Mafia's Revenge Or Love? ~ A Saga Of Love And Revenge

Chapter 13

With one last look in the mirror, Yuvaan turned away, his mind already calculating his next move. Natasha may have thought she was ready for the battle, but little did she know, the true fight had only just begun.

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The sound of heavy rain echoed throughout the state in the dead of night, a symphony of thunder and raindrops that masked the stillness of the world. It was a rare storm, the kind that roared across the desert like a force of nature, seemingly intent on tearing apart the very fabric of the land. Yet, in the heart of this barren wilderness, an ancient temple of Mahadev stood tall, defying the storm’s fury. The temple, weathered by time and battles fought against nature, towered with a quiet majesty, its stone walls etched with centuries of history and devotion.

The wind howled through its corridors, rattling the ancient wooden doors, while the bells hanging from the towering spires rang incessantly, as though they were trying to reach the heavens themselves. Their sound was haunting, a melodic rhythm that blended eerily with the relentless patter of the rain, as if nature itself had become part of the temple’s rituals. Lightning occasionally illuminated the dark clouds, casting brief but stark shadows over the temple’s worn steps and sacred carvings.

Inside, the temple was no less chaotic. A group of people huddled close to the flickering flames of the Havan Kund, their faces pale and tense, the storm outside mirrored in the tension between them. The air inside the temple was thick, not only with the scent of sandalwood and burning ghee but also with an overwhelming sense of unease. The steady chanting of the pandit ji echoed off the stone walls, his voice deep and unwavering, as if undisturbed by the turmoil both inside and outside the temple.

All eyes, however, were drawn to two figures seated near the Havan Kund, their presence as stark as their contrasting expressions. One was Natasha, her form rigid, her face barely concealed by the dark red veil she wore. Though her lips, painted a vivid red, were the only part of her face visible, they twisted ever so slightly with suppressed rage. The other was Yuvaan, the groom, sitting motionless beside her, his face hidden under the golden sehra of his sherwani. If the heavy fabric and ornate design of his attire weighed him down, he didn’t show it. The atmosphere around them was tense, the sacred fire reflecting in their eyes, burning with a sense of finality.

The ceremony unfolding was a mere shadow of the one that had taken place long ago, when Vihaan and Darshana were married. Then, there had been love, laughter, and the joyous clanging of bells to mark the union. Tonight, however, there was nothing but tension, the very air heavy with unspoken resentments and simmering fury.

Ruhanika, seated nearby, cut a striking figure despite her attempt to blend into the background. She wore a green Banarasi saree that shimmered under the dim temple lights, her appearance further transformed by a grey wig and granny glasses that gave her the appearance of an elderly matriarch. She looked every bit the part she was playing, though Shivanya, who was watching her with narrowed eyes, seemed unconvinced.

"Rud," Shivanya whispered, nudging Rudra who stood beside her.

Rudra looked at her questioningly, his sharp features softened by the dim light and the steady hum of the rituals in the background. "Yes?"

Shivanya’s gaze didn’t leave Ruhanika. "Don’t you think Aunty Rathore looks… young? She’s supposed to be 55, but look at her—she could pass for someone in her late twenties."

Rudra blinked, momentarily thrown off by the observation. His eyes darted toward Ruhanika, widening slightly in realization. But quickly, he composed himself, giving Shivanya a dismissive smile. "You know she’s the head of the village. She probably has an excellent skincare routine or some Ayurvedic secret that keeps her looking young. Don’t overthink it, especially with your small, pea-sized brain."