The body hit the marble floor with a dull, wet thud.

Blood pooled around the man's head like a grotesque halo. His mouth was open — as if mid-beg — but the bullet had made sure no more words left it.

Raahil Raizada didn't blink.

He stood tall in the center of the grand hall of Raizada Estate, dressed in an obsidian suit that matched the gun he held lazily in one gloved hand. His black shirt, collar open, revealed a tattoo along his neck — a snake eating its own tail. The mark of someone who believed in destruction as survival.

"Clean it up," he said coldly.

Two men rushed forward, faces pale, hands shaking. They didn't dare look at the corpse.

The mistake? The man had touched Raahil's younger brother's collar in a negotiation — without permission. That was it. A graze of fingers. A moment of foolishness.

Now he was dead.

Because Raahil Raizada did not allow mistakes.

He walked across the hall, the echo of his footsteps unnerving even his own guards. Every corner of the estate was dipped in luxury — Greek marble, Italian chandeliers, walls that had heard too many screams and confessions.

And yet, nothing in that palace was louder than the man himself.

Raahil sat on the leather couch, legs spread, hands resting like a king. His eyes — cold grey like smoke before a fire — scanned the room. His presence was not loud, not showy, but something darker. Something primal.

His two brothers, Veer and Kabir, entered next. Younger, sharp-jawed, deadly in their own right — but they worshipped their elder brother like a god.

"Done?" Kabir asked, flicking ash from his cigarette.

Raahil looked at him and smirked. "He died begging. Pissed himself before I pulled the trigger."

Veer laughed. "Classic."

"They always do," Raahil muttered. "Men who claim loyalty and courage always bleed the fastest."

He leaned back, the smirk fading.

Everyone feared him. Rivals called him a storm in a human body. A devil in a designer suit. The man who murdered his own parents at sixteen. There was no proof. Just whispers — terrifying, unprovable, and too believable.

And he liked it that way.

He liked being the monster.

The villain.

The punishment.

He didn't believe in mercy.

He didn't believe in redemption.

He didn't believe in love.

Women were just bodies. Warmth for the night. Toys to break when boredom struck.

He used them. Touched them. Tasted them.

But never kept them.

Because Raahil Raizada did not love.

He possessed.

And soon, fate was going to throw someone into his path who wasn't afraid of him. Who wouldn't beg or crawl or sell her soul for his attention.

A girl with nothing to offer but broken hope and stubborn kindness.

He'd see her.

He'd want her.

And he'd do what he did best — destroy her world.

Or worse...

Let her destroy his.

Later the evening,

The lights were dim in the master bedroom of Raahil Raizada's penthouse — shadows curling against the cold slate walls like ghosts trying to escape. Moonlight filtered through the tall glass windows, falling across the edge of the silk sheets tangled around two bodies.

Sweat. Heat. Skin.

She moaned, arching beneath him, her nails raking down his back like she wanted to be devoured whole.

"Harder," she begged.

Raahil gave it to her — rough, relentless, without tenderness or pause. His grip bruised. His mouth punished. And she took it all like a woman starving.

Because that's what he did. He broke you in the way you craved.

And then walked away before your heart even realized it had bled.

"You're a fucking animal," she gasped between moans.

He didn't respond. His face was expressionless, focused, detached even in the most primal act. For him, this wasn't intimacy. It was power. Control. Dominance.

The moment she collapsed beneath him, trembling and flushed, her body wrecked from the high he gave her, Raahil pulled away.

Silence fell like a blade.

She reached out, tracing a finger across his inked chest. "That was... God, Raahil, that was insane."

He stood without a word, walking to the wardrobe, slipping into his black slacks like nothing had happened.

"You could at least say something," she teased, half-naked on his bed, lips swollen and smiling. "Admit I was good."

He turned, finally, those dead grey eyes cutting into her like winter steel.

"You were convenient."

Her smile faded.

