The ghost's gesture was a brand, seared into Harsh's mind. I am watching you. For two days, Harsh felt those flat, dead eyes on him everywhere. The alcove, once his kingdom, felt like a glass box. Every customer was a potential spy; every slowing car outside sent a jolt of fear through him. He was a rabbit that had felt the shadow of the hawk, and now he could not unfeel it.
He stayed away from the Kalyan lock-up. He stopped all communication with Vijay Malhotra, letting the Dubai connection go cold. Survival was the only priority now. He had to become small again, insignificant, to make the ghost's unwavering gaze move on to something else.
It was a futile hope.
On the third day, the summons came. It was not delivered by a street urchin or the ghost himself.
A long, black car—a model Harsh didn't recognize, its windows tinted to an opaque shine—pulled up to the mouth of the alley. It was an obscene sight, this sleek symbol of wealth and power parked amidst the grime and chaos of Bhuleshwar. The market noise dipped for a moment, all eyes drawn to the vehicle.
The passenger door opened. A man in a dark suit and sunglasses got out. He was built like a wall, his posture rigid, his head on a swivel, scanning the area with a professional's cold efficiency. A personal security guard. He opened the rear door.
The man who emerged was not the ghost. He was the accountant from the tea house. Mr. Dalal. The man who had written the contract, the one who looked at Harsh with such pure, unadulterated resentment.
Dalal smoothed his impeccable suit and walked into the alley, his polished shoes looking absurdly out of place on the dirty ground. He stopped a few feet from the alcove, not deigning to step fully inside. Deepak and Sanjay froze, their tools hovering mid-air.
"Mr. Patel," Dalal said, his voice dripping with a disdain that needed no microphone. "You are to come with me."
Harsh's mouth went dry. This was it. The ghost's watching was over. Action was being taken. "Where?" he managed to ask.
"The employer wishes to have a conversation," Dalal replied, his tone implying that refusal was not an option, nor was it even a concept that existed. "The car will take you."
Every instinct screamed at Harsh to run, to refuse, to melt into the crowd and never look back. But he knew it was useless. You couldn't run from Venkat Swami. That car wasn't a request; it was a tractor beam.
He nodded, his limbs moving stiffly. He followed Dalal out of the alcove, feeling the terrified eyes of Deepak and Sanjay on his back. The security guard held the car door open. The interior was cool, silent, and smelled of expensive leather. It was like stepping into another world.
The drive was silent. Dalal sat in the front passenger seat, not looking back. The guard drove with a quiet focus. They did not head south toward the docks. Instead, they drove north, through the crowded streets, into the quieter, tree-lined avenues of Malabar Hill.
The car finally stopped not at a commercial building, but outside a massive, private bungalow. It was set back from the road behind high, white walls, its architecture a blend of old colonial and modern minimalist. A silent guard opened a heavy iron gate, and the car slid through into a pristine courtyard.
This was not a place of business. This was a home. His home.
The fear in Harsh's gut curdled into something colder, more intimate. This was a different level of exposure. He was being brought into the dragon's lair.
He was led through a spacious, sparsely furnished living room and out onto a vast terrace that overlooked the Arabian Sea. The view was breathtaking, a panorama of blue water and sky that felt a million miles from the cramped alleyways of Bhuleshwar.
A man was sitting alone at a simple teak table, sipping from a small ceramic cup. He was dressed in a simple white kurta, not unlike his ghost's, but the cloth was finer, the cut perfect. He was older than Harsh expected, his hair steel grey, his face lined with the quiet authority of a man who had not needed to raise his voice in decades.
This was not a kingpin. This was an emperor.
He did not look up as Harsh approached. He finished his tea, placed the cup down with a soft click, and then finally lifted his gaze.
Venkat Swami's eyes were the most unsettling thing Harsh had ever seen. They were not dead, like the ghost's. They were ancient, calm, and held a depth of perception that felt utterly inhuman. They seemed to see not just Harsh, but every thought, every fear, every desperate scheme that had ever flickered through his mind.
He gestured to the chair opposite him. "Sit, Mr. Patel."
Harsh sat, his heart hammering against his ribs. The silence stretched, filled only by the cry of gulls and the distant crash of waves.
"You have been busy," Swami said finally. His voice was quiet, measured, without a hint of rasp or threat. It was all the more terrifying for its normality. "You signed a contract with me. And then you decided to start your own, competing operation. Using my docks. My corridors of influence. My market."
He didn't sound angry. He sounded… disappointed. Like a teacher reviewing the work of a promising but wayward student.
"It was not competition, sir," Harsh said, the honorific falling from his lips unbidden. "It was… an opportunity. I saw a gap."
"A gap I had not authorized," Swami corrected him gently. "You thought you were being clever. Building your own empire in the shadows of mine. It is an admirable ambition. Misguided, but admirable."
He paused, letting the words sink in. He knew everything. The dhow, the Gujarat run, the sales to the mills. All of it.
"The policeman, Sawant… his investigation into that fool Kersi was a fortunate distraction for you. A clever piece of misdirection. I appreciated its elegance."
Harsh's blood ran cold. He knew about that, too.
"But it has created noise," Swami continued, his tone hardening a fraction. "Noise is the enemy of business. Your ambition has drawn the eye of the one government man in this city who cannot be paid to look away. This is a problem."
He leaned forward slightly. "I do not crush ambition, Mr. Patel. I channel it. Your resourcefulness has been noted. Your current operation is terminated. You will never contact your Dubai connection again. The man, Malhotra, is now… off-limits."
The finality in his voice was absolute. Vijay was gone.
"However," Swami said, his ancient eyes locking onto Harsh's. "A mind that can orchestrate such a thing from a back-alley workshop is a mind that can be useful. The world is changing. The war in the Gulf will change the flow of everything. I have need of adaptable men."
He was not going to kill him. He was offering him a job. A real one.
"You will shut down your little side project. You will continue to manage your… legitimate… electronics business. And you will do one more thing for me."
He slid a single, folded piece of paper across the teak table.
Harsh, his hand trembling slightly, picked it up and unfolded it.
It was an address. An industrial address in Andheri. And below it, a name: Sigma Electro-components.
"They assemble circuit boards for foreign companies," Swami said. "They are behind on a large order. Their founder is an honest man. Too honest. He is struggling. I want you to go there. I want you to invest in his company. Use your knowledge. Make it efficient. Make it profitable."
Harsh stared at the paper, utterly bewildered. This was not what he expected. Not violence, not threats, but… a business proposal?
"Why?" The question was out before he could stop it.
A faint, cold smile touched Swami's lips. "Because everyone must start somewhere, Mr. Patel. Even me. I do not just break things. I also build them. And now, so will you."
The message was clear. The lesson was over. The punishment was not death; it was assimilation. He was being brought inside, given a taste of real, legitimate power, but on Swami's terms. Forever.
The summons was not for his execution.
It was for his recruitment.
(Chapter End)