Chapter 1: The Unseen King
When sweet schoolteacher Anika mistakes the most dangerous mafia don in India for a harmless businessman, their worlds collide in ways neither expected.
He’s a king of the underworld. She teaches kindergarten. Their love could get them both killed.
From stolen temple ladoos to midnight shootouts, this explosive romance proves that even the hardest hearts can break—and the gentlest souls can be fearless.
Will their love survive his brutal truth? Or will her light destroy his shadows forever?
Chapter 1: The Unseen King
The night in Prague was the kind that clung to your skin—damp, cold, and whispering of secrets better left unspoken. The Vltava River slithered beneath the Charles Bridge like a black serpent, its surface broken only by the occasional ripple of the wind. Streetlamps cast long, skeletal shadows across the cobblestones, their orange glow doing little to dispel the creeping darkness. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled midnight, its mournful chime swallowed by the fog.
Ravindran moved through the city’s underbelly like a shadow given form. His black wool overcoat—tailored in Milan, lined with Kevlar—fluttered behind him as he turned down an alley so narrow his shoulders nearly brushed both walls. The scent of rotting garbage and stale beer hung thick in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of the river nearby. His leather gloves creaked as he flexed his fingers, the sound barely audible over the distant hum of the city.
He had arrived in Prague three days earlier, slipping into the country under the alias Rajiv Mehra—an Indian businessman with interests in textiles and steel. The passport was flawless, the backstory airtight. Even the customs officer who stamped it hadn’t noticed how the man in the photo carried death in his eyes.
A rusted fire escape groaned under his weight as he ascended, his custom-made Oxfords finding purchase on the icy metal with feline grace. From this vantage point, the warehouse district spread out before him—a maze of crumbling brick and corrugated steel where deals were made and bodies disappeared.
His target stood at the mouth of an abandoned warehouse, its peeling red paint barely visible in the gloom. The building had once housed Czechoslovakian textiles before the war. Now it served as neutral ground for transactions of a different nature.
Ravindran’s earpiece crackled to life. “Boss, if we die tonight, just know I never liked Prague anyway. Too many stairs.”
Jay’s voice was a familiar anchor in the darkness. Ravindran adjusted the tiny device, his lips quirking despite himself. “If we die, Jay, I’ll haunt you first.”
Below, Dimitri Volkov’s men patrolled the perimeter—hulking figures in cheap suits, their breath fogging in the cold. Russian muscle, all brawn and no brains. Ravindran counted six visible, which meant at least twice that hidden.
He tapped his earpiece twice—a signal.
Inside the warehouse, the meeting was already underway. Through a grimy skylight, Ravindran could see Dimitri himself—a bear of a man with a gold tooth that caught the flickering fluorescent light. He was gesturing angrily at a crate of assault rifles while his Italian buyers looked on, unimpressed.
“Remember,” Ravindran murmured, his breath curling in the frigid air, “we take the case. No witnesses.”
Jay’s grin was audible. “And if they resist?”
Ravindran’s hand drifted to the pistol at his waist—a custom-made Sig Sauer with a silencer as long as his forearm. Moonlight glinted off the matte black finish.
“Then we improvise.”
The assault was swift and brutal.
None of them saw Ravindran until it was too late.
Ravindran dropped through the skylight like an avenging angel, shattering glass and landing in a crouch amidst the chaos. His first shot took the nearest guard in the throat before the man could even reach for his weapon. The second caught another between the eyes—a perfect shot even as he rolled behind cover.
The warehouse interior was a maze of crates, stacked haphazardly like a child’s forgotten toys. Dim fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting erratic shadows. Dimitri stood near the centre, his massive frame draped in a fur-lined coat, a cigar clamped between his teeth. His men—burly, armed, and looking like they’d been carved out of granite—stood guard, their eyes scanning the darkness.
Gunfire erupted. Bullets chewed through wooden crates, sending splinters flying. Someone screamed in Russian.
Jay burst through the front doors with all the subtlety of a monsoon, his laughter ringing through the warehouse as he disarmed a guard with a well-placed kick. “Oops,” he chirped, snapping the man’s wrist with a twist that sounded like kindling breaking. “Slipped.”
