Chapter 2 Deal isn't Done

A majestic lion, its golden fur glistening faintly under the moonlight, fixes its fierce eyes on Samar. It calmly walks up to him and sits right at his feet.

The bodyguards instantly move, ready to react, but Samar raises his hand to stop them.

He slowly bends down and gently strokes the lion’s head, his hand moving with surprising tenderness.

The same Samar who has just shown his terrifying side is now filled with a strange, quiet calmness.

With a faint smile, he whispers, "Go now, your time hasn’t come yet."

As if understanding its master’s command, the lion slowly rises, turns around, and walks back into the shadows, disappearing into a large steel cage that closes quietly behind it.

Samar takes a deep breath and walks toward his car. The door opens, and he steps inside.

The engine roars to life, and the black car speeds off into the darkness, racing down the silent, winding mountain roads.

On the other side, the mansion stands tall and proud, every corner whispering stories of legacy and power.

Massive white marble pillars rise on either side of the entrance, adorned with intricate golden designs, as if guarding the gates of a palace.

At the grand iron gate, the name "Rajput Villa" gleams in bold golden letters, and under the sunlight, it sparkles like pure royalty.

On both sides of the gate, lion-shaped statues stand firm, silently judging every visitor who dares to enter.

The villa, painted in shades of ivory and beige, looks both majestic and serene, but the detailing makes it clear this is no ordinary home.

To the left, a lush green garden is perfectly trimmed, with roses blooming like a painting come to life. To the right, a stone waterfall wall flows gently, its soft rhythm adding peace to the grand silence.

The pathway leading to the main door is covered in a crimson red carpet, lined with elegant vintage lamp posts.

SR sits on his bed under the dim lights, laptop resting on his lap, his sharp eyes fixed on the screen.

His face is calm too calm like a man who built walls around his heart long ago.

Suddenly, his phone rings. The screen flashes “Rohit.”

Rohit is Samar’s most reliable personal assistant, the man who manages every corner of his business empire.

He picks it up slowly, his deep voice steady and composed. “So, the deal’s done?”

Rohit is the kind of man who simply can't hide his smile. No matter how tense the office becomes, his words and laughter always add a splash of light to the dullest corners.

That evening, Samar is already on edge. The deal is still pending, and if there’s one thing he truly despises, it’s unfinished business.

Then comes Rohit’s annoyingly cheerful voice from the other end: “Oh sir… the deal still isn’t finalized!”

Samar clenches his jaw instantly. A cold fire burns behind his calm eyes. “Then why the hell are you laughing?”

His voice is low but sharp enough to cut through steel, the kind that conveys a message even in silence.

Rohit tries to contain his laughter, but smiling is in his nature, almost like breathing. “Sir I was reading a novel there was this really funny joke. I just couldn’t hold it back.”

A sudden silence spreads across the call thick, heavy, and laced with tension.

Samar speaks again, this time through gritted teeth, expressing not anger but exhaustion: “Seems like you don’t value your job much, Rohit.”

The words hit home. Rohit’s smile vanishes in a second, and his face turns serious, like a child scolded after crossing a line. “Sir… Mr. Shekhawat wants to meet you tomorrow. He specifically requested it.”

Samar replies coldly, flatly: “Schedule the meeting. For tomorrow.”

Rohit, having just regained his seriousness, slips back into his natural tone with a nervous, small smile. “Okay sir, I’ll arrange it.”

Samar’s patience snaps. Without another word, he ends the call fast.

A cold sense of frustration lingers on his face. Samar dislikes people like Rohit, who are loud, cheerful, and soft - edged.

But Rohit is also extremely competent and brutally loyal, in every way, one of the best men Samar has ever worked with.

That’s why the great businessman SR, also known in the underworld as the Black King, tolerates a little nonsense from him.

Rohit, too, is stubborn in his own way. He has grown used to being scolded by Samar daily, like it’s part of his job description.

Samar tosses the phone aside and sits back on the edge of his bed. Within moments, he is lost again, staring at his laptop.

He doesn’t even realize at what hour of the night he falls asleep.

The next morning, the clock just touches 5:00 AM when Samar’s eyes open.

There is no need for an alarm or a knock on the door; this is a matter of habit, precision, and discipline.The kind of discipline that doesn’t break, no matter what.

The sky outside is still dusky, a faint silver creeping across the horizon. The garden grass glistens with night’s dew.

The air is sharp and cold enough to make any ordinary man shiver, but Samar steps out in a plain black T-shirt and track pants.

Without a word or warm-up, he drops down on the grass and begins doing pushups. 1… 2… 3…

His hands press into the cold earth. His breath quickens, but his face remains blank, as if each pushup is his way of silencing something inside him.

For someone else, it might be exercise. For Samar, it is discipline, survival, control.

At 7:00 AM, he returns inside. He takes a cold shower, then steps into his massive walk-in wardrobe, scanning for a suit before finally choosing a perfectly pressed charcoal grey one, paired with a crisp white shirt, black wristwatch, and spotless shoes.

Everything about him is sharp. Controlled. Intentional. By 8:00 AM, he is seated alone at the dining table. His breakfast, consisting of boiled eggs, brown bread, and black coffee, has already been laid out by staff who know better than to make conversation.

He eats silently, one precise bite after the other. No noise. No expression. Only the quiet rhythm of a man who doesn’t need anyone and trusts no one.

Once finished, he picks up his black briefcase, slips on his sunglasses, and walks out.

A sleek, midnight - colored SUV awaits him, as if even its engine knows how to obey him.

He slips into the car without a word. The engine purrs to life, and the SUV glides onto the road. Samar’s eyes stay on his phone emails, reports, perhaps a set of confidential numbers. His face wears its usual cool mask; neither warmth nor worry breaks the surface. Minutes later, the vehicle stops in front of a towering building.