15-09-2025, 04:10 PM
(CHAPTER CONTD)
THE NEXT DAY
The drive back from Sanjeevani Hospital to Bandra was quiet, each of them staring out of the windows of the cab as if the streets of Mumbai had suddenly grown foreign. The city was the same, chaotic and alive, but something had shifted inside their small world. Dilawar and Rafique were gone—dead or locked away, it hardly mattered now. What mattered was that their grip on the family’s life had ended. Yet instead of celebration, silence hung thick, like a curtain refusing to lift.
When they reached the apartment, Karan rushed ahead with the keys, fumbling to open the door. The familiar smell of the flat hit them—stale from being closed for days, yet oddly comforting. Anjali followed him inside, carrying a bag of clothes. Hemant paused at the threshold, waiting for Sonarika. She lingered, taking in the building’s lobby, as though checking that shadows from her nightmare weren’t waiting for her again.
Inside, the living room felt strangely smaller than before, cluttered by the memories of anxious nights and restless days. Sonarika lowered herself onto the sofa, wincing slightly as her body reminded her of the ordeal she had endured. Karan sat close beside her, protective in his own way, his young eyes hardened by what he had seen. Anjali disappeared into the kitchen, busying herself with water bottles and tea, eager to restore some normalcy.
Hemant stood near the window, hands in his pockets, watching the sun slip lower across the skyline. Relief filled him, but it was a heavy kind—like the end of a long storm where the damage still needed surveying. Dilawar’s men had stolen so much from them: peace, trust, even laughter. But now there was at least a tomorrow that wasn’t haunted by their threats. That thought steadied him.
For Sonarika, however, relief carried a strange aftertaste. She was grateful, yes, but her mind kept circling back to Vikram—his voice urging her to hold on, his presence a shield when chaos broke loose. The bond had deepened in those critical hours. She felt guilty for thinking of him while Hemant stood only a few feet away, silent and watchful. Her marriage already hung by a thread, yet her heart was being pulled elsewhere.
She excused herself, saying she needed to lie down, and retreated into the bedroom. Hemant followed her with his eyes but said nothing. He knew this drift, had sensed it for months, but now it was no longer a suspicion—it was visible in the way she avoided his gaze, in the hesitation of her voice. He swallowed hard. Divorce papers had already been filed; the law required time, and time was all they had left to share under one roof.
Karan came up to Hemant.
"Papa, will everything be okay now?"
The boy’s question carried both fear and hope. Hemant ruffled his son’s hair gently.
"Yes, champ. The bad men are all gone. You don’t have to worry anymore"
Saying it aloud reassured him as much as it reassured the boy. In the kitchen, Anjali set cups on the counter, her hands trembling as she poured. She was only sixteen, yet she had watched her sister be taken, had seen men with guns and knives, had sat through hospital corridors filled with dread. Trauma had made her grow too quickly. But now, standing here in the familiar flat, she finally let herself breathe. Maybe home could still mean safety.
Sonarika lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily. The cool air touched her skin, but her mind was restless. She reached for her phone and dialed a number she had saved long ago—Dr. Neha. When the line connected, she asked in a hushed tone to reschedule her sessions. She knew she needed more help, more time. The scars left by Dilawar’s cruelty were deeper than her body showed.
Back in the living room, Hemant sat down heavily in a chair. His body ached not from wounds but from the weight of decisions already made. He had fought for Sonarika in his own way, but he couldn’t fight her heart. If her happiness was with Vikram, then perhaps he had to let her go. That was what love meant too, he told himself—allowing someone the freedom to choose even if it cut him open.
Anjali brought tea to him and Karan, her attempt at normal conversation filling the silence. They spoke about college, about how she would need to catch up on missed assignments, about Karan’s cricket matches. Small things, ordinary things—the very things that Dilawar had tried to steal from them. Each word was a quiet victory.
Sonarika joined them again after a while, her face washed, her hair tied back. She looked tired but steadier. When she sipped from the cup Anjali handed her, Hemant noticed how her hands still trembled faintly. He wanted to reach across and hold them, to assure her she was safe. But he stopped himself. That role was fading, and perhaps someone else already played it.
