Mumbai never slept—but tonight, it held its breath.
Rain slid down the glass walls of the Oberoi Estate, a fortress disguised as a mansion, perched above the city like a judge that had seen too much to care anymore. The iron gates stood still, guarded by men who had forgotten what fear felt like. Their loyalty had been bought long ago—not with money, but with survival.
Inside the mansion, time moved differently.
The corridors were lined with portraits—men in tailored suits, eyes cold, smiles rare. Every face belonged to someone who had bled for the Oberoi Syndicate. Some died kings. Most died warnings.
At the end of the corridor, behind a carved teakwood door, sat Raghavendra Oberoi.
Once, the underworld whispered his name like a prayer.
Now, they whispered it like a curse.
He was old—not weak, never weak—but aged by memory. His hair was silver, his beard neatly trimmed, his spine still straight enough to command a room without raising his voice. He wore white tonight, as he always did when the past refused to stay buried.
In his hands was a photograph.
A boy of sixteen. Sharp eyes. Calm smile. Blood of a king, ignorance of a crown.
Aarav Oberoi.
His son.
Missing.
Presumed dead.
Never mourned.
Ten years.
Raghavendra Oberoi had buried many things in his life—enemies, allies, even emotions. But he had never buried his son. Not because he couldn't… but because some instincts were older than reason.
A Don knew when a man was dead.
And Aarav wasn't.
The Oberoi Syndicate did not begin with guns.
It began with contracts, shipping routes, and information.
In the late 1970s, when Mumbai was still learning how to dream, Raghavendra's father—Mahesh Oberoi—controlled the docks. Not with violence, but with precision. If a shipment disappeared, it was replaced before anyone noticed. If a man crossed the line, he was offered a way back—once.
That was the Oberoi rule:
"We do not kill impulsively. We erase deliberately."
Over decades, the Syndicate expanded—real estate, diamonds, arms trafficking hidden behind legal empires. Politicians bent, police cooperated, judges delayed.
And when Mahesh Oberoi died peacefully in his sleep—an anomaly in their world—Raghavendra inherited not just power, but a philosophy.
Under him, the Syndicate became untouchable.
No street wars.
No public bloodshed.
No unnecessary cruelty.
Which is why, when blood finally spilled…
…it shook the underworld to its core.
The Kravchenkos were different.
Where the Oberois believed in silence, the Kravchenkos believed in fear.
Founded by Viktor Kravchenko, a former Soviet arms broker who migrated east during the collapse, the Cartel thrived on chaos. Their expansion into India was violent, fast, and unapologetic.
They didn't negotiate.
They conquered.
Mumbai was never part of their original plan—until it was.
And the obstacle standing in their way?
Raghavendra Oberoi.
The first meeting between the two families happened in neutral territory—Dubai. It lasted exactly seven minutes.
Viktor offered partnership.
Raghavendra offered refusal.
Politely.
That night, a Kravchenko shipment vanished in the Arabian Sea.
The war had begun—quietly.
For years, it stayed cold. Proxy fights. Sabotage. Assassinations made to look like accidents. Neither side crossed the invisible line.
Until Viktor Kravchenko decided to do the unthinkable.
Ten years ago.
Raghavendra still remembered the smell.
Jasmine and smoke.
His wife, Meera Oberoi, had never been part of the underworld. She hated the mansion. Hated the guards. Hated the bloodless dinners where men discussed death like numbers.
That night, she had insisted on leaving the estate.
Just her.
Just Aarav.
A rare rebellion.
They never made it home.
The convoy was attacked on the coastal highway. Not a robbery. Not a warning.
An execution.
By the time Raghavendra arrived, the car was flames and twisted metal. His wife's body lay still, untouched by fire—as if even death had shown her mercy.
Aarav was gone.
No body.
No blood.
No trace.
The message was clear.
"You took our future. We took yours."
The Kravchenko signature was everywhere.
For the first time in his life, Raghavendra Oberoi broke his own rule.
He unleashed hell.
The retaliation was surgical.
Kravchenko safe houses burned across three countries. Their money trails collapsed overnight. Viktor's eldest son was found dead in Prague—no wounds, no poison, just a single bullet to the heart.
But Viktor himself vanished.
Just like Aarav.
Two ghosts.
Two fathers.
Two wars unfinished.
The underworld believed the Oberoi heir was dead.
Raghavendra never confirmed it.
Never denied it.
Because in the silence of his private chapel, where Meera's ashes rested, he still prayed—not for forgiveness, but for answers.
Back in the present, thunder rolled outside the mansion.
Raghavendra placed the photograph back into its drawer, locking it with a key only he carried.
A trusted lieutenant entered the room.
"Any news?" the Don asked, already knowing the answer.
"No, Saheb. But… there are rumors. A man in Delhi. Late twenties. No past. No records before ten years ago."
Raghavendra closed his eyes.
The war was not over.
It had merely grown patient.
And somewhere, in the same city, the fate he had lost—and the revenge that waited for him—were already moving toward each other.
Unaware.
Unforgiving.
Unstoppable.