She blinked twice, then—unexpectedly—started to laugh.
"Hahhaa... haaa."

The sound cut across the room like a shard of glass. She laughed again, high and breathy, then looked at me between fits and laughed harder. My men exchanged puzzled glances; I heard the small rustle of confusion run through the room. She wasn't finished.

"I'm sorry but... hahaa," she managed, one hand clutching her stomach.

"Oh God, it hurts," she mumbled, pressing her palm to her belly—and then burst into another ragged fit of laughter.

I stood. She saw me move and tried to stifle it, fingers clamped over her mouth, muffling the sound—but she couldn't stop. I took a few measured steps forward and stopped right in front of her. She leaned back into the chair, biting her lip in a failed attempt to silence herself.

I planted both hands on the armrests on either side of her, caging her in with my presence. The sofa felt smaller suddenly, reduced to the space between us. Her breath came quickly, her cheeks flushed from laughing, her eyes bright with something like defiance. I felt the urge to crush that laughter down in my chest—control clawing at me—but I kept my voice even.

"Why the hell are you laughing?" I asked, keeping my hands steady, forcing down the edge of rage that wanted out.

She swallowed, tried to steady herself, and then, with that same mocking tilt to her mouth, said as if it were the most natural thing in the world, "It's... j... just that." She paused, forcing a calm that didn't reach her eyes. "I guess you kidnapped the wrong child."

I felt the laugh like an insult in my face. She laughed again, a short, defiant bark, and I watched her through narrowed eyes. I glanced at my head man; his reply was flat.

"No, sir. She is only Mahira Sen."

She didn't bother to hide the smirk. "Yeah, I'm only Mahira Sen, but no intention of getting my other siblings kidnapped. But I guess you really kidnapped the wrong child."

That was the last polite thing she said.

Control snapped in me. My hand closed around her throat—not to choke, but to press, to make her feel the warning. Her eyes widened; shock flared there. Her other hand clamped onto my wrist, trying to pry my fingers away. She had strength. Surprise flickered across my face, because she didn't limp—she fought.

"Explain," I said, voice low, steady. I stared into her eyes until she couldn't look away.

"Ah... I will tell—first leave me." She coughed, breath rasping as she tried to speak around the pressure.

I eased my grip. She coughed again, then fixed me with a hard, furious look. "You said you kidnapped me so you could use me against my father—more like a hostage, right?"

I tilted my head, waiting.

"Sorry to say, but it won't work." Her voice was small but steady, full of a confidence that annoyed me. I let the question form with my eyes.

"It won't. Even if you kill me here, he won't give you what you want." She spoke like she'd thought this through. "He won't care what you do to me." There was a sudden softness under the sentence—something like hurt—as if the truth stung her.

"If you had taken his car, or something of value, or someone else—" she paused, voice tightening, "he would have panicked by now. News everywhere, the country on alert, his team hunting. He values those things over me."

She said it like an accusation and a confession, both. The words landed heavily stared at her for a long moment — long enough to watch the faint tremor in her hands fade, long enough to see the fire return to her eyes.

True.
It had already been almost two days.

By now, any normal parent with half the power Rakshit Sen holds would've turned the entire city upside down. But there wasn't a single word in the media. No missing person's alert, no private investigation buzz, not even a whisper in the dark corners of the networks I monitor.

I didn't even erase the CCTV footage from the mansion— I deliberately left it untouched. Her father's security team should've found it within hours. But they didn't.

Why?

A muscle ticked in my jaw as I leaned back, watching her. Her claim wasn't arrogance. It was truth.
And that truth hit me harder than I expected.

Her voice still echoed in my mind — "He won't care what you do to me."

I'd heard plenty of pleas before, plenty of lies. But this wasn't either.
This was a daughter who already knew she'd been abandoned long before I ever touched her life.

For the first time, I wasn't sure who the real criminal was — me... or the man I was trying to destroy.

She didn't even flinch anymore. Most people would've broken by now — she just sat there, bruised throat, messy hair, defiance written all over her face like she was born with it.

"What kind of father doesn't look for his daughter?" I muttered, half to myself.

She gave a bitter laugh. "The kind who only sees heirs, not children."

Something in her tone — cold, detached — felt too real. It was the kind of truth people didn't fake.
And damn it, it bothered me.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, studying her like a riddle I couldn't solve. "So, you're telling me you mean nothing to him?"

"I'm telling you," she said quietly, "that even if you kill me, he'll just send flowers to my funeral... for the sake of image."

My jaw tightened. For a second, the room fell silent — even my men looked uneasy.
The air turned heavy, thick with something I couldn't name.

