The message came not with a threat, but with an invitation. A single, cream-colored card, delivered by a nervous-looking boy who shoved it into Harsh's hand and fled. The paper was thick, expensive. The script was elegant, precise.
Mr. Patel, A car will call for you at eight this evening. We have matters to discuss. - V.S.
No address. No demands. Just a statement of fact. The emperor had accepted the invitation.
A cold calm settled over Harsh. This was it. The moment everything had been building toward. He felt no fear, only a sharp, crystalline focus. He was walking into the lion's den, but he was no longer a lamb. He was a hunter armed with a new kind of weapon: knowledge of the lion's weaknesses.
He spent the day preparing. Not with weapons or armor, but with information. He reviewed everything Deepak and Sanjay had gathered—the unpaid invoices, the disgruntled officials, the delayed shipments. He memorized names, amounts, dates. He was arming himself with the receipts of a crumbling empire.
At precisely eight, a sleek, black Mercedes pulled up to the curb near the spice warehouse. The driver, a large man with a neutral expression, held the door open without a word.
The car moved through the city, not toward the docks or any known business address, but into the old, wealthy neighborhoods of Malabar Hill. It wound through quiet, tree-lined streets before stopping before a high, whitewashed wall. A heavy iron gate swung open silently, revealing a modern, minimalist house that seemed to float above the city lights, overlooking the dark expanse of the Arabian Sea.
This was not a fortress. It was a sanctuary. The seat of power, far from the grime it was built upon.
The driver led him through a courtyard with a silent reflecting pool and into the house. The interior was cool, spacious, and almost barren. There were no obvious signs of wealth, only an overwhelming sense of quiet control.
Venkat Swami sat on a low divan by a wall of glass, sipping from a small ceramic cup. He was smaller than Harsh had imagined, a man of slight build dressed in a simple white linen kurta. He did not look like an emperor. He looked like a scholar. Only his eyes held the truth—they were ancient, calculating, and devoid of any warmth. They were the eyes of the ghost, refined and concentrated.
He did not look up as Harsh entered.
"Mr. Patel," he said, his voice softer than expected, yet it carried in the silent room. "You have been expensive."
Harsh said nothing. He stood, waiting. He would not speak first.
Finally, Swami gestured to the space on the divan opposite him. "Sit. The tea is good. Assam. Strong."
Harsh sat. He did not touch the tea.
Swami took a slow sip, watching Harsh over the rim of his cup. "The oil trade. A remarkable gamble. Most unwise. Yet you prevailed. It suggests either incredible luck... or incredible foresight."
He set his cup down. "Then you return to my city. You bribe my officials. You woo my associates. You even attempt to hire my forger. You are like a mosquito, buzzing, biting, irritating. Most would have been swatted by now."
"Why haven't I been?" Harsh asked, his voice even.
"Because a mosquito is insignificant. But a mosquito that navigates a storm, that finds its way into a sealed room... that becomes interesting." Swami's lips twitched in something that was not a smile. "You have shown resourcefulness. A quality I value."
He leaned forward slightly. "The boy in London. That was... sentimental. A waste of capital. And ultimately, pointless. The father is broken. The debt remains."
"The debt was to my conscience," Harsh said. "Not to yours."
Swami acknowledged the point with a slight tilt of his head. "And now you sit here. In my home. What is it you want? Truly? You want revenge for a broken hand? For a few weeks of manual labor? It seems a petty reason for such... exertion."
"I want what was taken," Harsh said. "Not just from me. From everyone you've squeezed, everyone you've broken to build this." He gestured around the room, the view. "I'm not here for revenge. I'm here for a reckoning."
Swami actually laughed, a dry, whispery sound. "A reckoning. You speak like a character from a film. This is business. I saw an opportunity in the docks. I took it. I saw an opportunity in a government desperate for technology. I provided it. I create systems. I provide solutions. For a price."
"The price is too high."
"The price is what the market will bear," Swami countered. "And the market," he said, his eyes hardening, "has borne me quite well. You have caused some temporary cash flow issues. Inconveniences. You have not changed the market."
"I've changed the competition," Harsh said.
Silence.
Swami studied him for a long, uncomfortable minute. The only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioning.
"You wish to be a player," Swami said finally. "Not a pawn. I understand this ambition. It is why you are still alive. I am offering you a choice. The same choice I offered you in the beginning, though you were too foolish to see it then."
He spread his hands. "Stop this wasteful conflict. Join me. Your cleverness, your foresight... these are assets. The shipyard project is... paused. But there are other projects. Larger projects. The future is coming, Mr. Patel. I intend to own it. You could have a share. A real share. Not the scraps you are fighting for now."
It was the most dangerous offer yet. It was everything he could have wanted—power, wealth, influence. A chance to build his empire on a foundation already laid. All he had to do was kneel.
Harsh looked out the window at the dark sea, then back at the most powerful man in Mumbai.
"You mistake me," Harsh said, his voice quiet but clear in the vast room. "I don't want a share of your empire."
He leaned forward, meeting Swami's gaze directly for the first time.
"I want to build my own on its ruins."
The air in the room went cold. The pretense of civility evaporated. The scholar's mask slipped, and for a fraction of a second, Harsh saw the raw, terrifying will beneath—the man who could order a child's treatment stopped without blinking.
"Then you have chosen to be swatted," Swami said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "The game is over. You have no idea the forces you are playing with."
Harsh stood up. "I know the price of oil. I know the names of the customs officials whose palms you haven't greased this month. I know which of your ships are sitting empty. I know enough."
He walked toward the door. He had delivered his answer.
"Patel," Swami's voice stopped him. Harsh turned. The man had not moved. He looked like a statue in the dim light. "You walked in here tonight. You will not walk out. This is not the docks. There are no witnesses here."
Harsh smiled, a thin, cold expression. "I know. That's why I didn't come alone."
He nodded toward the window. From the road below, the distinct, flashing blue light of a police jeep reflected off the glass of the reflecting pool. Not one. Two.
"Inspector Sawant is a practical man," Harsh said. "He may have made a deal with you to contain a scandal. But he is also an ambitious man. And he knows that being the officer who arrests Venkat Swami for threatening a witness is a much bigger prize than being the officer who helped him clean up a mess."
He had not come for a deal. He had come to show Swami the bars of the cage that was slowly closing around him. The empire was weakened, and the vultures were beginning to circle. And Harsh had just shown the emperor that he was the one leading them to the carcass.
"The car will take you back," Swami said, his voice once again a neutral, emotionless mask. The moment of threat was gone, replaced by a cold acceptance of this new move on the board.
Harsh walked out of the house, past the silent driver, and got into the Mercedes. He had not won. But he had survived the audience. And he had shown the king that the pawn was now a queen.
The war was not over. It had just become official.
(Chapter End)