Adhrit

******

"Do you think your plan will work this time?"

"It will. The Ashen King will see his last night soon, and each second of his agony will feel like an eternity."

"You've got some nerve talking shit like that."

"I've got the nerve to gut him right now... but the variable is stopping me."

"Did you find it? The variable?"

"I did."

Boris paused the recording on his laptop. We had been replaying it repeatedly, specifically the last part, and I still couldn't figure out what the men on the call meant by the variable. I leaned back in my chair, my mind rehashing the conversation between the two anonymous voices from the party last night. It wasn't just any party, it was a carefully planned gathering, one where every enemy and friend had shown their face.

The venue had already been bugged. I knew my enemies weren't stupid, but I had a feeling at least one of them would slip up, and one of them did. Boris, my right-hand man, had called me the moment he heard this recording earlier this morning.

"I couldn't recognize either of the voices. Say the word, King, and I'll kill everyone who attended the party."

"NO."

"But—"

"I said, NO."

He stood taut, knowing damn well there was nothing he could say that would change my mind. My word had always been final, and no one had ever changed that, and no one ever would.

"What do you want me to do, then?"

"You have the list. You know who was at that party. Find out who those two were. I need to know what variable they were talking about. I need to know what's stopping them from coming after me."

He nodded while my mind tirelessly tried to recall if those voices were familiar. But nothing came to me; no memory, no similarity. They were definitely people I hadn't spoken to before, or I would have recognized them instantly. I had countless enemies, and while each had their own reasons to hate me, they all shared one thing in common: their hatred for the way I rose from the ashes and claimed the world they believed they had built: the mafia world.

But no one had ever shown this kind of audacity. No one had dared to strike this close, to plan an attack that nearly destroyed me.

Ever since the attack a year ago, the one that killed one of my most trusted men, left my other trusted man blind in one eye, and stole my memory my only goddamn goal had been to hunt down the bastards who dared to go that far. From what I had found out till now, Jonathan, Pakhan's stepbrother, had a hand in it. But he wasn't alone. There were more. People from the inside—those who had a problem with my power, who hated that someone like me held a position they believed was theirs.

I might not be the blood of the Russian mafia, but I was treated like it. Born of Indian descent and abandoned at birth, the only people I ever called family were the ones who took me in—the ones who introduced me to this dangerous world and died protecting the same world I am ruling now. My adoptive parents had served the mafia all their lives. My foster father, Nirvana Rathore, was Pakhan's right hand. And when he was gone, that position landed on my lap.

But I didn't earn it just because I was Nirvana Rathore's son: the most feared man in the mafia. I earned it because I deserved it. I had every damn right to be where I stood.

And most importantly, people might dare to argue with Pakhan face to face, but no one even thought about raising their voice in my presence. Their gazes dropped. Fear crawled under their skin when I entered a room.

So, for someone to go this far? That was bold. And stupid.

I had my reasons for letting Jonathan breathe easily for a while. He was reckless, a threat—but not brave enough to make such a move alone. I was baiting him, dragging it out just long enough... to catch the one pulling the strings.

"King..." 

Boris's urgent voice broke my chain of thought. I looked at him and saw his eyes flick down to my hand. I followed his gaze and found that my left palm was covered in blood.

I must've been gripping the knife's edge too tightly. But I felt no pain.

There was only a faint sensation, like something lightly crawling across my skin. I hadn't even realized it was blood. That accident not only stole my memory but also took away my ability to feel physical pain. Pain had become meaningless to me ever since then. My body had stopped feeling it altogether, not even a sharp jolt or tingling like I used to feel in the past, had ever occurred to me.

Not that I ever had an issue with pain, but now, I didn't even know when I was injured. That was the one thing the accident gave me, which I considered a blessing in disguise. Because it meant I could be a monster for as long as I needed to be without even realizing when my body began to break.

"I will call Lyla." 

Boris was already heading out to call the house's head cook, the one person who always helped with first aid. She had always been kind to me, so the only way I could repay her was to hire her back after my deceased father fired her. That was my way of paying her back.
But I never let any woman near me. Even though she was around fifty, I had never let anyone tend to my wounds. Just like before, I didn't need anyone else.