She looked at me again, those dark, sharp eyes glinting. "So congratulations, Mr. Kidnapper," she said dryly. "You just kidnapped someone disposable."

The words hit harder than they should've.
I wasn't used to feeling guilt — or whatever this was.

I stood abruptly, needing distance. "You talk too much for someone in your position."

"Maybe you should've picked someone who screams instead," she shot back.

Her defiance was reckless, almost suicidal — and yet... something about it made the corners of my mouth twitch.
She wasn't scared of me anymore.

Not because she thought she could win — but because she had nothing left to lose.

And that... was far more dangerous than fear. Between us. I watched her, watching every flicker that crossed her face, cataloguing her certainty and the quiet resignation beneath it.

I leveled the half-broken vase at her.
"Do not dare to act smart and try to run from here," I said. Her laugh died; she gulped and gave a slow, reluctant nod.

"Take her to her room." I threw the vase aside without looking and turned, walking out. I heard a small hiss behind me—someone muttering, or an exhausted breath—I ignored it.

Outside, the hall opened into the courtyard. I climbed into the car, my men following like shadows. The engine idled; the afternoon sunlight pressed against the glass. I closed my eyes for a moment and let her words replay in my head—calm, mocking, dangerous.

"Even if you kill me, he won't give you what you want."
"He only values things, not people."

My chest tightened. This was supposed to be simple: leverage, pressure, return. My mission—my revenge—was the axis the rest of my life had turned on. I could not let it fail. Not now. Not after everything.

And it was too late to expand the circle. By now, Rakshit would have tightened every bolt, doubled security, and buried the trace. Kidnapping another sibling was not an option—too noisy, too risky. Fuck.

I opened my eyes, fixed my face into the calm I wore like armor. The plan was still mine to steer. I would adjust. I always did.

Half an hour later, the car rolled to a stop. The chauffeur opened my door and bowed; I straightened my coat and stepped out. Behind me, my shadow moved like a second skin—Nero, my company, my empire in miniature.

The reception fell into a hush as I passed; everyone stood and bowed, the ritual of respect practiced to perfection. The VIP elevator swallowed us in silence and rose. When the doors opened on the thirty-first floor, my men spread out across the corridor like ink spilled to cover every exit. Their faces were stone—ever ready.

I walked through the passage, the click of my shoes a metronome of authority, and entered my cabin. My secretary, Advik,  looked up immediately.
"Summon Leonardo Costa," I said.

"Yes, sir." he stood and left without a question. I sat behind the desk and swiped through the shipment files on my tablet—everything in order. The shipment sails tonight: seven top-model cars. The market would erupt when they hit; I'd already identified the top buyers. The margins looked clean—profitable. Good.

I moved on to the new arms-making details, scanning blueprints and supplier lists with the same cold efficiency I used for people. Production timelines, delivery windows, contingency routes—each line a piece of the mechanism I kept wound tight.

A soft knock cut through the quiet.
"Come in."

The door opened, and Leonardo Costa stepped inside.

I gestured to the chair; he sat opposite me without fuss.

"Cosa è successo, figliolo?" he asked, voice rough with smoke and warm like an old ledger.

("What happened, son?")

Everyone had a right hand—but Leonardo was my left hand. He was in his fifties, looked half-uncle, half-field-commander: a partner in crime through every mission, every boardroom skirmish, every street war. He'd seen the night my world burned ten years ago and kept the ledger ever since.

I slid the tablet across the desk and opened the file on Mahira.

"You told me you kidnapped her. What happened then?" he asked, not surprised that I'd moved. He knew the plan; he'd known the contours of this revenge before I set foot back in the country.

I took a long breath and began to tell him what happened that morning. 

Leonardo listened without interruption, thumb tracing the edge of the tablet like someone turning a corner on a map. 

I finished, the sound of my breath louder than it should have been in my own ears. 

"This is complicated—and unexpected." Leonardo set the tablet down and folded his hands, thinking. I nodded, jaw tight.

"I feel very frustrated right now," I admitted, clenching my fist until my knuckles went white.

"Calm down, son. It's not the end—and it's certainly not the end for us," he said, voice steady.

"What do I do?" I asked.

"For now," Leonardo replied, "trace his every movement. His company details. His mansion—everything. His trips. His smallest to biggest payments. His other links. His assets. His weaknesses. Everything." He said each item with a weight, like laying out a battlefield.

"And Mahira?" I prompted.

