Radhe radhe guyss..

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Author's pov:

In the glass-walled boardroom of Rathore Enterprises, the air was thick with tension. Abhiraj Rathore, the CEO whose reputation for ruthlessness was only matched by his success, sat at the head of the table. He was in the middle of a multi-billion dollar merger negotiation when his phone vibrated incessantly.

He ignored the first two calls, but the third was from his mother. He held up a hand, silencing a room full of international delegates.

"Excuse me," Abhiraj said, his voice cold and commanding. He stepped into the hallway and picked up. "Mom, I’m in a meeting. This better be—"

"Abhi, Dadu is at the hospital," his mother’s voice trembled. "His blood pressure spiked again. He’s with a new specialist, Dr. Veda."

Abhiraj’s jaw tightened. His grandfather was his only weakness. Without a word of explanation to his board, he grabbed his blazer. "Cancel the session. Meeting rescheduled for tomorrow. Abhi niklo!"

Twenty minutes later, Abhiraj’s black SUV screeched to a halt at the hospital entrance. He marched through the lobby like a storm cloud, his security detail struggling to keep up. He reached the VIP wing and burst into the waiting area outside Veda’s cabin.

He expected to find his grandfather tired or grumpy. Instead, he found Prithvi Rathore sitting on a bench, laughing with a nurse and looking more energetic than he had in months.

"Dadu!" Abhiraj rushed over, checking his grandfather’s pulse himself. "Aap theek toh hain? Why didn't you call me? Hospitals are for sick people, why are you sitting here smiling?"

Prithvi waved him off with his cane. "Relax, Abhi. Baith ja, thanda paani pi. I’m perfectly fine. Actually, I feel better than I have all year."

Abhiraj looked around, his eyes narrowing. "Where is the doctor? I need to speak to them about your vitals immediately. Kaun hai ye specialist?"

"She just left for her rounds," a nurse informed him politely. "Dr. Veda is very strict about her ward timing. She’ll be back in an hour."

Abhiraj scoffed. "An hour? Doesn't she know who—"

"Abhiraj, shut up," Prithvi interrupted, his tone suddenly firm. "For once, listen to me. This Dr. Veda... kamaal ki ladki hai. She didn't care about the Rathore name. She looked me in the eye and told me my heart was performing a 'Bollywood number' because of my sugar! Wahi ek hai jo mujhe dhang se daant sakti hai."

Abhiraj froze. His grandfather, the man who had intimidated prime ministers, was praising a doctor for scolding him?

"She’s brilliant, Abhi," Prithvi continued, a twinkle in his eye. "She’s a General in a white coat. Uski wajah se maine aaj paratha nahi khaya. She has this... authority. But she’s so friendly, the whole hospital feels like her family."

Abhiraj looked toward the corridor where Veda had disappeared. He could see a distant figure in a white coat surrounded by laughing children in the pediatric ward, but he couldn't see her face.

Who is this woman? Abhiraj thought, his curiosity piqued despite his irritation. Dadu never praises anyone. Sabko toh wo 'bewakoof' kehte hain. Who is this Dr. Veda who managed to tame the Great Prithvi Rathore in thirty minutes?

"Let’s go, Dadu," Abhiraj said, helping the old man up. "I’ll meet this 'General' of yours next time. I want to see if she’s actually that good or if you’ve just finally met your match."

Prithvi laughed as they walked toward the exit. "Oh, she’s definitely my match, Abhi. Aur shayad... teri bhi."

Abhiraj didn't reply, but as he drove away, the name Veda lingered in his mind like an unsolved puzzle.

The sleek, black SUV glided through the wrought-iron gates of the Rathore Mansion, a sprawling estate that whispered of old money and new power. As the car came to a halt under the grand portico, the heavy oak doors of the house swung open.

Abhiraj stepped out first, his face a mask of cold professionalism, before moving to the other side to help his grandfather.

Standing at the doorstep was Shivam Rathore. His presence was imposing, but as Abhiraj approached, the air between father and son turned arctic.

"How is he, Abhiraj? Maine suna hospital gaya tha woh," Shivam asked, his voice steady but lacking the warmth of a concerned son.

