflection trembling in the amber liquid. He wanted to believe it was a promise. But in Vikram’s world, promises were cages.
Meanwhile, Inspector Meera sat in her office at the crime branch headquarters, files stacked around her like walls. Rain drummed against the windows. She replayed the anonymous call in her mind. If you want Vikram Malhotra, you need me alive.
She scribbled a note: Inside source?
A knock on her door. A constable entered with an envelope. “No sender, madam. Dropped at the front desk.”
Meera tore it open. Inside was a single photograph—Arjun Sen, standing over Ramesh’s corpse at Casa Fortuna. The image was grainy but undeniable.
On the back, scrawled in hurried handwriting: He is your key.
Meera’s pulse quickened. She stared at Arjun’s face in the photo. Not cold like Vikram’s. Not merciless. Haunted.
Maybe the caller was right. Maybe Arjun Sen was the crack in Vikram Malhotra’s empire.
That same night, in a safe house near Byculla, Arjun woke from a restless half-sleep. The rain had eased, but thunder still rolled in the distance. He splashed water on his face, stared into the mirror. His scarred jaw looked sharper in the dim light, his eyes hollow.
His phone buzzed. Unknown number.
He answered cautiously.
“Arjun Sen,” the voice said. It was the same one that had called Meera earlier. “You don’t know me, but I know you. And I know Vikram will kill you when he’s done. Help me stop him.”
Arjun’s grip tightened on the phone. “Who are you?”
The voice chuckled darkly. “Let’s just say… I was one of him, once. And I escaped. Meet me tomorrow night, Mazgaon docks. If you don’t come, you’ll regret it.”
The line went dead.
Arjun stood frozen, the weight of too many choices crushing him. Between Vikram, the police, and now this mysterious stranger, the noose around his neck was tightening.
Outside, the sea kept roaring, restless and hungry. Somewhere in the dark water, sharks circled, waiting for blood.
And in Mumbai’s veins, war had already begun.
Part 4 – The Stranger at Mazgaon
The Mazgaon docks at midnight looked like a graveyard of steel and shadows. Containers loomed like silent tombs, cranes stood frozen against the moonlight, and the tide slapped restlessly against rotting wooden posts. The city was asleep, but here, the underworld was wide awake.
Arjun Sen adjusted his jacket and stepped carefully onto the slick planks. The smell of salt and diesel clung heavy to the air. His hand brushed the revolver tucked into his waistband. He had told no one he was coming—not even Sahil. Especially not Vikram.
A lone figure emerged from between two stacked containers. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a hood that shadowed most of his face. He walked with the easy grace of someone too used to danger.
“You came,” the man said. His voice was the same as the one on the phone—low, gravelly, dangerous.
Arjun didn’t answer. His eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
The man pulled back his hood. His face was rugged, scarred, but his eyes were sharp, calculating. “Name’s Kabir Ansari. Once, they used to call me Vikram Malhotra’s right hand.”
The name hit Arjun like a punch. Kabir Ansari was a ghost—rumored to be dead years ago after a bloody fallout with Vikram. Stories said he’d been shot on the Versova beach, buried in the sand. Yet here he stood, alive, very real.
“You’re lying,” Arjun muttered.
Kabir smirked. “If I were, you’d already be dead. Vikram doesn’t let ghosts walk.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Listen carefully. Vikram isn’t building an empire anymore—he’s digging his grave. The Russians aren’t just angry; they’re backed by bigger money than you can imagine. Dubai’s investors. Politicians in Delhi. He thinks he can crush them with fear, but fear won’t save him this time.”
Arjun’s pulse quickened. “Why tell me?”
“Because,” Kabir said, “I know his pattern. He builds loyalty, then burns it. When you stop being useful, he’ll turn you into ash. Ramesh was only the beginning.”
Arjun’s jaw tightened. “So what do you want? Revenge?”
Kabir’s smile was bitter. “I want survival. And so do you. Together, we can dismantle him. Piece by piece.”
Arjun shook his head. “You’re asking me to betray the man who owns half this city.”
“No,” Kabir corrected, his eyes gleaming. “I’m asking you to survive him. There’s a difference.”
Far away, in his high-rise office, Vikram Malhotra poured himself a drink. The glass clinked softly as he stared out at the rain-soaked skyline of Mumbai. His empire glittered below—clubs, hotels, warehouses, men with guns waiting for his word. Yet he felt the itch of unease, a predator sensing another predator in the dark.
Iqbal Sheikh entered quietly. “Boss, the Russians are regrouping. They’ve called reinforcements from Goa. And there’s talk… about Kabir Ansari.”
Vikram’s hand froze on the glass. Slowly, he turned. “What talk?”
“Some men say he’s alive.”
Vikram’s laugh was sharp, humorless. “Ghost stories. Kabir is feeding crabs at the bottom of the sea. I put two bullets in him myself.”
Iqbal hesitated. “Still, men whisper. And whispers… travel.”