He picked up a thick wad of cash, tossed it on the bed beside her.

"Go buy yourself something... or forget you existed. I'm done. Don't come back."

She blinked. "What?"

"I'm bored," he said simply. "You served your purpose. Leave before I call someone to escort you out."

There was no hatred in his tone. No anger. Just... nothing.

That made it worse.

She sat there, stunned, clutching the money she hadn't asked for — the money that now screamed you were just another body.

And Raahil?

He lit a cigarette, walked to the window, and stared out at the city he ruled.

He didn't turn back to look at her. He never did.

Because emotions were for the weak.

And Raahil Raizada hadn't felt anything in years.

But that was about to change.

At dinner,

The dining room of the Raizada mansion wasn't built for comfort.

It was built for command.

The long mahogany table gleamed under the low-hung black chandeliers, casting dark reflections in the wine glasses. The scent of rare steak, grilled garlic, and Cuban cigars filled the air. Gunmetal cutlery clinked against porcelain as the brothers dined like gods of a ruined world.

Raahil sat at the head of the table, his shirt sleeves rolled up, neck tattoo barely peeking above the collar. To his left, Veer scrolled through his tablet, reading news about a turf war they'd won yesterday — three bodies found in a burning godown near the docks.

To his right, Kabir popped a grape into his mouth, kicking back with lazy elegance. "We need to push the next weapons shipment through Gujarat. I don't trust the northeast route anymore. Too many eyes."

Raahil didn't look up. "Kill the eyes. Then send it."

Aryan chuckled. "You make it sound like we're ordering pizza."

Raahil smirked, slow and lethal. "Blood tastes better than mozzarella."

They laughed. That sharp, male laughter only men who've tasted power—and gotten away with murder—ever knew.

Then Kabir leaned forward, wiping his hands.

"Oh, by the way. There's a client's anniversary party tomorrow. One of our top logistics guys. He invited us personally."

Raahil raised a brow. "Why?"

"Because he's scared of you," Kabir answered with a grin. "And wants to keep his head attached to his neck. Go, show your face, drink his liquor, remind him who owns him."

Raahil sipped his wine. "Fine. Could use a distraction."

He had no idea what kind of distraction was waiting for him.

Later That Night – The Party

The mansion was all chandeliers and champagne. Politicians, billionaires, and criminals disguised in designer tuxedos floated around, sipping gold-flecked cocktails and pretending the world wasn't built on secrets and slaughter.

Raahil walked in like thunder in a velvet sky.

Black tailored suit. No tie. His silver cufflinks shaped like daggers. People moved out of his way without being told.

He didn't glance at anyone.

Until he saw her.

At the edge of the room, near the white piano and ice sculpture, stood a girl in crimson.

The dress clung to her body like sin — elegant, seductive, dangerous in its simplicity. Her long hair was curled loosely, tumbling down her back like black silk. Her eyes sparkled when she laughed at something a man said.

And for a moment, Raahil Raizada forgot how to breathe.

She was stunning. Bold. A fucking flame in a room full of ashes.

"Who's that?" he asked, not taking his eyes off her.

Kabir glanced over. "Who?"

"The red dress. The one laughing like she owns the damn room."

Kabir smirked. "You want her?"

Raahil's gaze didn't waver. "I want to ruin her."

"I'll find out," Kabir said, already texting.

Two minutes later, he leaned back toward Raahil. "Name's Nayantara. Daughter of Reema Vashisht. One of those page-three brats. Goes to every high-society event, wears scandal like perfume."

Raahil hummed, lifting his glass to his lips, eyes still fixed on her.

"Nayantara," he repeated slowly. "Pretty name. For a toy."

"She's the type who'd drop her panties for a car," Veer added with a laugh.

Raahil's eyes darkened. "Good. I won't have to waste time pretending."

But what he didn't know... was that the girl he was about to chase wasn't the one meant to bring him to his knees.

Fate doesn't play fair.