"Keep her," he said without hesitation. "Maybe we can't use her directly against Rakshit, but we can use her to get closer to him. Try to talk with her. Extract everything you can from her." He paused, eyes sharp. "Find mansion details, her father's interests, any upcoming plans or investments—anything that links back to him. In the future, we might be able to use it."

He tapped the side of the tablet, thinking. "My gut says there's a reason he neglects her yet keeps her profile protected. Find that reason."

"And one more thing—don't let him know that Mahira is with you, or that you're even in the country," Leonardo added, standing up. 

Advik burst into the cabin, breath ragged. "Sirr... there is something you should know."

Leonardo and I turned to him at once.

"Say." I kept my voice flat—too many surprises had frayed me lately.

"Someone within the circuit tried to leak the information about today's car shipment to officers and some politicians." His words landed like a stone. Rage crawled up my spine, hot and immediate.

"Find him." I didn't give it a question. It was an order that left no room for negotiation.

Advik nodded and was gone. Leonardo watched him leave, a slow smirk forming at one corner of his mouth. "Have a little mercy on whoever he is," he said, and then he too left the room.

I stepped to the glass wall and planted my hands in my pockets, staring out at the city below. The skyline looked indifferent—streets running on, unaware. But for me, everything was a hair's breadth from combustion. Ten years of planning. Ten years living in the quiet shadow of Italy, while I let the pieces settle. I had trusted others to hold Nero together; my representative had run the company as CEO until I returned.

Now someone had tried to blow the shipment—my shipment—into the hands of officials and politicians. The audacity made my teeth ache. I would not let Nero bleed. I would not let Rakshit or anyone else derail what I'd spent a decade rebuilding. My revenge on Rakshit had to succeed, and Nero could not sink on my watch.

It was evening when Advik slipped in. "Sir found him," he said.

I was already moving. In the car, the city blurred past as I drove toward a lesson that needed to be taught. The vehicle stopped outside our warehouse near Cavelossim beach—isolated, quiet, far from prying eyes. I tossed my coat back into the car and stepped out, leather soles hollow on concrete as I walked through the yawning doorway.

Inside, the warehouse smelled of oil and salt and metal. I walked straight to the service lift and rode it down, and dropped until the doors sighed open onto the basement. Men stood in formation, rifles lowered, faces like rock. In the center, a man was tied to a chair—bruised, bleeding, the work of impatient hands.

I moved toward him. The basement hummed with the low sound of machines and the sharp, taut edge of people waiting for my word.

Advik stood a pace behind me, arms folded, a shadow with patience. Leonardo lingered by the doorway—silent, watchful—the only witness I wanted besides my men.

I crouched until my eyes met his. Up close, the man smelled of cheap whiskey and fear. His face was swollen where someone had already taught him not to look pretty. He tried to steel himself under my gaze.

"Name." My voice was even; the basement absorbed it and returned nothing but the hum of machines.

"Rohit... Rohit D'Souza," he rasped. He tried to straighten, tried to sound like a man who hadn't already been broken. "Please, sir—Ahhhh!!"

He screamed as I stabbed him in the stomach. He doubled, the sound raw. Blood darkened his shirt—sharp, quick, alive, but not a thing I lingered on. A guard tightened a knot behind me to remind the man of what the next mistake would cost him.

"Who offered the money?" I asked. No softness. No mercy.

"Some broker... I don't know the name—just a number—" he coughed, words rough.

"You handed over our plan for cash?" I said, Low. "You sold out Nero for petty bills?"

He choked on the admission. "I needed it—my family—" His voice tried for pleading; it sounded adulterated by fear.

"Convenient." I let the word hang in the basement like a verdict.

I leaned in until my voice dropped to a flat, dangerous hiss. "You betrayed my trust. You betrayed Nero. Loyalty is the only currency I respect. There are two things I do to men like you: I break them until they're useless, or I make an example so everyone remembers."

Rohit's lips trembled. "Please—please. I'll fix it. Tell me what to do—"

"Too late." I straightened and turned.

"Sir—please—" his plea sliced into the air, unfinished. I didn't look back. I reached for the gun tucked in my vest coat and turned.

The shot was precise, straight to the head.

Silence snapped in the basement like a wire. Leonardo's chuckle—low and humorless—rippled through the room as if amused by my mercy.

"Clean it," I said to the nearest guard, voice flat. "And make sure today's shipment goes out without a hitch."

They moved immediately—efficient, practiced. I walked up the lift, out of the basement, into the salt air, every step carrying the weight of the decision. The warehouse doors closed behind me. I slid into the car, palms steady on the wheel as Advik took the passenger seat. The engine purred awake, and we drove the dark stretch back toward the mansion.