Abhiraj didn’t even look him in the eye. He adjusted his grandfather’s arm and walked right past his father as if he were a ghost. "Theek hain woh. Doctor se baat ho gayi hai," Abhiraj replied shortly, his tone clipped and dismissive.

The rejection was silent but loud. Abhiraj had never forgiven his father for the past, and in this house, silence was his sharpest weapon.

As they entered the massive marble hall, the rest of the family began to assemble. Divyani Rathore, Abhiraj’s mother, rushed down the stairs, her silk saree fluttering behind her.

"Dadu! Aapne toh darra hi diya tha!" she exclaimed, taking Prithvi’s other side. She looked at Abhiraj with a soft, knowing smile. She was the only one who could truly read the storm behind his eyes. "Abhi, tu theek hai? Tu toh meeting mein tha na?"

"I’m fine, Mom. Meeting baad mein ho sakti hai, Dadu zaroori hain," Abhiraj murmured, his voice softening only for her.

Slowly, the siblings gathered, whispering among themselves, keeping a respectful distance from the tension radiating from Shivam and Abhiraj. The Rathore Mansion was a place of luxury, but it was also a place of high walls and deep divides.

Abhiraj scanned the room, his eyes searching for the one person who could truly melt the ice around his heart. Suddenly, the sound of tiny, pattering feet echoed against the marble floor.

"Dada! Dada aa gaye!"

A three-year-old girl with bouncy curls and bright, chocolate-brown eyes came sprinting down the hallway. This was Rishika, Abhiraj’s daughter—his entire universe.

The moment he saw her, the cold CEO vanished. Abhiraj dropped to one knee, his arms wide open. Rishika collided with him, giggling as he swept her up into his arms and buried his face in her neck.

"Hey, my princess! Meri jaan ne lunch kiya?" he whispered, his voice thick with an affection he showed no one else.

"Yes! Maine sab finish kiya! Dadu, you okay?" Rishika asked, reaching out a tiny hand to pat her great-grandfather’s knee.

Prithvi laughed, his heart swelling. "I’m great, Rishu. Teri Masi jaisi ek doctor mili hai mujhe aaj, bilkul teri tarah daant-ti hai."

From the corner of the room, Shivam watched his son hold the child. The distance between them felt like an ocean. Abhiraj was a devoted father and a protective son to Divyani, but to Shivam, he was a stranger.

Abhiraj stood up, holding Rishika close to his chest like a shield. He glanced at the clock and then at his mother. "Mom, main Rishu ko upar le ja raha hoon. Dadu needs rest. Make sure someone gives him his medicine on time—Dr. Veda’s orders."

As he walked away, carrying the laughing toddler toward the grand staircase, Divyani looked at Shivam and sighed. The name Veda was mentioned again, and for a moment, the family wondered about this mysterious doctor who had managed to impress both the eldest and the most difficult Rathores in a single morning.

Abhiraj's pov:

The afternoon sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my suite, casting long, golden shadows across the hardwood floor. I carried Rishika into the room, her small weight a grounding force against the coldness I felt downstairs.

As the door clicked shut, the world outside—the business mergers, the silent war with my father, the Rathore legacy—simply ceased to exist. Here, in this room, time stood still.

I looked up, and there she was.

Occupying the central wall was a massive, life-sized portrait of Anushka. My Annu. She was laughing in the photo, her eyes crinkled at the corners, looking exactly as she did the day I finally realized I couldn't live without her.

My mind drifted, pulled back by the gravity of a decade-old memory. It was our final year of college. I was the arrogant heir to an empire, but around Annu, I was just a boy who forgot how to breathe.

Flashback

I remembered standing behind the library, clutching a small velvet box so hard my knuckles turned white. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

"Kya hua, Abhi? Haath kyun kaamp rahe hain?" Annu had teased, leaning against a pillar, her dupatta fluttering in the breeze. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

I had practiced my speech a thousand times, but looking at her, every word evaporated. "Annu... main... I don't know how to say this," I had stammered, my voice cracking. "I’ve handled board meetings since I was eighteen, but proposing to you is the scariest thing I’ve ever done."

She had laughed, that musical sound that still echoed in my dreams. "Toh mat kaho. Just show me."

I had knelt right there in the dirt, the "Great Abhiraj Rathore" surrendering completely. "Anushka, i...I feel i..in love withyou. Please... stay with me forever."

