Page 12 of The Redemption
Earlier today, when my security ran their luggage through the scanners before check-in, everything came up clean. No weapons. They came unarmed, probably because they didn’t want anyone here to know they are the mafia.
But unarmed doesn’t mean harmless. Each of them is capable of killing a dozen people with their bare hands if they had to. Also, the Vardhaans would have assumed moving weapons into the RK Estate, if needed, would be child’s play for them. But they’re wrong. So wrong.
They don’t realise that even the mere thought of bringing those supplies onto RK Estate would mean their end. This place ismylegitimate business, and I will not tolerate any violence here.
During the luggage check, something else caught my team’s eye. Two sleek designer suitcases, supposedly belonging to the princess, turned out to be packed with shoes. Not just a pair or two, but four dozen of them. Neatly arranged Louboutins, jewelled sandals, stone-studded boots, each one costing more than what a labourer here earns in a year. It’s the kind of collection only a woman with a thing for shoes would bring. Four dozen pairs for a month? That’s an obsession, and she doesn’t mind flaunting it with style.
Haider knocks on the door and slips inside, shutting the door behind him. For the past four hours, he’s been working. Digging, prying, and finding out what brought the Vardhaan princess here. Something I’m very curious to know as well.
I lower myself into my chair, and he takes the seat opposite me. Then he sets an iPad on the table, his fingers swiping across the screen and pulling up a series of images.
“She never ran away when her father, Shamsher, was alive,” he says, turning the device towards me.
Photographs flicker to life. Siya with her father, Shamsher Vardhaan, the formidable head of the Vardhaan Mafia empire. He was a man in his late fifties, hardened by power and steeped in ruthlessness. No mafia kingpin rises without being merciless, and Shamsher was no different. However, the pictures told another story.
I had heard whispers that when it came to his family, he was different. With them, he was gentler, softer, a father before a don. And now, looking at the images of Siya with him over the last four or five years, up until his death a year ago, I can see it for myself.
They were inseparable. Father and daughter, travelling the world together. Beaches and casinos, yacht parties off the Amalfi coast in southern Italy, horse races in Dubai, Ski resorts in Switzerland, the flashing lights of Vegas. Name it, and they had done it all. A perfect duo, bound not just by blood but by something deeper.
And throughout it all, one thing never changed. Siya’s obsession with shoes. Even back then, she paraded in her expensive collection as if making a statement. The heels, the boots… they weren’t just fashion accessories. They were an inherent part of who she was.
I can’t help but wonder what losing him must have done to her. Shamsher’s death had made headlines. They called it a road accident. But everyone knew better. He and his convoy had been returning from a meeting with the Russian mafia when it happened. Two bikers. Sharpshooters. The convoy was ambushed and taken down. All of them were killed in seconds.The streets of Cape Town were washed in blood. And still, the truth of who orchestrated that massacre remains buried.
My thoughts drift until Haider’s voice cuts through, pulling me back to the present. He flips through the last photo and then sets the iPad down.
“The last time you saw her was her first and only attempt to run, and you know how that ended in Mumbai. The Vardhaan men found her and took her back to Cape Town.”
I lean back in my chair and twirl the glass of whiskey in my hand, though I haven’t taken a single sip.
“And for now, if we leave the Vardhaans aside,” he continues, “Our team has detected movement this week from the Southern Mafia group—the Reddys. About four hundred kilometres from Shivtara Valley, near the Nepal border.”
My jaw tightens as the first image of the Reddys appears on the screen. They are nothing like the men in tailored suits that we see in international syndicates. They are more crude, their killings more brutal. Their empire is built on narcotics, arms smuggling, and a spider web of extortion rackets. South India may be their base, but their true muscle lies in their connections within Delhi’s political circles. A few parliamentarians are practically their lapdogs—funded, fed, and owned by them.
I study the screen for a moment, then look up.
“Vardhaan and Reddy? What’s the connection?” I ask.
“Siya Vardhaan is the connection,” he responds, the revelation hitting me hard. “She’s promised to Reddy’s eldest son, Parag Reddy. They’re notformally engaged yet, but the marriage is set to take place later this year.”
Haider swipes to the next image.
“This is Parag Reddy, shaking hands with Shamsher’s son and Siya’s elder brother, Samarjeet Vardhaan, in Cape Town last year. That’s when their alliance was fixed.”
I glare at the photo which appears on the screen. With broad shoulders, a square jaw, and a face that reeks of arrogance and inherited power, Parag Reddy looks like a man who knows he was born into money tainted by blood, and has no problem bathing in more of it.
“As per the rumours, Siya doesn’t want this,” Haider adds. “Could be the reason why she tried to run nine months ago. But they caught her, dragged her back, and now she’s here again. Only this time, she hasn’t run.”
“Yet,” I reply, realising that on the surface, she’s just here for another vacation. Her guards are in place and every move is accounted for. But if she uses this as her opportunity to disappear again, the Vardhaans will come for the ground she ghosts from. And that ground is RK Estate.
Now that is bad news.
Before I can formulate a solution to this, there’s a sharp knock at the door. Haider instantly shuts the iPad and slides it away as Esha walks in.
“Sir… Miss Vardhaan’s guards are demanding full access to our CCTV feeds for her entire stay here. I told them it’s not possible, but they’re… pushing. I’m not sure how to handle this.”
Haider’s lip curls in frustration, the old gangster in him ready to show the Vardhaans their rightful place, which is six feet below the ground. Buried and lifeless.
He turns to me, waiting. I keep my expression calm, even though a storm builds under my ribs.