The four of them sat together in the dimly lit living room, not speaking much. Outside, Mumbai carried on with its usual energy—cars honking, vendors shouting, life resuming as though nothing had happened. Inside, the family carried scars invisible to the world. Relief was there, yes, but it came mixed with uncertainty, with the knowledge that this was an ending as much as it was a beginning.
Later that night, after Karan and Anjali had gone to their rooms, Hemant and Sonarika remained awake. Words hovered between them, unsaid. He wanted to tell her that he saw her drifting, that he hoped she would find her peace even if it wasn’t with him. She wanted to confess that her heart was confused, split between loyalty and longing. But both remained quiet, listening instead to the steady hum of the city, and the silence between them grew deeper than before.
Yet in that silence lay a fragile truce. Dilawar and Rafique were gone, shadows finally dispelled. The family was safe. Healing would come slowly, in fragments, perhaps along different paths. Hemant closed his eyes, praying that whatever road Sonarika chose, it would lead her back to some semblance of sanity, of peace. And though it hurt him, he was willing to let her walk away—if only so she could be free.
THE NEXT DAY AT DILAWAR'S DESTROYED COLONY
Morning sunlight spread weakly over the colony, but it did nothing to soften what was left. The air reeked of smoke, oil, and gunpowder. Burned vehicles and collapsed walls stood like gravestones, marking the end of a reign. Deputy Commissioner Sanjana Ranawat stepped carefully across the debris, her eyes sweeping over the bodies scattered like discarded chess pieces. They were all men—Dilawar’s men—still clutching weapons in hands gone stiff with death.
A constable told her
"Every corpse has a gun, madam. Whoever did this didn’t touch civilians. Only the gang"
Sanjana crouched beside one of the bodies, noting the precision of the wounds. No wild bloodlust—every strike had been deliberate, professional.
"This wasn’t a warfare" she murmured.
"It was a planned assault"
Her team cataloged the aftermath. Assault rifles melted from fire, bullet casings forming silver trails across the dirt, and vehicles riddled with holes that could only have come from heavy ordnance. The deeper they went into the colony, the clearer the picture became. Every victim was armed. Every victim had once sworn allegiance to Dilawar. Not a single civilian corpse had been reported.
Sanjana halted before what was once Dilawar’s pride: his sprawling bungalow, now reduced to a husk of blackened concrete and twisted steel. She took a breath before stepping inside. At the center of the rubble, one pillar remained standing, cracked but defiant. And tied to its top, dangling grotesquely against the sky, was a severed human arm. The officers froze. Some recoiled. A rookie whispered a curse. The arm was mangled, crippled—signs of damage even before it was cut away. It swayed slightly in the morning breeze, as if mocking them.
Sanjana’s face remained stone.
"Secure the area. Forensics only"
She ordered, though her own pulse hammered against her throat. Whoever staged this wanted a message left behind. Hours later, the forensic team arrived. Cameras clicked, swabs collected traces of blood, and the grisly trophy was removed with clinical precision. By late afternoon, the report was in her hands. The DNA analysis left no doubt. The severed arm belonged to Dilawar. Sanjana read it twice, her lips tightening.
"So he’s not missing , he is probably dead!" she said quietly.
"Whoever got to him wanted the city to know—Dilawar won’t be coming back"
Back at headquarters, she stood before her superior, Joint Commissioner Jaykant Patil.
"Sir, this wasn’t random. The precision, the choice of targets—it points to someone larger. I believe there’s a syndicate moving against Dilawar’s empire. We need to keep digging"
Patil steepled his fingers, leaning back with the confidence of a man who liked easy answers.
"Ranawat, you’re overcomplicating this. Rafique is dead, Dilawar is presumed dead, and his gang has been slaughtered. Perfect opportunity to clean the books"
"Clean the books?" She frowned.
"We pin the trafficking, the drug routes, the murders—all of it—on the brothers"
Patil said smoothly.
"We squash their legacy and declare the city free. It’s the closure the public craves"
Sanjana saluted and left, but her jaw was tight as steel. Her instincts screamed the story wasn’t over. Someone powerful had orchestrated this purge with surgical precision. And worse—she was beginning to wonder if Patil wanted the case closed not for justice, but because the syndicate was paying him to bury it.
Some time later , the press hall inside Mumbai Law Enforcement Headquarters was packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Camera flashes snapped like lightning, and the hum of voices died when Commissioner Patil stepped up to the podium, flanked by stern-faced officers. He cleared his throat, the weight of the city’s fear heavy in the silence.