We had so many plans. We were going to travel, build a home away from the Rathore shadow, and grow old together. But "forever" turned out to be a cruel lie. The universe took her, leaving me with a hollow chest and a daughter who looked exactly like her.

"Papa? Aap kahan kho gaye?"

A tiny, warm hand patted my cheek, shattering the memory like glass. I blinked, the library and the young, nervous version of myself vanishing instantly. I was back in my room, and Rishika was squirming in my arms, her brow furrowed in concern.

"I'm here, Princess," I whispered, kissing her forehead. My voice was thick with the weight of the past. "Bas... Maa ki photo dekh raha tha."

Rishika turned to look at the portrait and waved a small hand. "Bye, Mamma! Papa, aapko pata hai? Dadu ne mujhe ek nayi doll gift ki hai! It has pink hair!"

I managed a small, genuine smile. The pain of losing Annu never went away, but seeing her spirit alive in Rishika made it bearable.

"Pink hair? Baap re! Show me where this doll is," I said, setting her down on the plush rug.

"It's in my play-tent! Chalo, mere saath chalo!" she commanded, grabbing my index finger with her entire hand and pulling me toward her corner of the room.

I followed her, casting one last glance at Annu’s portrait. She’s just like you, Annu. Stubborn, beautiful, and the only person who can make me smile.

As I sat on the floor of a pink play-tent, surrounded by stuffed animals and a doll with neon hair, the CEO of Rathore Enterprises was gone. For now, I was just a father trying to fill a void that only a three-year-old’s laughter could touch.

The transformation happens the moment Rishika’s breathing evens out into the rhythmic pull of deep sleep. I tucked the duvet around her small shoulders, kissed her forehead, and stepped out of the pink-hued sanctuary of her nursery.

As the door clicked shut, the doting father died. The cold CEO of Rathore Enterprises evaporated. In their place stood a man the world whispered about in terrified shadows: Mr. X, the silent titan of the Italian underworld.

Most people think my power comes from the skyscraper in the city center. They’re wrong. My true empire is built on blood, silence, and a reach that spans continents.

I walked into my study and pressed a hidden biometric scanner behind a shelf of leather-bound books. A heavy steel door slid open with a hiss, revealing my private command center. The screens were already flickering with encrypted data from Marseilles and Naples.

I pulled out a burner phone and hit a single speed-dial digit. My secretary—who was actually my primary lieutenant—answered on the first ring.

"Sir?"

"Ready the Gulfstream," I said, my voice dropping an octave into a cold, mechanical rasp. "I need to be in France in twenty minutes. Security tight rakho, aur rasta saaf chahiye."

"Everything is prepared, Mr. X. The car is at the back entrance. But sir... the flight to Cannes is long. You have meetings in the morning."

I looked at the clock on the wall. 3:00 PM. "I don't care about the meetings. I have to handle the shipment breach in person and be back before Rishu wakes up for her evening snacks. Agar usne mujhe ghar pe nahi dekha, toh bawal macha degi. I cannot be late."

I swapped my designer blazer for a charcoal tactical jacket and checked the custom-made Glock tucked into my waistband. To the world, I was a widower mourning his wife and building a legacy for his daughter. To the underworld, I was the man who decided who lived and who burned.

I walked toward the back elevator, my mind already calculating the tactical entry into the French docks.

"Khayal rakhna," I muttered to my lieutenant as I stepped into the elevator. "If my father asks, tell him I’m in a 'private tele-conference.' If Mom asks, tell her I’m taking a nap. Aur Rishika... agar wo beech mein jaag gayi, toh mujhe turant call karo."

"Understood, sir."

The elevator descended into the underground garage. A matte-black armored sedan sat idling, its windows tinted so dark they looked like voids.

As I sat in the back seat, I pulled out a small, crumpled drawing Rishika had made for me earlier—a stick figure of a man and a girl holding hands. I folded it carefully and tucked it into my inner pocket, right next to my weapon.

For the world, I am a monster, I thought as the car roared toward the private airstrip. But for you, Rishu, I will keep the world at bay. No matter how much blood I have to spill to keep your sky blue.

Twenty minutes later, the wheels of the private jet left the tarmac. Target: France. Objective: Absolute elimination of the threat. Deadline: 5:30 PM, before a three-year-old asked for her Papa.