Vikram’s smile vanished. He gripped the glass until it cracked, whisky spilling over his hand. “If Kabir is alive, I’ll finish what I started.”
His eyes burned. “No ghost walks in my city.”
The next day, Arjun sat in his car at Marine Drive, the waves slapping against the tetrapods. His mind churned. Kabir’s words echoed: He builds loyalty, then burns it.
He remembered Meera’s warning, Sahil’s fear, Ramesh’s death. And now, Kabir—the man Vikram had supposedly killed—standing alive, offering alliance.
Arjun felt trapped between two storms. If he sided with Kabir, Vikram would gut him alive. If he stayed loyal, the Russians and Dubai sharks would swallow them both.
The phone buzzed. An unknown number again. Arjun answered.
“Inspector Meera Deshpande here.”
His grip tightened on the wheel. “How did you get this number?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Arjun. If I wanted, I’d know what brand of cigarettes you smoke. Listen, I have something.” Her tone sharpened. “A photograph. You. At Casa Fortuna. Standing over Ramesh’s body.”
Arjun’s blood ran cold.
“I don’t want to arrest you,” Meera continued. “I want Vikram. You help me, you walk free. Otherwise, when he burns you, that photograph burns you too.”
The line clicked dead.
Arjun stared at the sea. Three paths stretched before him—Vikram, Kabir, Meera. Each one led to betrayal. Each one promised survival at a cost.
For the first time, he realized he was no longer choosing who to follow. He was choosing who would kill him last.
That evening, Sahil came running into Arjun’s apartment, drenched in sweat and fear.
“They killed Iqbal Sheikh!” he blurted.
Arjun’s eyes widened. “What?”
“They found him in his car, throat cut, near Bandra. No one knows who. Some say Russians. Some say Vikram himself.” Sahil’s voice shook. “If he can kill Iqbal, he can kill any of us.”
Arjun felt his stomach knot. The syndicate was crumbling from the inside. Fear spread faster than bullets.
Sahil’s eyes searched his. “What do we do, Arjun? Where do we run?”
Arjun didn’t answer. Instead, he looked out at the rain-smeared window, his scar catching the dim light.
In his head, Kabir’s voice whispered again: When you stop being useful, he’ll turn you into ash.
And for the first time, Arjun wondered if the war for Mumbai had already begun—not between gangs, but within himself.
Part 5 – The First Strike
The monsoon had turned the city into a theatre of chaos. Streets flooded like veins spilling open, taxis stalled in knee-deep water, and every alley smelled of damp rot. But in the underworld, rain was no deterrent—it was cover.
That night, Vikram Malhotra moved like a storm himself. His convoy of black SUVs rolled through South Mumbai, headlights slicing through the curtain of rain. Inside the lead vehicle, Vikram sat silent, eyes fixed ahead, his silver hair slicked back like steel. Next to him, Arjun Sen sat stiff, hand brushing against the cold grip of his revolver.
“Tonight,” Vikram said at last, his voice low, “we remind this city who owns its breath.”
Arjun didn’t reply. He knew what was coming. The Russians had regrouped in a warehouse near Sewri, and Vikram intended to turn it into a graveyard.
The SUVs screeched to a halt outside the rusting structure. Armed men spilled out, weapons ready. The rain hammered down, masking the sound of boots and whispered commands. Arjun followed Vikram inside, every nerve taut.
The warehouse smelled of mold and petrol. Crates were stacked high, shadows stretched long under the flickering lights. Somewhere in the dark, Russian voices barked orders.
Then Vikram raised his hand. A single gesture.
Gunfire erupted.
The sound was deafening—bullets cracking against steel, sparks flying, men shouting in Hindi and Russian. Arjun ducked behind a crate, firing into the chaos. He saw one of Vikram’s men drop, chest torn open, another clutching his leg as blood poured out.
But Vikram… Vikram walked forward as if bullets feared him. Calm, precise, each shot from his pistol finding its mark. He was fifty-three, but he moved like a man possessed.
Arjun’s eyes caught a Russian scrambling for cover. He fired, the man’s skull snapping back. Another lunged with a knife; Arjun spun, slammed the butt of his gun into his jaw, then shot him point-blank.
By the time the echoes died, the floor was a mosaic of blood and bodies. The Russians had been annihilated.
Vikram surveyed the carnage, expression unreadable. He turned to Arjun, his black eyes gleaming.
“This city bends,” he said softly, “to those who make it bleed.”
Hours later, back at the safehouse, Arjun sat alone, hands trembling as he cleaned his gun. The metallic smell of blood clung to him. He had killed before, but tonight felt different. This wasn’t survival. It was slaughter.
His phone buzzed. A message. Unknown number.
You chose wrong tonight. Vikram’s strike will cost you more than you know. —K.A.
Kabir Ansari.
Arjun’s heart pounded. How did Kabir know? Was he watching? Was he inside the warehouse himself?
Before he could think further, the door burst open. Sahil stumbled in, drenched, face pale with terror.