"Ladies and gentlemen, last night’s bloodbath marks the end of an era of terror. Our investigation confirms that the human trafficking and narcotics ring devastating Mumbai was run by Dilawar Khan and his brother Rafique Khan"
Reporters scribbled furiously. Patil raised a hand.
"These brothers, with support from outside forces, had built a vast criminal empire. But that empire is no more. Dilawar Khan has been confirmed deceased. And Rafique Khan—based on forensic evidence recovered from the factory —is also presumed dead"
A murmur rippled through the press corps. Patil leaned forward.
"The attack helicopter shootout incident on the outskirts of the Western Express Highway was not a rogue act. It was a precise hit, executed by outside forces to silence the brothers once and for all"
He paused, letting the weight sink in.
"Given the involvement of transnational elements, Army Intelligence has been brought in to work with us. The city is safe. The threat is neutralized. Mumbai can finally breathe"
The declaration echoed through the hall. Reporters shouted questions, but the Commissioner only repeated:
"The case is closed. We will not allow foreign syndicates to poison our soil again"
By evening, every channel replayed the briefing on loop. The city devoured the news like rain after a drought. Dilawar and Rafique dead scrolled across tickers in bold red letters.
AT TAMANNA'S RESIDENCE
At a modest flat across the city, Tamanna sat with her daughter Shraddha at the dining table. The TV played in the background as she spoon-fed the child. Shraddha’s eyes lit up when Rafique’s face filled the screen.
"Mamma" Shraddha said suddenly, pointing a small finger at the screen.
"He was there. In the factory. With the other bad men. I saw him when I peaked through the container"
Tamanna froze, her hand trembling. Her eyes flicked from the screen to her daughter. Relief washed through her—relief that the monster who had scarred her child’s innocence was now gone forever. She pulled Shraddha close and kissed her hair.
"He can’t hurt you anymore" she whispered.
AT MEGHNA'S PLACE
Across the city, in a small apartment, Meghna leaned back in her chair, a glass of wine in hand. The news played on mute, but the images of Dilawar’s ruin infuriated her. Her lips curled into a snarl.
"I gave you Sonarika" she spat at the screen.
"I delivered her to your door. And still… you lost"
She slammed the glass down, wine spilling like blood across marble.
"No matter how many times she’s saved, I’ll dismantle her life. Piece by piece. Until she breaks"
AT EMERALD PALACE
Meanwhile, at Emerald Palace—the fortress-like residence of the Mehta family—Hansraj Mehta watched the briefing with his son Siddharth. The patriarch’s face was pale, eyes calculating.
"Seal off the Kohinoor ship at Goa Port" Hansraj ordered quietly.
"We cut ties with the AZRAEL syndicate now. No more dirty money. Commissioner Patil has done his part in this detour—we follow through"
Siddharth’s brow furrowed.
"And our future investments with them, Father?"
Hansraj turned slowly, his gaze sharp.
"Our future lies in legitimacy. You will build new partnerships. Start with Hemant Kumar. His company, YOD Industries, is rising fast—defense equipments, military contracts. His Alignment Knots is evolving into a bankable market, invest in his shares. Partner with him"
Siddharth clenched his fists.
"That man is beneath us. A nobody turned businessman" His voice dripped with ego.
Hansraj’s voice cut like a blade.
"A nobody who unknowingly brought down a crime syndicate in a single night. He is now standing in a goldmine of fortunes. If we don't held him back , tomorrow his named platter will outshine our entire family name in the city. Keep him in our threshold , I here Pranitha is close to him thesedays , build a closer relationship and this can open new doors of opportunities for you and Regal Corp. One that will give more profit to you than blood money"
SOMEWHERE IN CHINA
Elsewhere, in a smoky lounge in Guangzhou, China, an international channel replayed the news. A man named Lai Tong watched intently, his jaw tightening as Dilawar’s demise was detailed. When the mention of the severed arm came, he hurled his glass against the wall, shards glittering like rage.
"Michael King" he hissed.
"It’s his signature. He's back in his game. But he will soon answer for my Brother!!!"
His fists trembled.
"His debt will be paid in blood!!!"
