Abhay and Armaan flanked him as he entered the main room where three men waited. Suppliers from the Eastern European network, here to discuss the shipment of weapons that would arm Samarth's operations for the next six months.
"Gentlemen," Samarth said, taking his seat at the head of the table. "I trust the journey was comfortable?"
"Very," the lead supplier—a man named Dmitri—replied in heavily accented English. "Your arrangements were impeccable, as always."
"I believe in taking care of business associates." Samarth's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Shall we discuss terms?"
The negotiation was quick, efficient. Samarth had been doing this long enough to know exactly what he wanted and what he was willing to pay. Dmitri tried to inflate prices, citing increased risk and transportation costs.
Samarth countered with cold logic and the implicit threat of taking his business elsewhere.
They settled on a price. Money was transferred—digital transactions that would be laundered through a dozen shell companies before landing in legitimate accounts. Delivery dates were confirmed. Handshakes were exchanged.
"A pleasure doing business with you," Dmitri said. "Though I must say, you have quite the reputation. They call you The Executioner, yes?"
Samarth's expression didn't change. "They call me many things."
"But that one stuck." Dmitri leaned forward, curiosity evident. "There must be a story there."
"There is." Samarth stood, signaling the meeting was over. "But it's not one I share over drinks."
As the suppliers were escorted out through the private exit, Armaan poured three glasses of whiskey—one for himself, one for Abhay, one for Samarth.
"That went smoothly," Armaan observed.
"Dmitri's smart. He knows pushing me too far would be bad for his health." Samarth took a sip of whiskey, savoring the burn. "Any issues with the local operations?"
"Nothing major," Abhay replied. "The protection racket in Dharavi is running smoothly. The clubs are turning a profit. The drug distribution—"
"What about Rajput?" Samarth interrupted.
Abhay exchanged a glance with Armaan. "Quiet. Too quiet."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning he's planning something. We just don't know what yet."
Samarth's jaw tightened. Vikram Rajput had been a thorn in his side for months—a mid-level operator who'd gotten ambitious, started encroaching on Ranawat territory. Samarth had sent warnings. They'd been ignored.
Soon, he'd send something more permanent.
The Executioner.
The name had followed him for over a decade, earned on a night he preferred not to remember but could never forget.
Flashback - 2015
The warehouse was abandoned, the perfect place for the kind of justice that couldn't happen in daylight.
Samarth was twenty-seven, still relatively new to his father's business, still proving he had the stomach for what needed to be done.
The man tied to the chair was named Suresh—one of Raghbir's most trusted lieutenants. Or so they'd thought.
Until they discovered he'd been feeding information to Suryakant.
"Please," Suresh begged, blood running from his nose where Abhay had struck him. "I have a family. Children. Please."
Samarth stood before him, a gun in his hand, his face expressionless.
