10-01-2026, 09:30 PM
Chapter 3: The Patron
The Leela Palace ballroom was a symphony of curated goodwill. Light from crystal chandeliers glanced off the polished marble and the sincere smiles of people whose life’s work was measured in good deeds. The air hummed with earnest conversation about sanitation projects, girls’ education, and interfaith harmony. This was not a gangster’s playground. For Sanjai Xavier, it was the most important room in the city.
He stood by the archway leading to the terrace, a glass of iced jaljeera in hand, listening intently. His posture was relaxed, but his attention was absolute. He was dressed not to intimidate, but to belong: a crisp white formal shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, paired with navy chinos and simple leather loafers. At six-foot-one, with a lean, athletic build and a neatly trimmed beard framing a face that was more thoughtful than harsh, he looked less like a don and more like a particularly dedicated young philanthropist which, in this room, he was.
The crowd reflected his ethos. A group of nuns from a orphanage chatted with the head of a Muz women’s micro-finance collective. A senior trustee of a temple’s charity wing was in deep discussion with a secular literacy NGO founder. Sanjai had personally vetted and invited every major group, ensuring the fundraiser’s proceeds would be divided by need, not creed. This was his father’s legacy, and his own penance: using the fortune accrued in the shadows to shore up the light.
People looked at him with a mix of deep respect and genuine affection. The elderly Jain industrialist, Mr. Mehta, gripped his arm, whispering thanks for the new dialysis machine at the community clinic. Sister Mary-Therese gave him a beatific smile, her college’s roof finally repaired. The respect was real, but beneath it, for those who knew, was something else; a kind of awed, protective gratitude. They knew the source of his wealth was unspoken, but they also knew his protection was a tangible force. He was their fierce, quiet guardian, a far cry from the predatory corruption of men like Narasimha Reddy.
This was the duality Sanjai lived. The LSE graduate who could debate developmental economics, forced to wield a different kind of power to protect the very people he wished he could have helped through legitimate means. His father had been the same, a “Godfather” of the docks, who settled disputes, funded weddings, and ensured no child in his territory went hungry, all while moving untaxed gold and electronics. Sanjai had vowed to escape it, until the day his father’s throat was slit in an alley by Reddy’s men, a result of betrayal from his most trusted. Then, the choice was gone. The mantle, and its complicated morality, was his.
His eyes, a warm, intelligent brown, scanned the room, not for threats tonight, but for genuine connections. They softened as he laughed at a joke from the micro-finance director. Then, his gaze stilled.
A woman in cream and gold had entered, moving like a sigh amidst the chatter. She was a vision of traditional grace, yet something in her pace was off, deliberate, heavy. The kasavu saree was dbangd with an elegance that spoke of home, not high society. The sindoor in her parting was a vibrant, defiant streak. He knew who she was before Imran’s low voice sounded in his ear from just behind his shoulder.
“Anitha Nair. Wife of Assistant Commissioner Ravi Nair. collegeteacher. Clean record.”
Sanjai gave a barely perceptible nod, his eyes never leaving her. He saw the way her fingers tightened around her small clutch. He saw the fleeting, hunted look in her magnificent dark eyes before she collegeed her features into calm. He saw the wilting jasmine in her hair, a touch so authentic it couldn’t be fabricated. This was not a socialite. This was a woman profoundly out of her depth, yet walking forward anyway.
And she was coming straight for him.
He felt the familiar, unwelcome twist in his gut. The forbidden allure. The thali at her throat gleamed under the lights, a symbol of another man’s love, another life’s normalcy. It was a life he’d been forced to abandon, a life he sometimes ached for with a loneliness that surprised him. His weakness was not for flesh; it was for the idea of her, the devoted wife, the nurturing mother, the keeper of a sanctified world he could observe but never enter.
She navigated the crowd, and people subtly made way, not out of fear, but in deference to her palpable, dignified gravity. She stopped before him, close enough that he caught the scent of sandalwood and fading flowers over the canapés and perfume.
“Mr. Xavier,” she said. Her voice was softer than he expected, melodic, but with a steel wire of tension running through it. “My apologies for the intrusion. I am Anitha Nair. I teach at Vidya Mandir.” She took a breath that was almost a sigh. “I was hoping to speak with you about supporting a children’s literacy initiative.”
She delivered the line, but her eyes told a different story. They were pools of quiet desperation, bravely held in check. This was no mere donation pitch. This was a cry for help masquerading as a request.
Sanjai looked at her; truly looked. Past the exquisite, weaponized elegance, past the tremor in her hand. He saw the fear, the conflict, the immense courage. He saw a woman backed into a corner, and his instinct to protect the very instinct that had doomed him to this life stirred strongly.
He didn’t smile his charming, practiced smile. Instead, his expression softened into one of gentle, attentive concern. He inclined his head, his British-polished accent warm and unhurried.
“Mrs. Nair,” he said. “Please, there’s no intrusion. I’ve heard wonderful things about Vidya Mandir’s work.” His gaze held hers, not with predatory interest, but with an open, disarming kindness that disoriented her prepared script. “How can I help?”