AT ZARIR MANSION , AZARBAIJAAN
Far away, in the mountains of Qamarvan, Azerbaijan, Daraaksh Zarir reclined in his marble mansion, eyes fixed on the same broadcast. The corners of his lips lifted into a smile. He rose, staring at the portraits of his father and brothers—men all slain by the sword of Michael King.
"So" he murmured.
"The King has returned" His smile widened, cold and hungry.
"Then let the hunt begin"
SOME TIME LATER
The rooftop of YOD Industries wasn’t tall, but it was elevated enough to feel untouchable. The treelines below hid the abandoned port, while the Mumbai skyline sprawled in the distance, glowing like a jewel in the sunlight. The lounge was fresh—glass panels, convenient covers, and just enough luxury to whisper power. Raquel stood near the railing, cigarette smoke curling lazily into the air. He glanced at the others—Kamya and Vaibhav whispering to one another with the nervous energy of loyal but curious disciples, Conroy Wu and Vincent Ma speaking in low Cantonese tones, Richard Williams sipping whiskey like he owned the day, and Jackson Shephard leaning against the bar, his military posture impossible to hide.
Each of them had come for Hemant Kumar—the man they thought they knew, and the man some had only heard of as a ghost: Michael King. The door to the room opened. Conversation halted.
Hemant emerged, not as the corporate CEO of YOD Industries, but as something far older, far more dangerous. A silk blue shirt, half-unbuttoned, revealed a hint of chest. White satin pants flowed effortlessly down to gleaming white shoes. His hair—usually combed and disciplined—was loose, catching the soft rooftop lights. Blue Ray-Bans covered his eyes, but the smile on his lips radiated charisma. Even Kamya felt a bit of attraction seeing him in this vibe.
"The King returns" Conroy Wu muttered in awe.
Raquel grinned wide, flicking his cigarette into the night.
"Now that is the Michael King I remember"
Kamya blinked as if she were staring at a stranger. A handsome stranger for that matter.
"I… I have so many questions"
Hemant smirked, clasping her hand briefly before moving on to greet Vaibhav with a firm pat on the shoulder.
"Tonight is not for questions, Kamya. Tonight—" he spread his arms wide to the group—
"Is for celebration"
He moved from one ally to the next with easy charm. A firm handshake for Conroy, a respectful nod to Vincent Ma, a nostalgic clasp of arms with Richard Williams, and finally, a soldier’s grip with Jackson Shephard. The rooftop, for a moment, felt like the council chamber of kings. At the center table, Hemant dropped a thick leather folder with a heavy thud. Papers, seals, and signatures peeked from inside.
"This" Hemant announced, his voice carrying.
"Is the key to Dilawar’s empire"
Kamya frowned, curiosity piqued.
"What’s in it?"
Hemant leaned casually against the table, Ray-Bans glinting under the rooftop lights.
"Ledgers. Property papers. Power of attorneys. Business contracts. Every asset Dilawar used for laundering, extortion, and blood money. Everything he built that sustains—belongs to me now.”
A ripple of murmurs spread through the gathering. Conroy Wu exchanged a knowing look with Vincent Ma. Richard Williams chuckled.
"You never fail to collect trophies, Michael"
Hemant ignored the comment, turning instead to Raquel.
"Phase Three begins today"
Raquel’s eyes gleamed with loyalty.
"It’s already underway Bhaijaan. Recruitment has started. Soon, you’ll have men and women at your command, loyal to you—not just your name"
Hemant’s voice softened, but his words cut sharp.
"Good. Remember the colony. Dilawar’s men are gone, but their families are adrift. Give them direction. Give them purpose. If they choose loyalty, they’ll never be abandoned again"
As Raquel nodded, Kamya leaned closer to Vaibhav, whispering under the music.
"You were right. He’s no ordinary businessman. He’s a kingpin"
Hemant walked to the edge of the rooftop, the city skyline sprawling before him like an unclaimed land. He removed the Ray-Bans, letting the warm breeze hit his face. A long breath escaped his chest, steady and deliberate. Michael King was no longer a mask. Not even a memory. It has now become a crown reclaimed. The skyline glittered in the sun under his gaze, and for the first time, he didn’t see Mumbai as a city. He saw it as a kingdom.
HEMANT KUMAR'S NEW KINGDOM BUILT WITH THE REMNANT OF MICHAEL KING!!!