Entering the mansion, the familiar hush of luxury wrapped around me — the murmur of staff greeting me, the faint echo of footsteps across the marble floor. I walked through the hallway, unbothered, until something unusual caught my eye — a smear of red near the sofa.

I frowned, my gaze narrowing. "What's with these blood stains?" I asked, turning toward Geeta.

She froze for a second, hesitant — never a good sign. "Sir, in the morning, while you were leaving, Mahira... she accidentally stepped on one of the broken pieces of the vase. Hence..."

I exhaled sharply through my nose. God, that girl. Careless as ever. So that faint hiss I'd heard earlier while leaving... it was her.

"But no need to worry, sir," Geeta continued quickly. "I have bandaged her cut."

I gave a curt nod. 

"Sir, dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes, sir," she replied softly.

"Call her too," I said before heading upstairs.

Once inside my room, I stripped off the day's weight — shower, change, a plain t-shirt, and joggers. The mansion was silent again when I descended the stairs later, heading toward the dining area.

But then, my eyes found her.

Mahira was descending the staircase carefully, her right leg wrapped neatly in a bandage, bare feet touching the cool marble one at a time. Barefoot again. This girl seemed hell-bent on collecting injuries. One of my men trailed a few steps behind her, ready to assist.

She didn't look up — too focused on every careful step. My gaze followed her unconsciously, tracking the tiny furrow in her brows, the slow flutter of her lashes as she concentrated.

And then, she finally lifted her eyes.

The moment her gaze locked with mine — she froze. Just like that. A second of stillness, surprise flashing in her eyes, and then—

She missed a step.

Her injured leg landed hard on the stairs, and she hissed in pain, her balance slipping away.

Before she could fall, I was already moving — instinct taking over. I reached her in time, arms closing around her as she stumbled, her small frame crashing into me.

For a heartbeat, she was pressed against me — breathless, wide-eyed — and I could feel the rapid thud of her pulse against my chest.

Her scent hit me first — soft, intoxicating, and fierce, just like her. Something about it clawed into my senses, unsettlingly familiar yet impossible to place.

I saw one of my men approaching from the corner of my eye, ready to intervene, but I raised a hand — a silent gesture for him to stay back. This wasn't his concern.

She quickly pulled away, her breath uneven. "I-I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

I looked at her — really looked. Her dark brown eyes caught the light, revealing golden flecks that burned with defiance even in her vulnerability. Her long auburn hair spilled down her back, reaching her high waist, the color stark against her fair skin. That small nose, those long lashes brushing her cheeks — and her trembling hands, still pressed against my chest.

Realization hit me then — too close. Too aware.

I stepped back abruptly, steadying her as she found her footing. She winced slightly but managed to stand straight, her fingers clutching the railing for support.

Without another word, I turned and walked into the dining area, every step measured. Pulling out my chair, I sat down in my place — composed on the outside, but my thoughts... not so much.

When she reached the table, she sat across from me — not too far, not too close — just enough to keep the distance.

Geeta appeared quietly, serving us dinner with practiced grace before retreating again, leaving the silence behind. I picked up my fork and started eating, but she didn't move.

Her plate remained untouched. She just sat there, staring at the food the same way she had in the morning — distant, detached, lost somewhere I couldn't reach.

"Eat it now," I said finally, my tone sharper than I intended.

She lifted her eyes to me, uncertain — like she was debating whether to speak or stay quiet. Her silence pressed against my patience until I exhaled, long and hard, pushing back my chair.

I stood, walked around the table, and stopped beside her. Without a word, I picked up her spoon and took a bite from each dish on her plate — one after another. Then, I lifted her glass, took a sip of her water, and returned to my seat, chewing slowly.

Only then did she finally lower her gaze and start eating.

In the morning, I had told her I hadn't added any poison — and yet she hadn't touched the food. But her words... those still echoed in my head.

"If it had been poison, it would've been better."

The way she'd said it — calm, hollow — it wasn't about the food. It wasn't about me. It was about something far deeper, darker. Something she carried inside her like a wound that refused to heal.

After dinner, I was heading toward my study when her voice stopped me.

"Wait!"

There was a small hiss after that — pain. I turned around and saw her moving toward me, her steps careful but hurried, trying not to press her bandaged foot too hard against the floor. Even injured, she was stubborn.

When she finally reached me, she looked up, eyes uncertain yet determined.

"Say," I prompted.

She nodded, hesitated, then finally asked, "What are you going to do to me?"

Her voice carried a quiet edge — fear, curiosity, defiance — all tangled together.

