Dr Meera Saravana has been on the run for the last ten years due to a fatal misunderstanding. She ends up in New York, hoping that maybe this time everything will work out. But that's turning out to be impossible the more she gets involved with the...
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Travelling is only pleasant for those who have the money for nice seats and the right amount of Instagram followers to post aesthetic pictures. For people like Nik who needed to keep a low profile, it meant being stuck in economy with several screaming babies and limited legroom for almost fourteen hours straight.
By the time he touched down at Heathrow, it was late and his patience had run out hours ago. It was raining and the sky was greyer than his morals. In other words, a shitty start to a shitty day.
Ivan had instructed him to not let anyone know that he was there. Easier said than done. That meant no flashy cars, no decent hotel rooms, and especially no weapons that could be traced back to him.
Fucking great.
Nik was pretty sure that Ivan had sent him to London because he had called him an ass, Which he was. What else would he call him? Delusional? Stupid? An ever-loving prick who ran away from their feelings? It wouldn't matter because whatever Nik called him would be true and he'd end up in fucking London of all places.
This place sucked. But, hey, At least the food didn't taste like shit. He had ordered some naan and chicken tikka curry to go. It didn't taste as spicy as what Meera had made, there was too much cream and it was unusually sweet but he scarfed it down as he kept an eye on his target.
London wasn't just for colonized Indian food or a dingy hotel room that smelled like a dead rat, there was more to the city than that. They had their fair share of crime families. Nik only knew three from memory and even he wasn't sure about it. Anya had been cagey about the details, holding Meera's folder close to her chest. It didn't take her long to figure out that Nik had tried to give it to Ivan. He expected her to get mad, maybe try to stab him with her pointy stilettos but she didn't. Anya asked him to find out who owned the SS Singhania. It didn't take long. Nik had spent the better part of the past three days sifting through cargo logs and I interviewed/interrogated witnesses. Whatever—or whoever—had been in that cargo ship, it just meant trouble in the future.
Currently, Nik was perched on the roof opposite a restaurant in East End. A coffee cup in his hand to keep away the rainy chill and the holding binoculars to peer into the glass windows. He placed his coffee down as he saw several men walk into the restaurant, one of them dressed in a light grey suit.
Nik had no fucking clue who this guy was.
He was the only one that paused to look around him, green eyes scanning the rooftops. Nik ducked down a little, keeping his eyes trained on him. Curly brown hair soaked due to the rain and sharp features, he looked to be taller than six feet. Nik calculated the odds of fighting him in his head, wondering if this guy was the one he had been searching for.
This was a meetup spot for the Ottavio Family. From what information he had gathered in the past week, mostly from seedy arms dealers and dock workers, the Ottavio family had a connection with Zoya just before he died. Nik had snuck into the docks one night, nearly risking several tetanus shots as he climbed over the rusted fences. The SS Singhania was docked there, being refitted for renovation....and on the deck of that very ship was the man who was standing outside the coffee shop.
