The Mafia heart ( book 1 )

Chapter 1: Shadows and Silk

The early morning sun barely touched the skyline of Kalinagar as the sleek, black Rolls-Royce Phantom glided through the streets. The city buzzed with a chaotic energy, as if it could sense the dangerous man making his way toward the heart of its underworld. Vikram sat in the backseat, his mind already working through the day's agenda with the same precision he applied to everything in his life.

Beside him, his right-hand man Arman lounged casually, flipping a silver coin between his fingers with the ease of someone who had grown up cheating fate. Arman's playful smirk never left his face, as though he found humor in every dark corner of Kalinagar. He was the charmer, the strategist, the one who could get into places that no one else could-whether through words or well-timed bribes.

In the front seat, Kartik, Vikram's left-hand man, sat rigid as steel, his jaw clenched tight. Kartik was the opposite of Arman in every way-fierce, impulsive, and quick to anger. He preferred solutions that left no room for negotiations: one shot, one end. While Arman could talk his way out of any situation, Kartik's solution was always more direct-violence.

"Did you see the look on Maro's face last night?" Arman chuckled, still flipping his coin. "Like he knew he was screwed but couldn't figure out how. That's what I call priceless."

Vikram remained silent, his eyes focused on the buildings rushing past the tinted windows. His luxury office, a penthouse on the top floor of one of Kalinagar's most expensive buildings, loomed ahead. Today wasn't about settling old scores-it was about the future. Business deals, power moves, and asserting dominance over the competition, all of which required a different kind of violence.

"You laugh too much," Kartik growled from the front seat, his voice sharp. "If it were up to you, half these rats would still be breathing."

Arman's smile widened. "If it were up to you, we'd be cleaning up blood every day. There's an art to all this, Kartik. You should learn to enjoy the game."

Kartik turned slightly, his dark eyes glaring through the rearview mirror. "Games are for children. We're not children."

"Boys," Vikram's voice cut through the tension, smooth and calm but carrying the weight of authority. "Enough."

The Rolls-Royce pulled up to the entrance of the luxurious high-rise. A team of security guards, dressed in black suits with earpieces, stood ready, opening the doors for Vikram and his entourage. The lobby was a testament to understated opulence-marble floors, glass walls, and the faint hum of money that passed through these halls every day.

As they stepped into the elevator, Arman leaned against the wall, grinning. "So what's the play today? Big deals, bigger threats?"

"Deals," Vikram replied, adjusting the cufflinks on his tailored suit. "Dangerous ones."

Kartik cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing in the small space. "Let's get it over with."

The elevator opened to reveal Vikram's office-sleek, modern, and with a panoramic view of the city sprawled out below. The walls were lined with art, but not the kind one would find in a gallery. These were pieces with history, with blood behind them, artifacts that only someone with power could acquire.

The large, black desk at the center of the room was empty except for a single glass decanter filled with amber liquid and a set of crystal glasses. Vikram moved to his chair, sitting down with the poise of a king on his throne.

Arman and Kartik took their usual positions-Arman leaning casually against the window, staring out at the city below, while Kartik remained standing, arms crossed, his eyes constantly scanning the room as if expecting danger to burst through the door at any moment.