"Ele… eleven years," she said quietly, and the voice was uneven. "Then he sent me to London for studies."
I watched her closely. Every word carried history.
"You miss him," I said.
She nodded instantly. No hesitation. That alone told me everything.
"He's already dead," I said flatly the same truth I had told her the day I took her.
Her head snapped up.
"No," she said, eyes blazing through tears. "He's not dead. And what proof do you even have?" Her voice shook, but her conviction didn't. "He can't be killed. He has protection. The best protection."
I let out a slow breath, my jaw tightening. "Why would I lie to you?" I asked coldly.
She didn't back down.
"Because you're a bastard," she said, raw and fearless. For a second, anger surged sharp, violent, familiar. My fists clenched at my sides, nails digging into my palm. I forced it down. Losing control here would give her power.
"Fucking hell," I muttered under my breath. I straightened, my voice turning distant, closed off.
"Then don't believe me," I said.
I turned without another word and walked out, the door shutting behind me with finality.I didn't go far.I never do when I walk away like that.
From the corridor camera feed, I watched her room in silence. She stood frozen for a long moment after I left not crying, not moving. Just staring at the door like it might reopen and swallow her whole.
That stillness?
That's where people break.
I turned to Rohit.
"Bring me the file," I said quietly. "Not the full one. Only fragments."
He frowned. "Sir… if she sees.."
"I know exactly what she'll see," I cut in. "And exactly what she won't."
Half-truths destroy people better than lies ever could. I stared walking towards her room The door opened again.She stiffened instantly.
I walked in slower this time, calmer. No anger. No sharp edges. That alone made her uneasy. People expect monsters to roar not to sit quietly.
I placed a thin file on the table between us.
"Sit," I said.
She didn't argue. That surprised me.
I opened the file but didn't turn it toward her.
"Do you know why denial feels safer than the truth?" I asked casually.
She stayed silent.
"Because denial lets you keep the version of your father you love," I continued.
"The truth forces you to accept the version he hid."
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeves.
I slid one photo toward her. Just one.
Blurry. Old. Her father unmistakably standing beside a man whose face was deliberately cropped out.
Her breath hitched.
"This photo is thirteen years old," I said. "Taken in Milan."
She shook her head. "That doesn't prove anything."
I smiled faintly.
"Good," I said. "You're thinking."
I slid another paper.
A shipping ledger. Names blacked out. Routes circled in red.
"Your father wasn't protected," I said calmly. "He was useful."
She looked up at me sharply. "You're lying."
"Am I?" I asked. "Or am I simply telling you something you're not ready to hear?"
I leaned back.
"If I wanted to break you," I said quietly, "I'd show you everything at once."
Her eyes flicked to the file again — fear and curiosity fighting inside her.
"But I don't want you broken," I continued. "not yet . You are my best revenge and i never let you go " i smirked
Silence swallowed the room.
Finally, her voice cracked.
"Why are you doing this?"
I looked at her steadily.
"Because Carlo Gotti killed your father," I said. "And blamed me."
Her head snapped up.
"That's impossible.."
"He used your father as leverage," I cut in. "Then erased him when he stopped being useful."
She stood abruptly. "You expect me to believe you instead?"
I rose too — not threatening, just present.
"No," I said softly. "I expect you to doubt everyone."
That landed harder than anger ever could.
.
.
.
Later that night, I stood in my war room screens lit, maps glowing, names blinking like targets.
Carlo Gotti had made one mistake.
He underestimated how personal this had become.
"Phase one?" Rohit asked.
"Destabilize," I said. "Not blood. Not yet."
I tapped the screen ports, banks, routes.
"He likes control," I continued. "So we take it away quietly. One ally at a time."
"And the girl?" Rohit asked carefully.
I didn't answer immediately.
Because she is my revenge she will be not involve in this whole . World doesn't know that she exit because her father . He hide her like she never existed. I get to know about her when harshvardhan came to London for my little wife's birthday. My little wife. I always make sure that she will pay for her father's sins .
" she is my Revange i deal with her personaly " the big smirik came on my face . Rohit just nodded and level the room.
.
.
.
.
CARLO GOTTI'S POV
Silence is never good news.
In my world, silence means one of two things:
someone is dead… or someone is planning something worse.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of my Milan office, a cigar burning untouched between my fingers. The city lights below glittered like nothing could ever touch them. That illusion used to comfort me.
Tonight, it didn't.
"They should've been back by now," I said calmly.
No one answered immediately.
That alone irritated me.
"They left ten days ago," I continued, my voice even. "A simple confirmation mission. In. Out. No bloodshed unless necessary."
Still nothing.
I turned slowly.
"Why," I asked quietly, "are you all suddenly interested in the floor?"
One of my men finally spoke. "Sir… there's been no contact. Phones dead. No sightings. No bodies."
No bodies.
That was the problem.
If Ranawat had killed them, I'd have received something by now — a message, a threat, a warning written in blood. That's how men like him operated.
But this?
This was deliberate silence.
I crushed the cigar in the ashtray with more force than necessary.
Harshvardhan Rathod.
The name surfaced in my mind like a ghost that refused to stay buried.
I hadn't enjoyed killing him. Contrary to what people believed, I didn't kill for pleasure. Rathod had become unpredictable — expanding routes, cutting deals behind my back, growing ambitious.
Men like that either get controlled… or removed.
I chose removal.Clean. Quiet. Efficient. Because if he would survive that I might not . Because he got to know my true colour.
Or so I thought.I turned to the wall where a digital map glowed softly. Routes. Ports. Accounts.
Three of them were blinking red. Frozen.
I narrowed my eyes. "No," I muttered. "That's not possible."
One of my financial heads stepped forward, nervous. "Sir… the Adriatic arms route stalled yesterday. The bank in Zurich delayed our transfer. And the Valencia port..."
"...is suddenly under 'inspection,'" I finished coldly.
Inspection.My favorite word when it worked against others.My least favorite when it worked against me.
I felt it then not fear.
Recognition.
Aviraj Ranawat didn't strike loudly.
He erased you quietly until you realized too late that the ground beneath your feet was already gone.
"So," I murmured, more to myself than anyone else, "He survived Rathod… and chose now to move."
Someone dared to speak. "Sir… do you think killing Rathod triggered this?"I turned sharply.
"Triggered?" I repeated softly.
My jaw tightened. Killing Rathod hadn't triggered Ranawat.
It had freed him.Rathod had been a buffer. A wall. A complication between us.
And I'd torn it down myself.A slow, bitter smile curved my lips.
"I miscalculated," I admitted quietly a rare thing for me.
Not because Rathod was powerful.But because removing him created a vacuum.
And Ranawat had stepped into it like he'd been waiting all along.I walked back to the window, watching Milan breathe below me.
"Find out where my men are," I ordered. "Alive or dead."A pause.
"And if they're alive?" someone asked carefully.I exhaled slowly.
"Then Ranawat wants me to know something," I said. "And whatever it is…"My fingers curled into a fist."…it won't be mercy."
For the first time in years, one thought refused to leave my mind . Killing Harshvardhan Rathod may have been the worst decision of my life.