Book #1 of Bounded series
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Sign the papers! She said
I'm not into child marriage Miss Mishra! Shaadi karke mujhe jail bhejne ka irada hai? His tone dripped with sarcasm.
"Can't you be serious with me at least for once Avyan?!!"
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In the dim glow of a single, flickering bulb, the abandoned warehouse excluded an air, of desolation. The scent of rusted metal and age wood permeated the space, mingling with the faint aroma of rain seeping through the cracked ceiling. Dust motes danced lazily in the meager light, settling upon the worn wooden tale and the two chairs that stood as the room’s sole furnishings.
The room was dark, lit only by a single overhead bulb swinging slightly from the cracked ceiling. Dust floated lazily in the stale air, and the long mahogany table in front of me bore the weight of time—scratches, knife marks, and memories etched deep into its surface. The abandoned meeting hall reeked of history. Of power. Of blood.
I sat stiffly on the left side of the table, one leg nervously bouncing, my fingers playing with the tip of a dagger I’d tucked into my belt. Across from me sat a man who could make any sane person lose their composure with just one glance.
Seated across from me was Jaykant Chaudhary, a man whose very presence commanded attention. His sharp, angular features were accentuated by the chiaroscuro of the dim lighting, casting shadows that seemed to deepen the lines etched by years of hardened experience.
Silver strands threaded through his neatly combed black hair, a testament to his fifty-odd years, yet his dark eyes remained piercing, betraying a mind as sharp as ever. Dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that bore subtle signs of wear, he exuded an aura of authority that could make even the most resolute individuals waver.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, the cold seeping through the thin fabric of my jeans. My fingers fidgeted with the hem of my leather jacket, a nervous habit I'd never quite managed to shake. The weight of Jaykant uncle’s gaze bore down on me, and I found myself avoiding direct eye contact, instead focusing on the patterns of grime on the table between us.
Jaykant Chaudhary.
The most feared Mafia leader after Mr. Woods. A legend. A ghost story whispered into the ears of enemies. And somehow, he’d chosen me—yes, me—to take up his post. What on earth was he thinking?
His presence was overpowering. Even in his fifties, he radiated a sharp, lethal aura. His silver-streaked hair was combed back neatly, and every line on his face spoke of stories drenched in power and strategy. He wore a classic black suit, custom-tailored to perfection. No chains, no loud prints, no flashy rings. Just a heavy watch on his wrist and the steely silence in his eyes. That silence had more authority than a room full of men screaming orders.
Jaykant Chaudhary was not a man to be underestimated. Smart. Secretive. Sharp-witted. And here I was, being grilled like a reluctant piece of meat on a mafia barbeque.
He stared at me, unwavering. That look. Oh god, that look. The kind that makes even the strongest soldier feel like a schoolkid caught doodling in class.