“They hit our men at Byculla!” he gasped. “While we were busy at Sewri—the Russians struck back. Fifteen dead.”
Arjun felt the ground shift under him.
It wasn’t just one battle. It was war.
The next morning, Inspector Meera Deshpande walked into the morgue at JJ Hospital. Rows of bodies lay under white sheets, the smell of antiseptic barely covering the stench of death. She pulled one sheet back. A boy. Barely twenty. A bullet in his chest.
She closed her eyes, rage simmering. This wasn’t just mafia-on-mafia anymore. Innocent recruits were dying, drawn into a game they didn’t understand.
Her deputy approached. “Madam, news is spreading fast. The Russians are calling in reinforcements from Goa. And word is, Dubai money is flowing in. This city’s about to burn.”
Meera’s jaw hardened. “Then we don’t wait for the fire. We cut off the match.”
In her mind, she saw Arjun’s haunted eyes. The photograph of him at Casa Fortuna. The call that promised he was the key.
If she didn’t turn him soon, he would be lost—either to Vikram’s madness or to Kabir’s vengeance.
That evening, Vikram summoned his lieutenants to Casa Fortuna again. The villa smelled faintly of polish and old blood. Arjun stood among the circle of men, Sahil at his side, trying to hide his trembling.
Vikram paced slowly, his voice calm but lethal.
“Last night we buried Russians. Today they bury our men. This is not war—it is insult. And insult demands blood.”
His eyes landed on Sahil. “You will lead the next strike.”
Sahil froze. “Boss… I—I’m not ready—”
Vikram’s gaze turned to ice. “Do you doubt me?”
Arjun stepped forward quickly. “Boss, Sahil is young. Let me—”
“No,” Vikram cut him off. “You will accompany him. If he fails, you put a bullet in his head yourself.”
The room went silent. Sahil’s face drained of color. Arjun felt his stomach knot.
Vikram smiled faintly. “Loyalty must be tested. Again and again.”
Later, as they drove through the rain, Sahil sat trembling beside Arjun.
“He’s going to kill me,” Sahil whispered. “If not the Russians, then him. He’ll make you do it, the way he made you kill Ramesh.”
Arjun gripped the wheel, knuckles white. He had no answer. He knew Sahil was right.
Suddenly, a motorcycle roared out of the dark, cutting across their path. The rider threw something against the windshield—a small, black object.
The world exploded.
Glass shattered, fire engulfed the car, metal shrieked. Arjun’s body slammed against the door, ears ringing, smoke choking his lungs. He dragged himself out, coughing, blood running down his face.
Beside him, Sahil lay motionless, half-buried under twisted steel.
Through the haze of fire and rain, Arjun saw a figure standing at a distance. Hood pulled up, face shadowed. Watching.
Then the figure disappeared into the night.
Arjun staggered to his feet, chest heaving. The city roared around him—sirens, flames, the taste of iron on his tongue.
And in that moment, he knew:
This was no longer Vikram’s war against the Russians.
It was a war on him.
Part 6 – The Hunter Becomes the Hunted
The rain had almost drowned the fire, but smoke still curled into the night like a dying breath. Arjun stumbled through the wreckage of the blown-out car, his shirt soaked with rain and blood. His ears rang, the world a blur of red and gray.
Sahil’s broken body lay half in the flames, half on the asphalt. His wide eyes stared at nothing. Arjun bent down, fingers brushing the boy’s wrist, but there was no pulse. He swallowed hard, bile rising in his throat. Sahil had been too young, too frightened—another pawn sacrificed in Vikram’s endless game.
Blue lights flickered in the distance. Sirens. The police were already on their way.
Arjun forced himself up, limped into the shadows of a nearby alley. His lungs burned, each breath a blade. Somewhere behind him, the car hissed and groaned as it collapsed into itself.
He didn’t stop until he reached an abandoned textile mill. Inside, he collapsed against a pillar, coughing black smoke from his lungs. His phone buzzed. He pulled it out with shaking hands.
Another message. From Kabir.
Now you see. He will burn you too. The question is: do you burn first, or do you burn him?
Arjun hurled the phone across the floor. It cracked, but the words had already branded themselves into his mind.
By dawn, the newspapers screamed of the explosion at Byculla. Photographs of the charred wreck filled the front pages. The headlines speculated: Gang warfare? Police silence?
Inspector Meera Deshpande tossed the paper onto her desk and rubbed her temples. She hadn’t slept. Her phone had rung all night with calls from higher-ups demanding answers.
The blast had shaken the city. It wasn’t just underworld business anymore—it was terror.
“Madam,” her deputy said, entering with a folder. “Forensics confirm—C-4 explosives. Military-grade. Not street-level stuff.”
Meera’s eyes narrowed. “Which means someone with money and connections supplied it.”
“Yes, madam. And… there’s something else. Witnesses say they saw a man walking away from the wreck. Scarred jaw. Mid-thirties.”
“Arjun Sen,” Meera whispered.
Her deputy looked uneasy. “Do we arrest him?”