"No need," I said, pushing myself off the chair. Grabbing the roll of bandage Lyla always stashed in the drawer of my office cabinet, I wrapped some of it around my bloody hand and knotted it tightly. The wound wasn't going to kill me, so it was better to take care of it myself. Besides, I had some paper wolves to deal with who only knew how to bark threats and had no spine. Those human-faced wolves were temporary problems, but I knew if left unchecked, they could cause a reckless bloodbath.

"The Mexicans arrived?" I got straight to the point as I made a fist with my bandaged hand.

"Yes, already en route to the club," Boris replied.

"It's time I pay them a visit. Call Enzo and tell him to look after the shipment instead. I'll handle the Mexicans."

I needed to blow off some steam, and what's better than to gruel and torture some prey?

******

"The deal is off."

Waves of shock passed across the two brothers' faces, while their father, Luis, looked confused. Sure, his sons' expressions gave things away, but he didn't understand English and always needed a translator. His younger son usually did that job well, but right now he was too busy glaring at me. An unnecessary display of emotion, I'd call it.

The three were accompanied by a young lady, the younger son's fiancée, and a vixen. I always recognize one from afar. Mexicans didn't have a single boss. Never did. Most of them had separate organizations working independently, steering clear of each other's paths. But recently, things had changed. Loyalty was being tested, betrayals were happening, and each of them was in deep need of an ally.

Luis and his sons ran to us, thinking we would make allies with them while they tried messing with my men. They wanted power desperately, but made fools of themselves by going after one of my men.

"What gives you the right to decide whether it's off or not? It's not off until we say so!" the younger son yelled, while the elder stayed quiet. His fingers trailed to his back pocket, where he always kept his gun.

"You should've thought of that before messing with one of my own." My calm stayed intact as I twirled the glass of liquor in my wounded hand.

"What?" the elder son feigned innocence.

"My man came back injured, almost dead." Enzo's hand was fractured; he almost lost a leg. He was attacked from behind on the same day the Mexicans assumed the arms deal with us would go smoothly.

"We don't know what the fuck you're talking about!" the younger one yelled again.

I give one strike to anyone, but for amateurs, I go with three. His two strikes were gone. Only one was left.

Agitated, Luis, who was not getting anything from the conversation, asked his younger son,

"¿Qué está diciendo?"
[What is he saying?]

Still showing his rage through his eyes at me, his son replied to him, "Él perdió la cabeza."
[He has lost his mind]

I took a sip of my alcohol, quenching my thirst for a while before the bloodshed. None of them had any clue I knew exactly what they were talking about. I was proficient in every language that ever existed, but never conversed in any other except English and Russian, so of course, they didn't know I could understand what they were talking about.

"We did not do anything," the elder one said this time. I could hear the click of his gun, and I knew what he was about to do. But he didn't know what I was going to do before he could even think of pointing his gun at me.

"Enzo almost lost his leg."

Luis's agitation grew, and he asked his son with more urgency, "¿Qué está diciendo ahora?"
[What is he saying now?]

"Sigue hablando de ese hombre ciego."
[He keeps talking about that blind man]

This time, the elder son had replied. Supporting what they did to Enzo, the younger one said angrily, "Ese bastardo se lo merecía."
[That bastard deserved it.]

That was the last straw. I was the monster who never takes shit about those who work for me. If anyone could ever lay a hand on them, it was me. I pulled out the knife from my back pocket, stood up in haste, and slashed the throat of the elder son instead of the younger one. I saw his soul leaving his body at the same time the younger one's fiancée screamed the name of the elder one I had just killed.

"Gabriel."

Her eyes filled with tears, and her body shook in shock. I wasn't surprised to see that reaction from her, for her fiancé's elder brother. Like I said, I always knew a vixen, and she was fucking Gabriel behind her fiancé's back. However, her fiancé was more shocked by the pain he saw in her eyes for his brother than by his brother's death.

"Mata a ese bastardo."
[Kill that bastard]

Luis shouted for his men to kill me, but they were already being handled by my men. I took my seat again, leaning back on the plush couch while the space filled with Gabriel's blood. His younger brother stood in shock at the betrayal. A smirk played on my lips when I looked at Luis. I had won the game the moment I realized I simply had to eliminate Gabriel to destroy the little happy family Luis cherished more than anything.

