The air buzzed with energy as Ritika stepped off the stage, her dance performance leaving the audience mesmerized. The music pulsed through the grand ballroom, and laughter mingled with the clinking of glasses. Dressed in a midnight blue Anarkali that hugged her curves, she was the picture of elegance, a queen in her own right. But her mind was elsewhere.
Where was Anshika?
She scanned the crowd, her sharp eyes seeking the one person she trusted the most. Anshika was nowhere to be seen. Her instincts flared—something was wrong.
Taking a deep breath, Ritika turned to move through the crowd, but then she saw him.
Rudra Thakur.
The youngest Chief Minister of Maharashtra. A man of power, intelligence, and undeniable charisma. He stood tall in a perfectly tailored black suit, exuding an air of authority that commanded attention. His sharp jawline, intense dark eyes, and the hint of a smirk made him dangerously alluring.
Her breath hitched.
She had protected him from the shadows for years, eliminating threats before they could touch him. He didn't know it, but every time he stepped out in public, she was there, watching, ensuring no harm came to him. She never dared to meet him face to face. Whenever the desire became unbearable, she would sneak into his room in the dead of night, brush her fingers against his hand or his face, and then vanish before dawn.
He was her obsession.
And now, he was right in front of her.
Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for a glass of wine, her eyes never leaving him. She could stand there for hours, just watching. A soft chuckle left his lips as he turned toward his men, engaged in a serious conversation. She felt the pull, the urge to go to him, to finally face him. But her phone buzzed, shattering the spell.
She frowned. An unknown number.
The moment she answered, she recognized the voice.
The mafia needed her.
Without hesitation, she moved. She sent a quick message to Anshika—Emergency. Will be back soon. Then she disappeared into the night.
Ritika arrived at the gang house, now a war zone. The metallic scent of blood filled the air, mixing with the cries of men fighting for survival. Bodies lay scattered, some still twitching, others lifeless. The once grand hideout was in ruins, furniture broken, bullet holes marking the walls.
Her jaw clenched.
She had known there was a rat among her ranks. She had let it slide, waiting for the right moment to expose the traitor. Now, it was time.
"BAS!" Her voice sliced through the chaos like a whip.
(ENOUGH!)
Everyone froze. The fight halted. Eyes turned to her, filled with fear and reverence.
Her gaze locked onto her chef—the one she had suspected from the start. He stood there, sweat dripping down his face, eyes darting around for an escape.
"Tu ne unhe andar aane diya." Her voice was deathly calm.
(You let them in.)
The man stammered, "Mujhe... mujhe majboori thi—"
(I-I had no choice—)
She moved swiftly. Before he could react, she pulled out her gun and shot the guards who had been bribed. They crumpled instantly. The remaining fighters watched in stunned silence.
Grabbing the chef by the collar, she dragged him to the basement. The cold, damp air of the underground room did nothing to hide the screams that would soon follow.
At the Basement
Tied to a chair, blood dripping from his lips, the chef refused to speak.
Ritika sighed. "Mujhe waqt barbaad karna pasand nahi."
(I don't like wasting time.)
She leaned in, her voice soft, deadly. "Tu jaanta hai na, main tujhe abhi maar sakti hoon? Par mujhe maza tab aata hai jab samne wala tadapta hai."
(You know, I could just kill you now? But I enjoy it more when my enemies suffer.)
The man trembled. "Please—"
"Tujhe pata hai mujhe sabse zyada gussa kab aata hai?" She whispered, her voice dangerously low.
(Do you know when I get the most angry?)
She thought about how she had been watching him—Rudra—when this mess pulled her away.
Anshika broke the silence and spoke, "You have a son and a daughter, both 17 years old. Poor kids lost their mother at the age of 3, but now they will also lose their father and become orphans. Now, the choice is yours, Chef." Her voice carried both confidence and frustration.
Minutes passed. His will broke.
"Russian Mafia," he gasped. "Wo Indian ladkiyon ko utha kar Russia bhej rahe hain."
(They are kidnapping Indian girls and sending them to Russia.)
Silence.
Ritika's blood ran cold.
She knew who he was talking about. The new leader of the Russian Mafia—a psychotic, ruthless man who had taken over the underworld with brutality. He was known for his obsession with rare, untouchable things. And now, he wanted her.
Her grip tightened on the knife she was holding.
"Usne mujh par hamla kyun kiya?"
(Why did he attack me?)
"Kyunki... wo tujhe chahta hai."
(Because... he wants you.)
Ritika froze.
She knew about this man. He wasn't just dangerous—he was insane. And if he wanted her, it meant he wouldn't stop until he had her.
The last thing the chef saw was her cold, merciless smile before she slit his throat.
"Meri duniya mein doka dene walon ke liye sirf ek saza hoti hai—maut."
(In my world, there is only one punishment for betrayal—death.)
At the house
Ritika washed the blood off her skin, the warm water a contrast to the darkness inside her. Dressed in a black dress that clung to her body like a second skin, she gave orders.
"Sab log spare house shift ho jao. Yeh jagah ko main repair karwaugi."
(Move everyone to the spare house. I will repair this place.)
As her men carried out her command, she looked at the chef's lifeless body one last time.
Making a story relatable across different backgrounds means crafting deep, multi-dimensional characters, universal emotions, and themes that resonate with many. Writing so that everyone can enjoy my imagination.
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