Meera shook her head. “Not yet. He’s not the enemy. He’s the key. If he survives Vikram, he might just lead us straight to him.”
She picked up the photo of Arjun at Casa Fortuna, the haunted look in his eyes. “He’s running out of places to hide.”
Vikram Malhotra’s office that morning was quieter than usual. The usual laughter of his men was absent, replaced by tense whispers.
Vikram sat at his desk, staring at a glass of whisky he hadn’t touched. The news of the explosion was everywhere. Sahil was dead. Arjun was missing.
Iqbal Sheikh had been right—whispers traveled faster than bullets. And now, his men whispered about Kabir.
“Boss,” one of his lieutenants said nervously, “maybe… maybe it was the Russians who planted the bomb—”
“No.” Vikram’s voice cut sharp. “That was Kabir. I know his signature. He thinks shadows will protect him. They won’t.”
He slammed the glass down, whisky splashing across the desk. “And if Arjun is alive, bring him to me. Now.”
The men scattered.
Vikram leaned back, closing his eyes. Kabir Ansari, his once-trusted brother-in-arms, alive and taunting him. It was an insult he couldn’t forgive. But what gnawed at him more was the thought of Arjun—loyal, scarred Arjun—slipping away, maybe even turning.
For the first time in years, Vikram felt the cold bite of paranoia.
Arjun spent the day in hiding. He stole clothes from a laundry line, patched up his wounds with stolen antiseptic, and tried to disappear into the city’s chaos. But Mumbai was no longer his home. Every streetlight felt like an eye, every passing stranger a hunter.
As evening fell, he slipped into a dingy Irani café in Dongri. The place smelled of strong chai and old wood. He sat at a corner table, head down.
“Bad night?” a voice asked.
Arjun looked up sharply.
Kabir Ansari sat across from him, as if he had been waiting all along. No guards, no weapons visible, just calm defiance.
“You—” Arjun began, but Kabir held up a hand.
“Relax. If I wanted you dead, you’d still be burning in that car. Sit. Listen.”
Arjun’s fists clenched, but he didn’t leave.
Kabir leaned forward. “Vikram ordered Sahil’s death. Don’t fool yourself. That boy was a liability. He made you pull the trigger on Ramesh, and he made you watch Sahil burn. That’s his way. He makes you the killer, so when the time comes, the guilt kills you before he has to.”
Arjun’s chest tightened. He wanted to deny it, but the truth pressed too hard.
“You still think loyalty saves you?” Kabir’s voice sharpened. “Ask yourself: why did he send you to Sewri while Byculla burned? Why did Sahil die while he watched from his glass palace? Because you’re just a piece on his board, Arjun. Nothing more.”
Arjun’s scarred jaw flexed. “And what are you offering? To replace him?”
Kabir’s eyes hardened. “No. To end him. With me, you don’t live in chains. With me, you fight for survival, not his empire. Think about it.”
He slid a folded slip of paper across the table. “Tomorrow night. Dock 14. Decide by then. Or Vikram will decide for you.”
Before Arjun could respond, Kabir was gone—vanished into the crowd.
That night, as Arjun lay on a cot in a rented backroom, dreams tore at him. Ramesh’s pleading eyes. Sahil’s broken body. Vikram’s cold smile. Kabir’s scarred face. Meera’s steady gaze.
Four voices pulled him in different directions—fear, guilt, vengeance, justice.
When he awoke, the choice still clawed at him.
He was no longer the hunter.
He was the hunted.
And the city was closing in.
Part 7 – The Trap Tightens
The city had a way of suffocating those who thought they could outrun it. For Arjun Sen, every corner now looked like an ambush, every face a masked threat. The explosion that killed Sahil had marked him, not only in the underworld but also on the streets. His scar was no longer just a memory of old battles—it was a beacon.
Arjun spent the day drifting through safehouses, never staying long. He slept in broken chairs, ate stale bread, and kept his revolver under his pillow. But exhaustion was catching up. By nightfall, he found himself at Dock 14, the note Kabir had given him folded in his pocket.
The docks were silent, save for the lap of black water and the creak of rusting chains. Cargo containers towered like sleeping giants. Arjun kept to the shadows, his hand steady on his weapon.
“Good,” a voice said softly behind him.
Arjun spun. Kabir Ansari stepped out from the dark, cigarette glowing faintly.
“You came,” Kabir said. “That means you’ve already chosen.”
“I haven’t chosen anything,” Arjun replied. His voice was rough from sleeplessness. “You want Vikram dead. Meera wants Vikram in chains. And Vikram wants me to kill for him until he kills me. So tell me, Kabir—what choice do I really have?”
Kabir exhaled smoke. “The only choice that matters. Who do you want to be when this ends? His dog? Her pawn? Or your own man?”
Before Arjun could answer, headlights blazed across the dockyard. Black SUVs screeched to a halt. Armed men poured out, guns raised.
Vikram Malhotra stepped into the light.
