Tangled Lives

CHAPTER 3

  In the days that followed my investigation into Druvan Dutta's grisly murder, I found myself buried under a mountain of paperwork and interviews, each piece of the puzzle more perplexing than the last. To the world, Druvan had been the very image of a sanskari man—dutiful husband, respected businessman, and a figure of moral uprightness in his community. Yet, as I delved deeper into his life, the veneer of respectability began to peel away, revealing a far more sinister reality beneath.

It began with a simple inquiry into his finances. On the surface, Druvan lived a life of modesty—his social media was sparse, his possessions ordinary. His clothing, always neat and understated, was typical of a man who wanted to present himself as humble, as one who followed traditional values. However, it was his bank accounts that betrayed him. Substantial sums of money flowed through his hands—far more than his modest business could account for. Large, unexplained deposits from various sources, and sudden withdrawals in cash—patterns indicative of something illicit.

Then, there were the tattoos. At first glance, they were innocuous, hidden beneath the sleeves of his polo shirts. But when I scrutinized the photographs taken of his body, I noticed something peculiar. The symbols inked into his skin weren't decorative; they were marks of affiliation. Symbols tied to the underworld, to those who trafficked in the shadows. And then it all began to fit together—the missing puzzle pieces falling into place.

Druvan Dutta, the "respectable" family man, had led a double life. Beneath his public persona was a man entangled in the narcotics trade, deeply embedded in the networks of dangerous men who ruled the Mumbai underworld. His wealth, hidden beneath the guise of modesty, was the product of illegal dealings—his connections carefully concealed behind layers of deception. I had uncovered the truth, and it was far darker than I could have anticipated.

But it was not enough to merely know. I needed evidence—solid proof of Druvan's underworld ties, something I could take back to the CBI. And that meant tracking down those who had been closest to him in his illicit dealings. My search led me to the slums of Mumbai, where whispers of his name still echoed in the alleyways, where men who had once called him an ally now feared for their own lives.

It was there, amidst the narrow streets and dilapidated buildings, that I found myself closing in on a key informant. A man who had, according to my sources, been one of Druvan's suppliers—a figure well-versed in the darker dealings of Mumbai's drug trade. I had arranged to meet him in one of the city's forgotten corners, a place where the law seldom reached, and where danger lurked in every shadow.

As I made my way through the twisting alleyways, my senses were alert. The evening air was thick with tension, and though the streets were bustling with activity, there was a feeling of unease that clung to the atmosphere. I felt it before I saw it—a subtle shift, the weight of unseen eyes upon me. My hand instinctively moved to the small knife concealed beneath my coat, but I kept walking, my pace steady, my expression calm. To show fear here would be to invite disaster.

And then, it happened.

A group of men stepped out from the shadows, their faces twisted with a mix of desperation and malice. There were five of them, armed with knives and makeshift weapons, their intent clear in their hungry eyes. They thought I was an easy target—a lone woman in the slums, cut off from any backup or support. How wrong they were.

The first man lunged at me, his knife flashing in the dim light. But I had been trained for moments like this. Years of honing my body and mind had prepared me for the fight that now unfolded. I sidestepped his attack with ease, my movements swift and calculated. Before he could recover, my elbow connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground.

The others hesitated for a brief moment, but then they rushed at me in unison. Their mistake.

The second man came at me with a crude club, swinging wildly. I ducked beneath his strike, sweeping his legs out from under him with a sharp kick. He crashed to the ground, his weapon clattering uselessly beside him. I turned just in time to catch the wrist of another attacker, his knife aimed at my side. With a sharp twist, I disarmed him, the blade falling into my waiting hand. In one fluid motion, I reversed the grip and used the handle to knock him out cold.

Three down. Two to go.

The remaining men circled me warily, realizing now that they had underestimated their prey. But it was too late for them to back down. The larger of the two charged, aiming a powerful punch at my face. I blocked it with my forearm, feeling the force reverberate through my bones, but I held firm. My fist shot forward, striking his throat with precise force. He gasped, staggering back, his hands clutching at his neck as he struggled for air.

The last man, seeing his companions lying defeated, made a desperate lunge at me, his knife held high. But his desperation was his undoing. I sidestepped his wild swing and delivered a sharp kick to his knee, sending him crumpling to the ground with a cry of pain.

And then, it was over.

I stood amidst the fallen men, my breath steady, my heart pounding with the adrenaline of the fight. The alleyway was silent now, save for the groans of the defeated attackers. I looked down at them, their weapons scattered at my feet, and felt a surge of cold determination. They had underestimated me, just as so many others had before them. But I had learned long ago that my strength came not only from my physical prowess but from the relentless drive that had carried me through the darkest moments of my life.

This fight was just another manifestation of the battle I waged every day—against the world, against doubt, against those who believed that a young woman like me had no place in the shadows of men like Druvan Dutta.

I glanced down at the knife still in my hand, the weight of it familiar and steady. My informant would wait. There were more battles ahead, and I was ready

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Greetings my fellow readers! please don't forget to comment and vote! And yes, I grew up reading Sir Aurthur Canon Doyle, so my writing style holds resemblance to his books, so no need to worry this will be as equally as intresting and chilling as the celbrated series "Sherlock Holmes" may have been. Wait for the plot to unravel more because I have some more surprises. 

See you at the next chapter!