END OF CHAPTER 23
The drive back from Sanjeevani Hospital to Bandra was quiet, each of them staring out of the windows of the cab as if the streets of Mumbai had suddenly grown foreign. The city was the same, chaotic and alive, but something had shifted inside their small world. Dilawar and Rafique were gone—dead or locked away, it hardly mattered now. What mattered was that their grip on the family’s life had ended. Yet instead of celebration, silence hung thick, like a curtain refusing to lift.
When they reached the apartment, Karan rushed ahead with the keys, fumbling to open the door. The familiar smell of the flat hit them—stale from being closed for days, yet oddly comforting. Anjali followed him inside, carrying a bag of clothes. Hemant paused at the threshold, waiting for Sonarika. She lingered, taking in the building’s lobby, as though checking that shadows from her nightmare weren’t waiting for her again.
Inside, the living room felt strangely smaller than before, cluttered by the memories of anxious nights and restless days. Sonarika lowered herself onto the sofa, wincing slightly as her body reminded her of the ordeal she had endured. Karan sat close beside her, protective in his own way, his young eyes hardened by what he had seen. Anjali disappeared into the kitchen, busying herself with water bottles and tea, eager to restore some normalcy.
Hemant stood near the window, hands in his pockets, watching the sun slip lower across the skyline. Relief filled him, but it was a heavy kind—like the end of a long storm where the damage still needed surveying. Dilawar’s men had stolen so much from them: peace, trust, even laughter. But now there was at least a tomorrow that wasn’t haunted by their threats. That thought steadied him.
For Sonarika, however, relief carried a strange aftertaste. She was grateful, yes, but her mind kept circling back to Vikram—his voice urging her to hold on, his presence a shield when chaos broke loose. The bond had deepened in those critical hours. She felt guilty for thinking of him while Hemant stood only a few feet away, silent and watchful. Her marriage already hung by a thread, yet her heart was being pulled elsewhere.
She excused herself, saying she needed to lie down, and retreated into the bedroom. Hemant followed her with his eyes but said nothing. He knew this drift, had sensed it for months, but now it was no longer a suspicion—it was visible in the way she avoided his gaze, in the hesitation of her voice. He swallowed hard. Divorce papers had already been filed; the law required time, and time was all they had left to share under one roof.
Karan came up to Hemant.
"Papa, will everything be okay now?"
The boy’s question carried both fear and hope. Hemant ruffled his son’s hair gently.
"Yes, champ. The bad men are all gone. You don’t have to worry anymore"
Saying it aloud reassured him as much as it reassured the boy. In the kitchen, Anjali set cups on the counter, her hands trembling as she poured. She was only sixteen, yet she had watched her sister be taken, had seen men with guns and knives, had sat through hospital corridors filled with dread. Trauma had made her grow too quickly. But now, standing here in the familiar flat, she finally let herself breathe. Maybe home could still mean safety.
Sonarika lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily. The cool air touched her skin, but her mind was restless. She reached for her phone and dialed a number she had saved long ago—Dr. Neha. When the line connected, she asked in a hushed tone to reschedule her sessions. She knew she needed more help, more time. The scars left by Dilawar’s cruelty were deeper than her body showed.
Back in the living room, Hemant sat down heavily in a chair. His body ached not from wounds but from the weight of decisions already made. He had fought for Sonarika in his own way, but he couldn’t fight her heart. If her happiness was with Vikram, then perhaps he had to let her go. That was what love meant too, he told himself—allowing someone the freedom to choose even if it cut him open.
Anjali brought tea to him and Karan, her attempt at normal conversation filling the silence. They spoke about college, about how she would need to catch up on missed assignments, about Karan’s cricket matches. Small things, ordinary things—the very things that Dilawar had tried to steal from them. Each word was a quiet victory.
Sonarika joined them again after a while, her face washed, her hair tied back. She looked tired but steadier. When she sipped from the cup Anjali handed her, Hemant noticed how her hands still trembled faintly. He wanted to reach across and hold them, to assure her she was safe. But he stopped himself. That role was fading, and perhaps someone else already played it.
The four of them sat together in the dimly lit living room, not speaking much. Outside, Mumbai carried on with its usual energy—cars honking, vendors shouting, life resuming as though nothing had happened. Inside, the family carried scars invisible to the world. Relief was there, yes, but it came mixed with uncertainty, with the knowledge that this was an ending as much as it was a beginning.
