Page 1 of The Redemption
PROLOGUE
RAGHAV
Josh Club – Juhu, Mumbai
Something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones… even before I see them.
I’m at the Josh club, sitting in the shadows, nursing a drink. The bass-heavy music thrums loudly against the patterned walls, each beat pulsing harder than the last. Couples lean too close in dimly lit corners, while bartenders move behind the counter with practised ease, pouring drinks and sliding glasses across the polished wooden bar. Laughter fills the room, some genuine, the rest just played along to keep the table pleased. A group of college kids argue unnecessarily over a game of pool, while neon lights flicker faintly above the bar, splashing the space in bold, bright colours.
Everything looks normal. But I know… it’s not. I’ve lived too long in a world where even the smallest shift in the air can mean life or death. Where a glance, a pause, or even a twitch of a hand could change the outcome of the night.
Tonight, even the music in my AirPods, the same escape I always rely on to ease my stress, fails me. Instead of calming me down, the rhythm grates under my skin. And that’s when I know,with a bone-deep certainty, that something is definitely wrong. Or about to be.
My fraternal twin Ayaan and I are as different as chalk and cheese. He thrives in chaos, while I crave quiet. But there’s one thing we share:this uncanny sixth sense.
The ability to smell danger before it bares its teeth.
And tonight, the air reeks of it.
Just then, the door opens, and four broad-shouldered, unmistakably dangerous-looking men enter in black suits. They are not the type who blend into the shadows, but the kind who carve fear into them. They definitely don’t belong here. Yet within seconds, they are spread out across the club like wolves circling their prey, their eyes sweeping the room carefully, looking for someone. One of them is constantly whispering into a phone while the others arehunting.
Who are they here for?
Me?
Maybe.
Pretending to ignore them, I swirl the amber liquid in my glass and take a slow sip. It’s strong. Just how I need it tonight. Something that burns on the way down my throat. Because the meeting I had earlier today didn’t end the way I’d expected. And I hate loose ends.
I shift in my seat, easing back into the shadows of the corner booth. To anyone watching, I probably look like a calm, detached man enjoying his drink, dressed in an expensive black silk shirt and worn denim, with sleeves rolled to his elbows. But beneath the surface, my every muscle is strung tight. That’s the way I am. No matter how hard I try,the Dark Prince inside me isn’t dead yet. He only sleeps.
Almost two years ago, I killed my father, Tej Khurana, the kingpin of the Bat Mafia Syndicate. That was my last act in the mafia world. The final nail inRaghav Khurana’scoffin.
That night, drenched in grief and anger, I made a promise to myself. To bury that name with him, forever. The nameKhuranano longer exists for me.
Now, I’mRaghav Kundra. Son of late Rukmini Kundra. Owner and heir of RK Estate, my mother’s prized vineyards. This was her dream. Her pristine, white empire. And now, its responsibility rests on my shoulders.
The RK Estate is tucked away in the lush Shivtara Valley of Himachal Pradesh, surrounded by rolling hills blanketed with endless green vines. Tourists flock in hordes for exclusive wine tastings, luxurious resort stays, and curated vineyard tours. They sip their wine, laugh freely, and flood their social media with picture-perfect sunsets over the valley.
For them, it’s a paradise. An escape.
But for me, it’s more than that. It’s a sanctuary.
I hide there in plain sight. An ex-mafia prince, now playing a vineyard Prince.
But the truth is, no matter how many barrels of wine you produce, no matter how many masks you wear, the darkness of the underworld never truly leaves you. Blood once spilled doesn’t wash away. It dries. And it stays.
My thoughts snap back to the present. My body appears deceptively relaxed, one hand loosely cradling the glass of whiskey while the other rests on the table. That’s the trick. Look calm. Stay alert. But my eyes are everywhere, scanning the room, always analysing for any potential threats. They say old habits die hard. But in my case, they don’t die at all.
Take the couple at the next table, for instance. Most would see them as any ordinary lovers, sneaking on a quiet night. But I notice what others don’t. The woman, slightly older, clings to the man’s touch, as if she has been starved of affection. The man is charming her with every word and looks convincing enough. Except for one small detail.
The faint smear of lipstick on his pristine white collar tells another story. It’s not the lipstick shade the woman across from him is wearing. This one’s darker, deeper. It’s from another woman.He’s cheating on her.
I don’t need to know these details, but I can’t ignore them either. That’s the curse of a man like me. Observation isn’t a habit. It’s survival. The mafia world trained me that way. One wrong detail, one missed weakness, and you’re dead.
Enemies don’t always need guns to kill you. They use what you hide.Yoursecrets,yourmistakes,yourcareless moments. That’s why I notice them before anyone else does.
The men in black… they are drawing closer now. One stands at the bar and pretends to order a drink, but his eyes are still hunting, still sweeping the room. The other one moves slowly through the dance floor, his gaze far too sharp for a casual night out. A third remains near the entrance, blocking anyone from slipping past, his hand often brushing the inside of his jacket, as if securing his gun.