The cold, salty mist of the French Riviera bit at my skin as the helicopter touched down on a private helipad overlooking a secluded villa in Cannes. The transition was complete. Abhiraj Rathore, the doting father and corporate suit, was buried deep.

In his place stood Mr. X.

I wore a high-collared charcoal trench coat and a custom-made, matte-black ballistic mask that obscured everything but my eyes. My physique—honed by years of silent training and the sheer weight of the secrets I carried—filled the doorway of the meeting hall. At thirty-two, I was younger than almost everyone in this room, but as I walked in, the air didn't just chill; it froze.

The grand dining hall was filled with the heads of the three major European syndicates. They were men in their fifties and sixties, scarred and arrogant, surrounded by guards with submachine guns.

As I entered, the heavy oak doors thudded shut behind me. I didn't have a single guard. I didn't need one. My authority wasn't in numbers; it was in the fact that everyone in this room knew I could bankrupt their legacies or end their lives before the appetizers were served.

I walked to the head of the table. I didn't wait for an invitation. I sat down, draped my arms over the velvet chair, and stared at them through the slits of my mask.

"You’re late, X," a French boss spat, his voice trembling despite his attempt at bravado. "We’ve been waiting twenty minutes."

I didn't blink. I leaned forward, the leather of my gloves creaking in the silence.

"Twenty minutes is a small price to pay for your lives," I said, my voice electronically modulated into a terrifying, low-frequency rasp. "Pensate che io sia qui per perdere tempo? Sono qui perché la mia spedizione a Marsiglia è stata manomessa. Da uno di voi.

(Pensate che io sia qui per perdere tempo? Sono qui perché la mia spedizione a Marsiglia è stata manomessa. Da uno di voi.)Cos'è questo?

The room went deathly quiet. I pulled a small, silver coin from my pocket and began rolling it over my knuckles—a habit that usually meant someone wasn't leaving the room alive.

"Listen, evryone," I continued, my gaze scanning the terrified faces. "Mia figlia mi sta aspettando a casa. Ho esattamente quindici minuti prima che il mio aereo parta per l'India. Se qualcuno non dice la verità, allora il prossimo volo non è per tutti voi, è per te ."

(My daughter is waiting for me at home. I have exactly fifteen minutes before my plane leaves for India. If someone isn't telling the truth, then the next flight isn't for all of you, it's for youMy daughter is waiting for me at home. I have exactly fifteen minutes before my plane leaves for India. If someone isn't telling the truth, then the next flight isn't for all of you, it's for your death)

.

.

One of the younger lieutenants, thinking he saw an opening, reached for a weapon under the table.

I didn't even stand up. In one fluid motion, I drew the suppressed Glock from my holster and fired. The bullet shattered the wine glass in his hand, spraying red liquid and shards across the white tablecloth.

"Don't," I whispered. The word carried more weight than a scream. "The next one goes between your eyes. Samajh mein aaya?"

The French boss raised his hands, shaking. "It was a mistake! A rogue cell! We will return everything, with double interest! S'il vous plaît, X... we didn't know it was yours."

I stood up, the chair scraping harshly against the marble floor. I looked at my watch. 3:45 PM. I had just enough time to make it back before Rishika’s afternoon snack.

"You have one hour to transfer the coordinates and the penalty fees to my Swiss account," I said, tucking the weapon back into its holster. "If the money isn't there by the time I land in India... Main vapas aaunga. Aur is baar, main baat nahi karunga."

I turned and walked out, my long coat billowing behind me. I didn't look back. I didn't need to see their relief; I knew they were paralyzed by the sheer presence I had left behind.

As I climbed back into the Gulfstream, the mask came off. I wiped the sweat from my brow and pulled out my phone. A notification popped up from my home security feed.

It was a live video of Rishika’s nursery. She was still curled up with her pink-haired doll, her thumb in her mouth.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. My heart rate, which hadn't spiked once during the shootout, finally slowed down at the sight of her.

"Bas thodi der aur, beta," I whispered to the screen, clicking the seatbelt into place. "Papa's coming home."

The engines roared, and the jet sliced through the French sky, carrying a monster back to the only person who saw him as a hero.

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