Later that night, after Karan and Anjali had gone to their rooms, Hemant and Sonarika remained awake. Words hovered between them, unsaid. He wanted to tell her that he saw her drifting, that he hoped she would find her peace even if it wasn’t with him. She wanted to confess that her heart was confused, split between loyalty and longing. But both remained quiet, listening instead to the steady hum of the city, and the silence between them grew deeper than before.
Yet in that silence lay a fragile truce. Dilawar and Rafique were gone, shadows finally dispelled. The family was safe. Healing would come slowly, in fragments, perhaps along different paths. Hemant closed his eyes, praying that whatever road Sonarika chose, it would lead her back to some semblance of sanity, of peace. And though it hurt him, he was willing to let her walk away—if only so she could be free.
THE NEXT DAY AT DILAWAR'S DESTROYED COLONY
Morning sunlight spread weakly over the colony, but it did nothing to soften what was left. The air reeked of smoke, oil, and gunpowder. Burned vehicles and collapsed walls stood like gravestones, marking the end of a reign. Deputy Commissioner Sanjana Ranawat stepped carefully across the debris, her eyes sweeping over the bodies scattered like discarded chess pieces. They were all men—Dilawar’s men—still clutching weapons in hands gone stiff with death.
A constable told her
"Every corpse has a gun, madam. Whoever did this didn’t touch civilians. Only the gang"
Sanjana crouched beside one of the bodies, noting the precision of the wounds. No wild bloodlust—every strike had been deliberate, professional.
"This wasn’t a warfare" she murmured.
"It was a planned assault"
Her team cataloged the aftermath. Assault rifles melted from fire, bullet casings forming silver trails across the dirt, and vehicles riddled with holes that could only have come from heavy ordnance. The deeper they went into the colony, the clearer the picture became. Every victim was armed. Every victim had once sworn allegiance to Dilawar. Not a single civilian corpse had been reported.
Sanjana halted before what was once Dilawar’s pride: his sprawling bungalow, now reduced to a husk of blackened concrete and twisted steel. She took a breath before stepping inside. At the center of the rubble, one pillar remained standing, cracked but defiant. And tied to its top, dangling grotesquely against the sky, was a severed human arm. The officers froze. Some recoiled. A rookie whispered a curse. The arm was mangled, crippled—signs of damage even before it was cut away. It swayed slightly in the morning breeze, as if mocking them.
Sanjana’s face remained stone.
"Secure the area. Forensics only"
She ordered, though her own pulse hammered against her throat. Whoever staged this wanted a message left behind. Hours later, the forensic team arrived. Cameras clicked, swabs collected traces of blood, and the grisly trophy was removed with clinical precision. By late afternoon, the report was in her hands. The DNA analysis left no doubt. The severed arm belonged to Dilawar. Sanjana read it twice, her lips tightening.
"So he’s not missing , he is probably dead!" she said quietly.
"Whoever got to him wanted the city to know—Dilawar won’t be coming back"
Back at headquarters, she stood before her superior, Joint Commissioner Jaykant Patil.
"Sir, this wasn’t random. The precision, the choice of targets—it points to someone larger. I believe there’s a syndicate moving against Dilawar’s empire. We need to keep digging"
Patil steepled his fingers, leaning back with the confidence of a man who liked easy answers.
"Ranawat, you’re overcomplicating this. Rafique is dead, Dilawar is presumed dead, and his gang has been slaughtered. Perfect opportunity to clean the books"
"Clean the books?" She frowned.
"We pin the trafficking, the drug routes, the murders—all of it—on the brothers"
Patil said smoothly.
"We squash their legacy and declare the city free. It’s the closure the public craves"
Sanjana saluted and left, but her jaw was tight as steel. Her instincts screamed the story wasn’t over. Someone powerful had orchestrated this purge with surgical precision. And worse—she was beginning to wonder if Patil wanted the case closed not for justice, but because the syndicate was paying him to bury it.
Some time later , the press hall inside Mumbai Law Enforcement Headquarters was packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Camera flashes snapped like lightning, and the hum of voices died when Commissioner Patil stepped up to the podium, flanked by stern-faced officers. He cleared his throat, the weight of the city’s fear heavy in the silence.