"You're going to stay here," I said flatly. "In my mansion. Without causing any trouble."

She frowned, lips parting to argue.

"Be grateful," I added, my tone cooling. "That I'm not torturing you — just letting you stay here unchained."

Her brows furrowed deeper. "But I'm not of any use to you."

"First," I said, stepping a little closer, "you're not supposed to negotiate with the person who kidnapped you. And second — that's for me to decide. What to do with you, and when."

Her jaw tightened, but I continued before she could speak again. "As long as you don't pull any stunts to run away, you're safe here. You'll stay — understood?"

She frowned again, this time in clear anger — and God help me, she looked... cute. I blinked, shaking the thought away immediately. What the hell am I thinking?

I turned to leave when her voice stopped me again.

"What now?" I asked, more annoyed than I intended.

"Two things," she said quickly.

I arched a brow but gestured for her to go on.

"Your name?" she asked.

I gave her a silent look.

She crossed her arms. "Tell me your name. What do you want me to call you — uncle?"

I almost choked on air. Uncle? God. Taking a slow breath, I muttered, "Armaan. Marcello Armaan Russo."

Her lips curved slightly, eyes lighting up. "Ohoo," she said, as if she'd just heard something fascinating.

Then she straightened and said, "Second thing — don't lock my room. Let me roam around the mansion. It feels suffocating and boring."

Her tone softened, almost pleading. "Please. I swear I won't try to run. Promise."

The way she said it — soft, earnest, those wide eyes fixed on me — it was annoyingly disarming. Against my better judgment, I found myself saying, "Fine. But if you try any smart move—"

"I won't!" she interrupted with a grin, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

I sighed. This girl will be the end of me.

But something nagged at me, so I said, "First, answer me honestly."

She tilted her head slightly, cautious.

"Any other person in your place would've screamed, tried to escape, called someone — anything. But you..." I narrowed my eyes at her. "You didn't. Why?"

She scratched the back of her neck, folding one hand behind her back. "Ah, about that..." She paused, thinking. "It's clear that if you managed to kidnap me and bring me here — from Delhi to South Goa—"

I cut her off. "How do you know it's South Goa?"

She shrugged casually. "The view from my window. The beach. And I saw an LED board on the shore that said Goa. Plus the silence and the distance from the city — only South Goa has that."

I blinked. She wasn't wrong. Smart. Too smart.

She continued, picking up where she'd left off. "Yeah, so... if you could bring me all the way here, and seeing the amount of guards and security around, it's pretty much impossible to run without getting caught — or beheaded."

Her nonchalance would've been amusing if it weren't so unnerving.

"And," she added with a little shrug, "I'd get bored at home anyway. So maybe this could be fun. Till I return, at least I'll have something to do."

I just... stared at her, dumbfounded. Fun?

Did she just call being kidnapped by the mafia—fun?

For a second, my brain genuinely malfunctioned. All my years of running cartels, smuggling, and interrogating men twice my size — and this girl just managed to confuse me more than an entire rival syndicate ever did.

I blinked at her, half-expecting her to laugh and say she was joking. She didn't. She looked dead serious.

And then realization hit her too — her eyes went wide, her mouth opened slightly. "Good night!" she blurted, and before I could even process that, she half-ran, half-hobbled toward the staircase like a criminal fleeing the crime scene of her own embarrassment.

Each step she took came with a little hiss of pain, but apparently, that didn't stop her great escape. The irony.

For a few seconds after she disappeared up the stairs, silence filled the mansion again — the kind that usually settled after chaos. Only this time, the chaos had a name. Mahira.

I stood there, still trying to process what the hell had just happened.

A hostage — an actual hostage — just told me that being here, in a mafia's mansion, was "fun." Fun. Like she'd signed up for a weekend getaway package called Kidnapped by Armaan Russo: Limited Edition Experience.

I let out a breath that turned into a quiet laugh before I could stop it. The sound startled even me. I couldn't remember the last time I laughed — properly laughed. But there I was, chuckling like an idiot in the middle of my living room.

"What the hell are you doing, Armaan?" I muttered, shaking my head.

This girl... she wasn't normal.
She wasn't scared, wasn't broken, wasn't begging for freedom.
She was walking around my mansion barefoot, bandaged, and acting like she was on a vacation she didn't pay for.

And the worst part? Somehow, I didn't hate it.

God. A hostage who talks back, argues, bargains, and calls her kidnapping fun.

"God help me with her," I muttered under my breath.

Shaking my head, I finally walked toward my study — though for once, my thoughts weren't on my empire or my enemies.

They were on her.

And that was a problem.

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