He looked immaculate as always—gray suit sharp, silver hair perfect despite the rain. But his eyes burned like coals.
“Arjun,” he said, voice carrying across the night. “I fed you, raised you, made you into a man the city fears. And this is how you repay me? Secret meetings in the dark?”
Arjun’s chest tightened. His revolver felt heavier than ever.
Kabir stepped forward, smirking. “Still alive, old friend. Surprised?”
For the first time, Vikram’s composure cracked. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing. “I should have buried you deeper.”
The two men stared at each other, years of betrayal and blood humming in the air.
“Kill him, Arjun,” Vikram commanded suddenly, pointing at Kabir. “Do it, and all is forgiven.”
Kabir chuckled, flicking his cigarette into the water. “Go on, boy. Pull the trigger. Let him chain you forever.”
Arjun’s hands shook. Two guns. Two masters. Both waiting to see which way he would turn.
And then—sirens.
Police vans roared into the dockyard, red and blue lights flashing against steel. Armed officers spilled out, rifles raised. At their head, Inspector Meera Deshpande.
“Drop your weapons!” she shouted. Her voice cut through the night like a blade. “This ends here!”
Chaos erupted.
Vikram’s men opened fire. Police answered with a volley. Bullets tore through the night, ricocheting off metal. Sparks rained. Men screamed.
Arjun dove behind a container, firing at shadows. Beside him, Kabir crouched, grinning like a wolf.
“See, Arjun? You’re not theirs. You’re not hers. You’re free when you choose for yourself.”
Arjun gritted his teeth, eyes darting between Vikram’s advancing silhouette and Meera shouting commands from cover.
He felt the walls close in—loyalty, justice, survival—all collapsing into a single point.
Vikram strode through the gunfire like a demon untouched, his men shielding him with their lives. He fired with precision, dropping two officers in seconds. His voice rang out above the chaos.
“Arjun! Last chance! Stand with me—or die with him!”
Kabir laughed, firing back. “You hear him? Even now, he owns you.”
Arjun’s chest heaved. His scar throbbed with every heartbeat. Ramesh’s death. Sahil’s broken body. The boy in the morgue. The photograph in Meera’s hand.
He could no longer stand still.
Arjun burst from cover, firing at Vikram’s men. Two went down instantly. The dockyard froze for a moment, all eyes turning to him.
Not on Vikram’s side. Not on Kabir’s.
On his own.
Meera seized the opening. “Take them down!” she shouted. Officers advanced, bullets slamming into steel. Vikram cursed, pulling back behind his car. Kabir pressed forward, teeth bared, as if tasting the chaos.
Arjun kept moving, each shot deliberate, each breath a vow. He wasn’t fighting for Vikram anymore. He wasn’t fighting for Kabir or Meera. He was fighting to carve his own way out.
But the storm had only begun.
When the gunfire finally ebbed, the dockyard was littered with bodies. Smoke and rain mingled in the air, the stench of gunpowder thick.
Vikram was gone, vanished into the night with the few men he had left. Kabir had disappeared too, leaving only whispers in the dark.
Arjun stood among the wreckage, chest heaving, revolver empty.
Meera approached cautiously, her pistol trained on him. Her eyes searched his face—not cold, not merciless, but haunted.
“You could have shot him,” she said softly. “You could have killed Vikram tonight.”
Arjun’s voice was hoarse. “I’m done killing for someone else.”
Meera lowered her gun, though her gaze stayed sharp. “Then you’d better decide quickly who you’re killing for. Because Vikram won’t stop. And neither will Kabir.”
Rain poured harder, washing blood into the sea.
Arjun dropped his revolver into the water and walked past her, into the storm.
For the first time, he wasn’t anyone’s soldier.
But in Mumbai’s underworld, freedom was the most dangerous lie of all.
Part 8 – The Price of Freedom
Mumbai healed its wounds quickly, but scars always remained. The morning after the shootout at Dock 14, the city’s newspapers carried grainy photos of broken containers, bloodied corpses, and police vans. The headlines screamed of “Gang Wars on the Docks,” but none dared print the names behind them. Not Vikram. Not Kabir. And certainly not Arjun Sen.
In Vikram Malhotra’s world, anonymity was the sharpest weapon.
Inside his high-rise office, Vikram stood by the glass wall, overlooking the Arabian Sea. The horizon was smeared gray with storm clouds, but his reflection in the glass was harder, colder. Around him, his lieutenants stood silent, afraid to meet his gaze.
“They think they can humiliate me?” Vikram’s voice was calm, almost gentle, which made it worse. “Police storming my docks. Kabir crawling out of his grave. And Arjun—my Arjun—turning his gun on me.”
He turned slowly, eyes sweeping across the room. “Do you know what happens when a king shows weakness? His throne burns.”
He gestured toward a map of the city spread across his desk. “Burn theirs first.”