"Remind me what deal we were talking about," I said smugly, as I saw their faces go pale and fear cover them from head to toe.

******

Three coffins were hauled out of the club with the bodies of Luis and his two sons, while the fiancée had already been thrown out. Her life was spared mainly for two reasons: first, I never kill women, and second, she had already lost everything, so there wasn't much more for her to lose. My place didn't entertain traitors, so she was thrown out without delay.

The people in the club swayed their bodies amidst the coffins being taken out, without a care in the world. It wasn't a frequent affair, but not unusual either. Besides, those who came here knew what was in store for them. They all came from families of dangerous people or were dangerous themselves, and one thing was common in all of them: they feared me.

The music boomed louder, and all of a sudden, I had this burning sensation in my throat, like I needed something strong to quench my thirst.

Just then, my phone pinged with a text. I pulled it out, only for the letter S to shine. Of course, he had to be the one to text me. He was surely somewhere in the club with women fighting to get his attention. He must have seen the coffins being hauled out, because he had texted:

"It's another day in The Ashen King's realm, and we all are just living in it."

"Zasranets"
[Asshole]

I replied before I put my phone back and headed toward my exclusive bar section to get something that could cool the weird burning sensation in my throat.

I had two glasses of the strongest liquor, yet the thirst didn't quench at all. When the liquid was being poured for another round, something in the surrounding suddenly shifted. I could feel it, uneasy, crawling, but couldn't point out what it was. I went alert, ready to attack. Fingers tightened around the blade in my hand, and I felt warm blood trailing down my wrist, a crimson line of blood dripping from my injured clenched fist. I didn't care. Pain had long stopped affecting me, so it did not matter whether I was bleeding or not.

Then I heard it: the sharp, confident clicking of heels.

I assumed it was the fiancée of the man I just killed. She was surely grief-stricken, being stupid, and probably about to beg for mercy, until I heard, "Mr. Rathore."

The voice was more feminine than I had ever heard. Unfamiliar, yet oddly familiar: like my brain could recognize it, but refused to tell me how. I turned, ready to put a dagger through another heart. I might have a policy of sparing the weak and women, but I was surely not a fan of vixens approaching me. Rage had already coiled around me from before, and now it escalated, rapid and ruthless.

But everything changed the moment I turned around.

I felt a slight sting. Not painful because pain was a foreign language now, as I could not feel it, but the sting was enough to make me feel its impact. The sound cracked through the air like a gunshot. Someone had slapped me.

Not just anyone. A woman.

Shock didn't reach me, but anger hit in waves, burning, uncontrollable. I looked down, meeting a pair of large, brown doe eyes that stared back at me without fear. Petite, gorgeous, unfamiliar, yet my brain said otherwise. Her eyes screamed betrayal... and recognition. Like I had done something to her. Maybe she belonged to the Mexicans, but her features, similar to someone of Indian descent, told another story. She was an Indian woman I did not recall meeting before. Plus, she did not seem like any seductress I had ever met.

Her eyes had another story to tell.

She knew me.

My body had been trained for moments like these, for sudden attack. But, in that moment, it was like I was reprogrammed. I didn't move an inch, even though I was capable of killing hundreds of men in the blink of an eye. It was as if my brain had transmitted a silent command to stay still. I just stood there, staring at her, trying to recognize something. But nothing came to me. No flash. No spark.

Boris reached out to me instantly, but hestood there stiff, struggling to free himself from Enzo, who had just arrived and was holding Boris from launching at that stupid woman who had just signed her death sentence. If Enzo hadn't come, if he hadn't stopped Boris, she'd already be lying dead at my feet.

The woman didn't say a word, just kept glaring at me, unblinking, until suddenly, something shifted in her expression, like she snapped out of a trance. She looked around, eyes sharp and unsettled, then hurried away without looking back. No words. No curses. No screams. Nothing.

"Who is she?" I asked with my voice low and dangerous, teeth clenched.

I looked at Enzo and Boris with a glare sharp enough to slice through them. They were in serious trouble. It wasn't just a look: it was a warning.

And just when I thought I'd heard everything, Enzo's two words shocked me more than that slap ever could.

"Your wife."