꧁༒༻༺༒꧂꧁༒༻༺༒꧂
༺ Chapter 3: The Unraveling ༺
꧁༒༻༺༒꧂꧁༒༻༺༒꧂
The sun had barely begun to rise when Zayne stepped onto the grand balcony of his newly acquired mansion, a towering estate that loomed over the city like an untouchable fortress. The property was a statement—a declaration that he was no mere visitor to India. He was here to stay, to establish his dominion.
The morning air carried a crisp chill, but Zayne barely felt it. Below, in the vast courtyard, his men moved like well-trained shadows, unloading crates marked with Russian codes—guns, ammunition, and stacks of untraceable cash. The rhythmic thuds of crates hitting the marble floors echoed against the high walls of the estate.
He stood at the top of the entrance steps, surveying the scene with an air of quiet dominance. A slow, cruel smirk curved his lips. This was power.
With a snap of his fingers, he issued commands in Russian, his deep voice slicing through the air.
"Быстрее." (Faster.)
"Yes, sir!" His men answered in unison, quickening their pace.
One of them, Viktor, his second-in-command, approached. The man was built like a beast, his broad frame accentuated by the scar running down his cheek—a permanent souvenir from a past mission gone wrong.
"Viktor," Zayne murmured, his voice low and precise. "Make sure the weapons are cleaned and stored securely. No mistakes."
Viktor nodded sharply. "Understood, boss." He turned on his heel, barking orders to the others.
Zayne exhaled a slow stream of smoke, rolling his gold lighter between his fingers as he watched his empire take shape in this foreign land. Delhi was chaotic, loud, unpredictable. Nothing like Moscow. Yet, something about it fascinated him.
His thoughts drifted—Priya.
She was unlike any woman he'd encountered before. Sharp. Fearless. Unyielding. He remembered the way she had held that gun, her hands steady, her brown eyes piercing through him as if she could see past his carefully crafted exterior.
Then, that moment with the stray dog—how she had crouched, feeding it, her soft voice murmuring something he hadn't understood. There had been no pretense, no calculated moves. Just raw kindness.
A rare smile ghosted his lips before he crushed it away.
What the fuck am I thinking?
He turned and walked back inside, heading toward the grand balcony that overlooked the city. Settling into a lounge chair, he unbuttoned the top of his black shirt, letting the warm breeze graze his tattooed skin. One leg carelessly draped over the armrest, he lit another cigarette, inhaling deeply.
His phone buzzed. A familiar name flashed across the screen.
Masha.
He smirked. Of course.
He answered, his voice slipping into that lazy, sultry tone. "Kitten."
"Where are you, baby?"
"India," he murmured, his lips curling around the cigarette.
"India?" A pause. Then, a soft giggle. "Business or pleasure?"
A notification popped up—Snapchat.
He clicked it open.
Masha, sprawled on silk sheets, her lace underwear barely covering her curves. Another image—her fingers trailing between her thighs, teasing herself.
Lust flickered in his gut. Normally, this would be enough.
Then—Priya.
Her smile, the way her fingers had brushed over the dog's fur so gently, her fearless eyes locking onto his.
His smirk faltered.
"Baby, I'll send you my location," Masha purred.
He hesitated.
"I'm busy."
Silence. Then, irritation laced her tone. "What?"
"Tomorrow." His voice was firm.
"Tomorrow we'll have pleasure, Zayne," she teased.
He sighed, rubbing his temple. "Da. Tomorrow."
After hanging up, he leaned back, staring at the cityscape.
Something felt off.
Shaking his head, he pushed himself up, grabbing his keys. He needed a distraction.
---
The Streets of Delhi
The city was alive—vibrant, noisy, suffocating. The air was thick with the scent of street food, a mix of spices and fried oil that clung to the wind.
Zayne's footsteps were steady as he walked toward the area where he had last seen Priya.
But she wasn't there.
Instead, two uniformed officers stood near the post. One of them, a wiry man with a thick mustache, noticed him.
"Hello! You Russian?"
Zayne tensed slightly, his instincts sharpening. "Da."
The officer chuckled. "Looking for Priya di?"
His jaw clenched. "Where is she?"
The officer gave him a knowing look. "She is resting today. Sick."
Something in Zayne's chest twisted. He frowned.
"Priya... is sick?" He repeated under his breath.
The feeling unsettled him. Why the fuck do I care?
Then—bark.
He turned, spotting Kalu, the stray dog Priya had been feeding. The poor thing looked thinner, its ribs more pronounced.
Zayne crouched down. "Hey, pup."
The dog sniffed his hand, hesitant. Then, it licked his fingers.
He froze.
No one touched him. No one dared.
Yet, this dog—this scrappy, starving thing—trusted him.
He let out a low chuckle, ruffling Kalu's fur. "You like Priya, huh?"
Kalu wagged his tail.
Without thinking, Zayne stood. "I'm taking you with me."
The officers exchanged amused glances.
"Sir, you adopt dog?"
"She's going to kill me when she finds out," he muttered, scooping Kalu up and heading to his car.
---
The Mansion—Late Night
Kalu had settled into the mansion surprisingly fast. He lay curled in the kitchen, his belly full from the meal Zayne had ordered his chef to prepare.
Zayne sat in the vast library, a book open on his lap—a book on Indian culture.
He needed to understand Priya more.
His phone buzzed.
Masha.
"I'm in Delhi."
He exhaled slowly, staring at the text.
For a long moment, he did nothing.
Then—
"Not tonight. Occupied."
He tossed the phone onto the couch.
Knock. Knock.
His head snapped up. Kalu lifted his head, growling softly.
Zayne rose, crossing the marble floors, and opened the door.
Masha.
She stood there in a skin-tight red dress, her makeup sultry, her lips slightly parted.
"Zayne," she purred, stepping forward, pressing against him, her perfume overwhelming his senses. "You're not busy now, are you?"
Her fingers trailed down his chest.
His grip tightened around her wrist.
Normally, he would have pulled her inside by now—ripped that dress off, fucked her senseless against the nearest surface.
But tonight?
Something had changed.
For the first time in years—he hesitated.
꧁༒༻༺༒꧂ ꧁༒༻༺༒꧂
༶•┈┈┈༓༓༓༓༓༓༓༓༓┈┈┈•༶
༺ To be continued… ༻
꧁༒༻༺༒꧂꧂༒༻༺༒꧂
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