That evening, three fires erupted across Mumbai. A rival-owned nightclub in Andheri reduced to ash. A warehouse in Dharavi full of smuggled Russian liquor exploded into flames. A restaurant in Bandra where politicians secretly met—bombed to rubble. The message was unmistakable: Vikram was still king, and disloyalty was death.
Arjun read about the fires from a crumpled newspaper in a roadside stall. His body still ached from the shootout, but the words cut deeper than his wounds. He had tried to break free. He had dropped his gun into the sea. Yet the war followed him, painting the city red.
“Coffee?” the stall owner asked.
Arjun nodded absently. His eyes caught a line buried deep in the report: One dead in Bandra blast identified as Inspector Meera Deshpande’s informant.
His chest tightened. Meera’s network was collapsing. Vikram wasn’t just lashing out blindly—he was targeting anyone who dared stand against him.
“Bad news, huh?” The voice came from behind.
Arjun turned. Kabir Ansari leaned casually against a scooter, sunglasses hiding his eyes despite the overcast sky.
“You look like hell,” Kabir remarked. “Good. Means you’re waking up.”
Arjun clenched his fists. “Three fires. People dead. That’s not strength, Kabir. That’s madness.”
Kabir’s smile was humorless. “That’s Vikram. Did you really think dropping your gun into the water would free you? Freedom isn’t given, Arjun. It’s taken. And it’s paid for in blood.”
Arjun glared at him. “And what about you? You’re no better. You want revenge, not freedom.”
Kabir shrugged. “Call it what you like. But when Vikram burns, you’ll thank me.”
He handed Arjun a folded envelope. “Inside is everything you need. Names. Locations. Men who still bleed for Vikram. Cut them off, and the king starves.”
Arjun didn’t take it. “Why me?”
Kabir’s voice softened. “Because you’re already dead to him. You just haven’t accepted it yet.”
He walked away, leaving the envelope on the tea stall counter.
Arjun stared at it for a long time before finally picking it up.
That night, Inspector Meera Deshpande sat in her office, exhaustion written across her face. Her informant’s death weighed heavy. She sipped cold chai, eyes fixed on a wall of photographs—Ramesh, Sahil, Iqbal Sheikh, anonymous corpses. All threads leading back to Vikram.
Her phone buzzed. A message. Meet me. 11 p.m. St. Xavier’s rooftop.
No name. But she knew who it was.
When she arrived, Arjun was already there, leaning against the parapet. The city sprawled below them, glittering and rotten.
“You shouldn’t have called me,” she said. “If Vikram finds out—”
“He already knows,” Arjun cut her off. His voice was tired, raw. “He set the fires, didn’t he?”
Meera nodded grimly. “Yes. He’s striking anyone connected to you. To me. To Kabir. He wants to remind us fear is his empire’s backbone.”
Arjun’s jaw tightened. “Then I can’t run anymore. I have to end him.”
Meera studied him. “You sound like Kabir.”
“I’m nothing like him,” Arjun said sharply. Then, quieter: “At least I hope not.”
He handed her the envelope Kabir had left. “This has names. Places. Men who serve Vikram. You can use it.”
Meera hesitated. “Why give this to me?”
“Because I don’t know if I can trust Kabir. And I don’t know if I can trust myself.”
For a moment, their eyes met—hers steady, his haunted.
“You want freedom, Arjun?” Meera asked softly. “Then help me bring him in alive. Killing him won’t end this. It’ll just crown another devil.”
Arjun didn’t answer. But deep down, he knew she was right.
Vikram Malhotra wasn’t blind to the shifting tides. From his high-rise, he could feel betrayal closing in like the monsoon floods.
He sat alone in his private lounge, a single glass of whisky untouched before him. The television played news of the fires, his work being dissected by talking heads who had no idea they were speaking about a man watching them live.
His phone buzzed. A message.
Arjun met Meera. He gave her the envelope.
Vikram’s hand trembled just slightly. He set the phone down carefully.
So. It was true. His protégé had chosen the other side.
He stood, straightened his jacket, and whispered to himself: “Then the protégé dies with the master.”
He dialed a number. “Find Arjun. Bring him to me. Alive.”
The city’s storm was about to break.
Arjun, meanwhile, walked alone through Marine Drive, rain dripping from his hair, the sea roaring against the rocks. Freedom had seemed like a word once—shiny, unreachable, a dream whispered in smoke-filled bars. But now, freedom felt like a weight, dragging him deeper into a war he couldn’t escape.
The choice wasn’t between loyalty and betrayal anymore.
It was between living as someone else’s weapon, or dying as his own man.
And in Mumbai, both choices cost blood.
Part 9 – The King’s Trap
The rain never really stopped that week, as if the heavens themselves were trying to cleanse Mumbai of its sins. But the city’s underworld was too deep in blood for water to wash it clean.
Arjun Sen knew he was being hunted. Every instinct screamed it—the way strangers lingered too long on street corners, the way cars slowed near him, the way silence fell in places that should have been loud. Vikram Malhotra had unleashed his hunters.