Dimitri was scrambling for cover, his prized case of blueprints clutched to his chest. Ravindran moved like a liquid shadow between the bullets, closing the distance in seconds.
“You should have stayed in Moscow,” Ravindran said softly, pressing his blade to Dimitri’s throat.
The Russian’s eyes widened in realization. “You—you’re him.”
The last thing Dimitri Volkov saw was Ravindran’s cold, unflinching gaze before darkness claimed him.
Ravindran didn’t answer.
The knife flashed.
Dawn was breaking over Prague when Ravindran stepped out of the warehouse, the case of blueprints clutched in his hand. The air smelled of blood, gunpowder and damp earth.
Ravindran stepped over the bodies without breaking stride, his Italian leather shoes leaving crimson prints on the concrete. The case of stolen blueprints weighed heavily in his left hand. His right still held the gun.
Somewhere behind him, Jay whistled. “Remind me never to make you angry before coffee.”
And then he slowly walked towards Ravindran, and Jay emerged beside him, wiping blood from his cheek. “Well,” he said brightly, “that was fun.”
Ravindran arched a brow.
Jay shrugged. “Okay, fine. It was terrifying. But we lived! That counts for something, right?”
Ravindran didn’t smile. The job was done. And not just for the dead.
Ravindran exhaled, long and slow, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “Let’s go home.”
But as he boarded his private jet twelve hours later, the same hands that had snapped a man’s neck were now became soft and smooth while returning to his home.
Twelve hours later, Velapura greeted them like a lover—warm, vibrant, and alive. The coastal city hummed with the sounds of bustling markets, honking rickshaws, and the distant crash of waves against the shore. Palm trees swayed lazily in the breeze, their fronds casting dappled shadows on the sunbaked streets.
Jay stretched as they stepped onto the tarmac, groaning as his spine popped. “Ah, civilization. Where the biggest danger is your mother’s temper.”
Ravindran shot him a look.
Jay grinned. “What? I’m not wrong.”
A sleek black car idled nearby, its polished surface gleaming under the midday sun. Arjun, Ravindran’s ever-stoic driver, stood beside it, his expression as unreadable as ever.
“Welcome back, sir,” he said, bowing slightly. “Your mother has called seven times.”
Jay whistled. “She’s going to skin you alive.”
Ravindran sighed.
The Prabhakaran mansion was a sprawling ode to old-world grandeur—white marble floors, intricately carved wooden doors, and the faint, ever-present scent of jasmine. The gardens were a riot of colour, with bougainvillaea spilling over trellises and lotus blossoms floating in the courtyard pond.
Sudha Prabhakaran stood at the entrance, arms crossed, her sharp eyes missing nothing. She was a small woman, barely reaching Ravindran’s shoulder, but her presence could fill a room.
“You’re late,” she announced.
Ravindran, the man who had just dismantled an international arms syndicate without breaking a sweat, bowed his head like a chastised schoolboy. “Amma, the flight—”
“Don’t lie to me,” she interrupted, flicking his forehead. “I know when you’re lying. You were off being dramatic again.”
Jay snorted. “He was dramatic. There was a whole slow-motion walking away from an explosion thing.”
Sudha rolled her eyes. “Idiots, both of you. Come inside. The food is getting cold.”
The dining room was a cacophony of warmth and noise. Prabhakaran sat at the head of the table, his stern face softening as Ravindran approached.
“Took you long enough,” he grunted.
Ravindran pressed a kiss to his father’s forehead. “Had some business to finish.”
Prabhakaran’s eyes gleamed. “And did you?”
Ravindran smirked. “Thoroughly.”
Jay, already piling his plate high with biryani, grinned. “He was terrifying. I was magnificent.”
Prabhakaran chuckled. “I’m sure.”
Sudha swatted Jay with a ladle. “Leave some for the others!”
Jay yelped. “Violence! Abuse! I’m telling the human rights commission!”
Ravindran watched them, the weight of the world lifting, if only for a moment. Here, in this house, he wasn’t the most feared man in the underworld.
He was just a son.
And that, for now, was enough.
Hi everyone, I am a bit nervous yet excited as this is my second story..
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