Aaryan Mehta
The first time I held a gun, I was sixteen. It wasn't a choice—not really. It was a necessity, thrust into my hands by a world that had already decided what I was meant to become. The weight of it felt foreign then, cold and brutal against my palm. Now, it feels like an extension of my own will.
They see the money, the tailored suits, the empire built on steel and glass, and they think that's where my influence lies. But they're wrong. Power doesn't come from wealth. It comes from fear—the quiet, suffocating kind that makes men hesitate before they speak my name. And I've always known how to wield both.
Then there's Saanvi.
She doesn't operate in fear. She runs on fire. Reckless, burning, beautiful fire that threatens to consume everything in its path—including me. This afternoon, when she walked into my office and laid out every secret I had tried so desperately to protect her from, something shifted inside me. It wasn't anger. It wasn't shame. It was something far more dangerous: a raw, unflinching admiration.
She isn't just involved in this life anymore. She *is* this life. And tonight, we make our first move together.
"I'll handle the meeting," I say, my voice low as I fasten the silver dagger cufflinks she gave me months ago—a joke then, a statement now. The irony isn't lost on me.
Saanvi looks up from the polished mahogany table where she's pulling on a pair of black leather gloves. Her movements are deliberate, calm. There's a stillness in her eyes that wasn't there before.
"I'm not staying behind."
I let out a slow breath. "You always knew I wouldn't ask you to."
The city slips by outside the tinted windows of the car, the glittering skyline giving way to narrow, unlit streets and decaying buildings. This is the underbelly of the city , where power isn't measured in rupees or real estate, but in loyalty written in blood. We pull up to a derelict warehouse, its exterior rust-stained and ominous. The air smells of salt and decay.
Inside, the space is vast and hollow, illuminated only by a single hanging bulb that casts long, dancing shadows. At a lone metal table sits Raghav—a relic from the old world, one of the few who still remember the way things were before I reshaped them in my image. He sips whiskey from a glass as though he hasn't tried to have me killed three times in as many months.
"You've got guts showing up here," he says, his voice gravelly and amused. His eyes drift toward Saanvi, lingering a moment too long. "And bringing your weakness."
I feel the familiar coldness seep into my veins, but before I can respond, Saanvi steps forward. Her posture is relaxed, but there's a blade's edge in her tone.
"I'm not his weakness," she says, her voice eerily calm. "I'm his insurance that you walk out of here alive."
Raghav's lips curl into a smirk. "Feisty."
I move to stand beside her, my presence a silent promise of protection. Without a word, I slide a thick manila folder across the table. It lands neatly in front of him.
"Every offshore account. Every body you buried. Every bribe paid to a judge or a minister." I let the words hang in the damp air. "We own your world now."
For a moment, his confidence wavers. The color drains slightly from his face, but his eyes remain defiant.
"You think this ends with paper?" he growls, pushing the file away as though it's contaminated.
I lean in, close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath. "No. It ends with you disappearing. Quietly. Or permanently."
There's a beat of silence—thick, heavy, like the moments before a storm breaks. Then, Raghav laughs. It's not a sound of amusement, but one of threat. The kind that comes just before blood is spilled.
As if on cue, figures emerge from the shadows along the edges of the warehouse. Five. Maybe six. All armed. All his.
Saanvi doesn't flinch. Neither do I.
My hand slips into my pocket, thumb pressing against a small, unassuming device. The lights flicker once, twice. Then, from the darkness behind Raghav's men comes the unmistakable sound of guns being cocked. My people. They'd been there all along, hidden in plain sight, waiting.
Raghav's smile vanishes. He raises his hands slowly, his eyes locked on mine. "So it's like that."
"It's always been like that," I reply, my voice cold and final.
He backs down. Orders his men to stand down. He leaves without another word, but the tension doesn't dissipate. This isn't over. It's only beginning.
In the car on the way back, the silence between us is comfortable, charged. The city lights streak past the window like fallen stars. After several minutes, Saanvi reaches over and laces her fingers through mine. Her hand is warm, steady.
"You didn't tell me your people were watching," she says softly.
I glance at her. "Would you have come if you thought I had backup?"
She meets my gaze, and a faint smile touches her lips. "No," she admits. "Because I'd want the first bullet to be mine."
I look at her—really look at her—and for the first time all night, I smile. Not the cold, calculated expression I wear like armor, but something real. Something certain.
I've never been more sure of anything in my life.
This woman isn't my weakness.
She's the sharpest weapon I've ever held.