For three nights, Arjun kept moving. He slept in abandoned chawls, ate at roadside stalls where no one knew his face, shaved his beard to blur his scar. But no disguise could hide him forever.
On the fourth night, his phone buzzed. A number he didn’t recognize.
“Arjun,” a voice said, smooth, calm. Vikram.
Arjun froze. His chest tightened.
“You think you can run in my city?” Vikram continued. “You think you can betray me, walk into the arms of policemen and ghosts? No. Mumbai is mine. And if you want freedom, you will drown before you taste it.”
The line went dead.
Arjun stared at the phone, breath uneven. He knew then that Vikram wasn’t simply hunting him. He was setting the stage. A trap.
That same night, Inspector Meera Deshpande was reviewing files when a call came through. A constable, panicked.
“Madam—multiple homicides in Mazgaon. Warehouse raid. Twenty dead.”
Her blood ran cold. She rushed to the scene, sirens wailing.
The warehouse was a massacre. Bodies sprawled in pools of blood, bullet holes peppering the walls. Men she recognized—small-time smugglers, informants—slaughtered.
On the floor, scrawled in blood across a crate: ARJUN SEN.
Meera’s stomach twisted. This wasn’t just a killing. It was a message.
Vikram was framing him.
Meanwhile, Arjun found himself drawn to the only place he thought he might still find clarity—the old Irani café in Dongri. The same café where Kabir Ansari had once handed him an envelope.
Kabir was waiting for him, as if he had known Arjun would come.
“They’ve painted your name in blood now,” Kabir said quietly, sliding a cup of chai across the table. “Vikram’s clever. He’s turned the city against you. The cops think you’re a butcher. His men think you’re a traitor. And the Russians?” He smirked. “They just want your head for sport.”
Arjun rubbed his scarred jaw, exhaustion dragging at him. “Why haven’t you killed me yet, Kabir? If I’m such a liability, why keep me alive?”
Kabir leaned in, eyes sharp. “Because you’re the blade that can cut him. Vikram trained you to be his weapon. Now you turn that weapon on him. Simple.”
Arjun shook his head. “You want me to do your revenge for you.”
Kabir’s smile was bitter. “Call it what you like. But if you don’t strike first, you won’t live long enough to call it anything.”
At the same time, Vikram Malhotra sat in his private lounge, sipping whisky as if nothing touched him. But inside, rage simmered.
“Spread the word,” he told his men. “Arjun Sen has betrayed us. He killed our own at Mazgaon. He works with Kabir. And he works with the police.”
The lie spread faster than truth ever could. By dawn, the entire syndicate was whispering the same story: Arjun Sen had sold his soul.
Vikram’s plan was simple. By the time Arjun came for him, there would be no allies left—only enemies.
Two days later, Arjun received another call. This time, Inspector Meera herself.
“Arjun, listen to me carefully,” she said, her voice taut. “Vikram framed you. The Mazgaon killings—your name was written in blood. Every cop in this city has your face on their desk. You can’t keep running.”
Arjun’s chest tightened. “So what do I do? Walk into your station and put a bullet in my head?”
“No,” Meera said firmly. “You help me finish this. We bring Vikram down together. Not with bullets—with evidence. That envelope you gave me—it’s already moving through channels. I can build a case. But I need you alive.”
Her voice softened. “Don’t let him turn you into the monster he wants you to be.”
For a long moment, Arjun said nothing. Then he hung up.
That night, a message reached him through a beggar boy in Bhendi Bazaar. A scrap of paper, crumpled and damp from rain.
Final meeting. Casa Fortuna. Midnight. Come alone.
No signature. But Arjun knew whose hand it was.
The villa where it had all begun. Where he had killed Ramesh. Where Vikram had first bound his loyalty in blood.
A circle, closing.
At midnight, Arjun stood before Casa Fortuna. The villa loomed in the rain, its Portuguese arches casting long shadows. The gates creaked open as if inviting him into the lion’s mouth.
Inside, the dining hall was as polished as ever. The long mahogany table gleamed under the chandelier. Only one man sat there now.
Vikram Malhotra.
He looked calm, almost paternal, as he poured two glasses of whisky.
“Sit, Arjun,” he said softly. “Let’s have our last supper.”
Arjun stepped forward slowly, revolver hidden under his jacket. He sat opposite Vikram, their eyes locking across the table.
“You’ve been busy,” Vikram said, sipping his drink. “Running to Kabir. Whispering to police. Do you think freedom comes from betrayal?”
Arjun’s voice was low, steady. “Freedom doesn’t come from killing boys like Sahil. Or making pawns bleed so you can sit on your throne.”
Vikram chuckled, shaking his head. “You still don’t understand. This city doesn’t care about freedom. It cares about fear. And you… you could have been king, Arjun. But you chose to be nothing.”
His smile vanished. “Which is why tonight, you die.”
The doors slammed open. Armed men poured in, rifles raised, surrounding Arjun.
The trap had closed.
But Arjun didn’t flinch. He looked Vikram in the eye, his voice cold.