The Leela Palace ballroom was a symphony of curated goodwill. Light from crystal chandeliers glanced off the polished marble and the sincere smiles of people whose life’s work was measured in good deeds. The air hummed with earnest conversation about sanitation projects, girls’ education, and interfaith harmony. This was not a gangster’s playground. For Sanjai Xavier, it was the most important room in the city.
He stood by the archway leading to the terrace, a glass of iced jaljeera in hand, listening intently. His posture was relaxed, but his attention was absolute. He was dressed not to intimidate, but to belong: a crisp white formal shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, paired with navy chinos and simple leather loafers. At six-foot-one, with a lean, athletic build and a neatly trimmed beard framing a face that was more thoughtful than harsh, he looked less like a don and more like a particularly dedicated young philanthropist which, in this room, he was.
The crowd reflected his ethos. A group of nuns from a orphanage chatted with the head of a Muz women’s micro-finance collective. A senior trustee of a temple’s charity wing was in deep discussion with a secular literacy NGO founder. Sanjai had personally vetted and invited every major group, ensuring the fundraiser’s proceeds would be divided by need, not creed. This was his father’s legacy, and his own penance: using the fortune accrued in the shadows to shore up the light.
People looked at him with a mix of deep respect and genuine affection. The elderly Jain industrialist, Mr. Mehta, gripped his arm, whispering thanks for the new dialysis machine at the community clinic. Sister Mary-Therese gave him a beatific smile, her college’s roof finally repaired. The respect was real, but beneath it, for those who knew, was something else; a kind of awed, protective gratitude. They knew the source of his wealth was unspoken, but they also knew his protection was a tangible force. He was their fierce, quiet guardian, a far cry from the predatory corruption of men like Narasimha Reddy.
This was the duality Sanjai lived. The LSE graduate who could debate developmental economics, forced to wield a different kind of power to protect the very people he wished he could have helped through legitimate means. His father had been the same, a “Godfather” of the docks, who settled disputes, funded weddings, and ensured no child in his territory went hungry, all while moving untaxed gold and electronics. Sanjai had vowed to escape it, until the day his father’s throat was slit in an alley by Reddy’s men, a result of betrayal from his most trusted. Then, the choice was gone. The mantle, and its complicated morality, was his.
His eyes, a warm, intelligent brown, scanned the room, not for threats tonight, but for genuine connections. They softened as he laughed at a joke from the micro-finance director. Then, his gaze stilled.
A woman in cream and gold had entered, moving like a sigh amidst the chatter. She was a vision of traditional grace, yet something in her pace was off, deliberate, heavy. The kasavu saree was dbangd with an elegance that spoke of home, not high society. The sindoor in her parting was a vibrant, defiant streak. He knew who she was before Imran’s low voice sounded in his ear from just behind his shoulder.
“Anitha Nair. Wife of Assistant Commissioner Ravi Nair. collegeteacher. Clean record.”
Sanjai gave a barely perceptible nod, his eyes never leaving her. He saw the way her fingers tightened around her small clutch. He saw the fleeting, hunted look in her magnificent dark eyes before she collegeed her features into calm. He saw the wilting jasmine in her hair, a touch so authentic it couldn’t be fabricated. This was not a socialite. This was a woman profoundly out of her depth, yet walking forward anyway.
And she was coming straight for him.
He felt the familiar, unwelcome twist in his gut. The forbidden allure. The thali at her throat gleamed under the lights, a symbol of another man’s love, another life’s normalcy. It was a life he’d been forced to abandon, a life he sometimes ached for with a loneliness that surprised him. His weakness was not for flesh; it was for the idea of her, the devoted wife, the nurturing mother, the keeper of a sanctified world he could observe but never enter.
She navigated the crowd, and people subtly made way, not out of fear, but in deference to her palpable, dignified gravity. She stopped before him, close enough that he caught the scent of sandalwood and fading flowers over the canapés and perfume.
“Mr. Xavier,” she said. Her voice was softer than he expected, melodic, but with a steel wire of tension running through it. “My apologies for the intrusion. I am Anitha Nair. I teach at Vidya Mandir.” She took a breath that was almost a sigh. “I was hoping to speak with you about supporting a children’s literacy initiative.”
She delivered the line, but her eyes told a different story. They were pools of quiet desperation, bravely held in check. This was no mere donation pitch. This was a cry for help masquerading as a request.
Sanjai looked at her; truly looked. Past the exquisite, weaponized elegance, past the tremor in her hand. He saw the fear, the conflict, the immense courage. He saw a woman backed into a corner, and his instinct to protect the very instinct that had doomed him to this life stirred strongly.
He didn’t smile his charming, practiced smile. Instead, his expression softened into one of gentle, attentive concern. He inclined his head, his British-polished accent warm and unhurried.
“Mrs. Nair,” he said. “Please, there’s no intrusion. I’ve heard wonderful things about Vidya Mandir’s work.” His gaze held hers, not with predatory interest, but with an open, disarming kindness that disoriented her prepared script. “How can I help?”
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