"Ladies and gentlemen, last night’s bloodbath marks the end of an era of terror. Our investigation confirms that the human trafficking and narcotics ring devastating Mumbai was run by Dilawar Khan and his brother Rafique Khan"
Reporters scribbled furiously. Patil raised a hand.
"These brothers, with support from outside forces, had built a vast criminal empire. But that empire is no more. Dilawar Khan has been confirmed deceased. And Rafique Khan—based on forensic evidence recovered from the factory —is also presumed dead"
A murmur rippled through the press corps. Patil leaned forward.
"The attack helicopter shootout incident on the outskirts of the Western Express Highway was not a rogue act. It was a precise hit, executed by outside forces to silence the brothers once and for all"
He paused, letting the weight sink in.
"Given the involvement of transnational elements, Army Intelligence has been brought in to work with us. The city is safe. The threat is neutralized. Mumbai can finally breathe"
The declaration echoed through the hall. Reporters shouted questions, but the Commissioner only repeated:
"The case is closed. We will not allow foreign syndicates to poison our soil again"
By evening, every channel replayed the briefing on loop. The city devoured the news like rain after a drought. Dilawar and Rafique dead scrolled across tickers in bold red letters.
AT TAMANNA'S RESIDENCE
At a modest flat across the city, Tamanna sat with her daughter Shraddha at the dining table. The TV played in the background as she spoon-fed the child. Shraddha’s eyes lit up when Rafique’s face filled the screen.
"Mamma" Shraddha said suddenly, pointing a small finger at the screen.
"He was there. In the factory. With the other bad men. I saw him when I peaked through the container"
Tamanna froze, her hand trembling. Her eyes flicked from the screen to her daughter. Relief washed through her—relief that the monster who had scarred her child’s innocence was now gone forever. She pulled Shraddha close and kissed her hair.
"He can’t hurt you anymore" she whispered.
AT MEGHNA'S PLACE
Across the city, in a small apartment, Meghna leaned back in her chair, a glass of wine in hand. The news played on mute, but the images of Dilawar’s ruin infuriated her. Her lips curled into a snarl.
"I gave you Sonarika" she spat at the screen.
"I delivered her to your door. And still… you lost"
She slammed the glass down, wine spilling like blood across marble.
"No matter how many times she’s saved, I’ll dismantle her life. Piece by piece. Until she breaks"
AT EMERALD PALACE
Meanwhile, at Emerald Palace—the fortress-like residence of the Mehta family—Hansraj Mehta watched the briefing with his son Siddharth. The patriarch’s face was pale, eyes calculating.
"Seal off the Kohinoor ship at Goa Port" Hansraj ordered quietly.
"We cut ties with the AZRAEL syndicate now. No more dirty money. Commissioner Patil has done his part in this detour—we follow through"
Siddharth’s brow furrowed.
"And our future investments with them, Father?"
Hansraj turned slowly, his gaze sharp.
"Our future lies in legitimacy. You will build new partnerships. Start with Hemant Kumar. His company, YOD Industries, is rising fast—defense equipments, military contracts. His Alignment Knots is evolving into a bankable market, invest in his shares. Partner with him"
Siddharth clenched his fists.
"That man is beneath us. A nobody turned businessman" His voice dripped with ego.
Hansraj’s voice cut like a blade.
"A nobody who unknowingly brought down a crime syndicate in a single night. He is now standing in a goldmine of fortunes. If we don't held him back , tomorrow his named platter will outshine our entire family name in the city. Keep him in our threshold , I here Pranitha is close to him thesedays , build a closer relationship and this can open new doors of opportunities for you and Regal Corp. One that will give more profit to you than blood money"
SOMEWHERE IN CHINA
Elsewhere, in a smoky lounge in Guangzhou, China, an international channel replayed the news. A man named Lai Tong watched intently, his jaw tightening as Dilawar’s demise was detailed. When the mention of the severed arm came, he hurled his glass against the wall, shards glittering like rage.
"Michael King" he hissed.
"It’s his signature. He's back in his game. But he will soon answer for my Brother!!!"
His fists trembled.
"His debt will be paid in blood!!!"