“Then let’s see who dies first.”
The chandelier above flickered. Thunder roared outside.
The final war had begun.
Part 10 – The Last Supper
The air inside Casa Fortuna was thick with smoke and fear. The mahogany table gleamed under the chandelier, but the blood already staining its legs told the truth: this was no dinner—it was an execution ground.
Arjun Sen stood surrounded. Vikram’s gunmen lined the room, rifles trained on his chest. He could feel their hunger for his death; they weren’t men anymore, they were wolves, waiting for the master’s command.
And at the head of the table sat Vikram Malhotra, calm as a king in court, whisky glass in hand.
“You could have been my heir, Arjun,” Vikram said softly, almost regretfully. “Instead, you chose to chase illusions—freedom, justice, survival. Words for weak men. I gave you power, and you spat on it.”
Arjun’s revolver was still hidden beneath his jacket. His heart pounded, but his voice was steady. “You didn’t give me power. You gave me chains. Every man I killed, every drop of blood, it was to keep you on this throne. But tonight, Vikram… your empire ends.”
Vikram chuckled, sipping his drink. “Bold words for a dead man.” He set the glass down. “Kill him.”
The rifles cocked.
But before the first shot rang out, the villa’s windows shattered. Smoke grenades rolled in, filling the hall with choking gray. Shouts erupted. Gunfire cracked blindly in the haze.
Arjun dropped to the floor, rolled behind the table. He fired twice—two gunmen dropped, their rifles clattering.
Through the smoke, another figure moved like a phantom. Kabir Ansari. His shotgun thundered, men falling like rag dolls.
“Arjun!” Kabir shouted. “Move!”
Arjun dove for cover beside him. “You followed me here?”
Kabir grinned grimly. “Didn’t trust you to survive alone.”
The hall became hell. Gunfire tore the smoke apart, flashes lighting the chaos. Men screamed, bodies fell. The chandelier crashed down, sparks flying.
Through it all, Vikram remained standing, calm, his pistol firing with lethal precision. Even in the storm, he was the eye—cold, unshaken.
Arjun and Kabir pushed forward together, cutting through Vikram’s men. But the closer they got, the more the trap tightened. Vikram wasn’t retreating—he was drawing them in.
Kabir caught a bullet to the shoulder, staggering. “Go!” he growled, blood seeping through his shirt. “Finish it!”
Arjun pushed on, rage burning through exhaustion. He vaulted the table, tackled Vikram to the ground. The pistol slid away. The two men grappled, fists slamming, bones cracking.
“You think you’re free?” Vikram hissed, driving a knee into Arjun’s ribs. “You’re nothing without me!”
Arjun spat blood, his scarred jaw tightening. “Then I’ll be nothing.”
He slammed Vikram’s head into the floor, once, twice. But Vikram was a demon—he clawed back, seizing a broken shard of glass, slashing across Arjun’s arm.
Both men bled, panting, circling like beasts in a pit.
At that moment, the smoke cleared just enough for headlights to pierce the hall. Police vans screeched outside. Officers stormed in, led by Inspector Meera Deshpande.
“Drop your weapons!” she shouted.
Vikram froze for the first time, eyes darting between Arjun, Kabir bleeding on the floor, and the advancing police.
Meera leveled her pistol. “It’s over, Vikram.”
But Vikram only smiled. “Not for me.”
He lunged for his fallen pistol.
Arjun didn’t think. He fired first.
The shot echoed like thunder. Vikram jerked, staggered, then collapsed onto the mahogany table. The same table where loyalty had been tested, where blood had been spilled, where the empire had once feasted. Now it held its king’s corpse.
Silence fell. Only the rain outside and Kabir’s ragged breathing filled the void.
Meera lowered her weapon, eyes locked on Arjun. “You know what you’ve done.”
Arjun’s revolver slipped from his hand. “I didn’t do it for justice. I didn’t do it for revenge. I did it because someone had to end him.”
Meera’s officers swarmed the room, cuffing the surviving gunmen. Kabir tried to stand, grimacing. “The city’s yours now, Arjun. Don’t waste it.”
Arjun shook his head. “I don’t want the city. I just want to walk away.”
Meera stepped closer. “And where will you go? Every syndicate wants your blood. Every cop wants your name on a file. There’s no walking away from this.”
Arjun looked at her, scar glinting in the broken light. “Then maybe there’s no walking away at all.”
He turned, pushed past the police, and disappeared into the storm.
Days later, the papers carried the headline: Vikram Malhotra Dead in Gang War. His empire fractured overnight. Some men fled to Dubai. Others pledged to Kabir. The Russians tightened their grip on the docks.
And Arjun Sen?
No one knew. Some said he was dead, buried in the rubble of Casa Fortuna. Others whispered he’d fled Mumbai, leaving his scar as the only ghost of his name.
But in the underworld, stories lived longer than men. And the story of the scarred lieutenant who killed his king would echo in the city’s veins forever.
Because in Mumbai, freedom always came at the price of blood.
END