AT ZARIR MANSION , AZARBAIJAAN
Far away, in the mountains of Qamarvan, Azerbaijan, Daraaksh Zarir reclined in his marble mansion, eyes fixed on the same broadcast. The corners of his lips lifted into a smile. He rose, staring at the portraits of his father and brothers—men all slain by the sword of Michael King.
"So" he murmured.
"The King has returned" His smile widened, cold and hungry.
"Then let the hunt begin"
SOME TIME LATER
The rooftop of YOD Industries wasn’t tall, but it was elevated enough to feel untouchable. The treelines below hid the abandoned port, while the Mumbai skyline sprawled in the distance, glowing like a jewel in the sunlight. The lounge was fresh—glass panels, convenient covers, and just enough luxury to whisper power. Raquel stood near the railing, cigarette smoke curling lazily into the air. He glanced at the others—Kamya and Vaibhav whispering to one another with the nervous energy of loyal but curious disciples, Conroy Wu and Vincent Ma speaking in low Cantonese tones, Richard Williams sipping whiskey like he owned the day, and Jackson Shephard leaning against the bar, his military posture impossible to hide.
Each of them had come for Hemant Kumar—the man they thought they knew, and the man some had only heard of as a ghost: Michael King. The door to the room opened. Conversation halted.
Hemant emerged, not as the corporate CEO of YOD Industries, but as something far older, far more dangerous. A silk blue shirt, half-unbuttoned, revealed a hint of chest. White satin pants flowed effortlessly down to gleaming white shoes. His hair—usually combed and disciplined—was loose, catching the soft rooftop lights. Blue Ray-Bans covered his eyes, but the smile on his lips radiated charisma. Even Kamya felt a bit of attraction seeing him in this vibe.
"The King returns" Conroy Wu muttered in awe.
Raquel grinned wide, flicking his cigarette into the night.
"Now that is the Michael King I remember"
Kamya blinked as if she were staring at a stranger. A handsome stranger for that matter.
"I… I have so many questions"
Hemant smirked, clasping her hand briefly before moving on to greet Vaibhav with a firm pat on the shoulder.
"Tonight is not for questions, Kamya. Tonight—" he spread his arms wide to the group—
"Is for celebration"
He moved from one ally to the next with easy charm. A firm handshake for Conroy, a respectful nod to Vincent Ma, a nostalgic clasp of arms with Richard Williams, and finally, a soldier’s grip with Jackson Shephard. The rooftop, for a moment, felt like the council chamber of kings. At the center table, Hemant dropped a thick leather folder with a heavy thud. Papers, seals, and signatures peeked from inside.
"This" Hemant announced, his voice carrying.
"Is the key to Dilawar’s empire"
Kamya frowned, curiosity piqued.
"What’s in it?"
Hemant leaned casually against the table, Ray-Bans glinting under the rooftop lights.
"Ledgers. Property papers. Power of attorneys. Business contracts. Every asset Dilawar used for laundering, extortion, and blood money. Everything he built that sustains—belongs to me now.”
A ripple of murmurs spread through the gathering. Conroy Wu exchanged a knowing look with Vincent Ma. Richard Williams chuckled.
"You never fail to collect trophies, Michael"
Hemant ignored the comment, turning instead to Raquel.
"Phase Three begins today"
Raquel’s eyes gleamed with loyalty.
"It’s already underway Bhaijaan. Recruitment has started. Soon, you’ll have men and women at your command, loyal to you—not just your name"
Hemant’s voice softened, but his words cut sharp.
"Good. Remember the colony. Dilawar’s men are gone, but their families are adrift. Give them direction. Give them purpose. If they choose loyalty, they’ll never be abandoned again"
As Raquel nodded, Kamya leaned closer to Vaibhav, whispering under the music.
"You were right. He’s no ordinary businessman. He’s a kingpin"
Hemant walked to the edge of the rooftop, the city skyline sprawling before him like an unclaimed land. He removed the Ray-Bans, letting the warm breeze hit his face. A long breath escaped his chest, steady and deliberate. Michael King was no longer a mask. Not even a memory. It has now become a crown reclaimed. The skyline glittered in the sun under his gaze, and for the first time, he didn’t see Mumbai as a city. He saw it as a kingdom.
HEMANT KUMAR'S NEW KINGDOM BUILT WITH THE REMNANT OF MICHAEL KING!!!
END OF CHAPTER 23
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)