His Deewangi– The Mob Lord's Bride
Introduction ~
Author
Hello ~My crocodile Janta party 🎉👏🏻👏🏻 swagat hai sbka 🤗
Author
So Everyone..This is My second Story. it's Mafia and His fierce Little bride story , I hope You all support me.
Author
let's See what I can do in this story'
NAME: Altair Iskander Khan (Altair: “The Flying Eagle” | Iskander: “Defender of Mankind”)
AGE: 30
PERSONALITY:
Cold, ruthless, and calculative—Altair is the kind of man who commands silence with just his presence. He trusts no one and forgives nothing. To his enemies, he is a nightmare; to his men, he is an unshakable king. Yet beneath the iron fist and sharp mind lies an obsessive streak that borders on madness when it comes to the one woman who dared to stir his heart. Possessive to the point of insanity, he doesn’t know the meaning of “letting go.”
APPEARANCE:
Tall and broad-shouldered, Altair’s presence is intimidating from the very first glance. He has sharp, chiseled features, a defined jawline often shadowed by a neat stubble, and piercing storm-grey eyes that miss nothing. His raven-black hair is always perfectly styled, complementing the dangerous aura he exudes. Dressed in custom-tailored suits, his aura screams power, control, and dominance.
“𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘥 𝘌𝘢𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘜𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥—𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴.”
NAME: Yasmin
(Yasmin: “Jasmine Flower” – symbol of grace and delicacy)
AGE: 22
PERSONALITY:
Soft, gentle, and compassionate, Yasmin carries the warmth of sunlight within her. She is delicate but not fragile—her resilience hides behind her quiet nature. Though she appears calm and composed, there is a fierce streak in her, a spark that refuses to be fully subdued even when caged. She believes in love, kindness, and freedom, making her the perfect opposite to Altair’s brutal world.
APPEARANCE:
A vision of ethereal beauty, Yasmin has golden, sunlit hair that cascades in soft waves, often catching the light like spun silk. Her bright hazel eyes shimmer like liquid gold, mirroring her warmth and spirit. With porcelain skin, delicate features, and a graceful frame, she appears like something untouchable—yet it’s her very gentleness that makes her so dangerously captivating.
“𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘶𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦—𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴.”
"𝗛𝗶𝘀 𝗗𝗲𝗲𝘄𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗶– 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗼𝗯 𝗟𝗼𝗿𝗱'𝘀 𝗕𝗿𝗶𝗱𝗲"
The underworld bows before his name.
But he bows only before one thing—his madness. Her.
Altair Iskander Khan rules the crime world with an iron fist. Feared by enemies. Worshipped by his men. Ruthless, calculative, and dangerously possessive, he never let emotions poison his decisions. Until her.
Yasmin was never meant to step into his world. She was soft. Gentle. Everything fragile and forbidden in a kingdom built on blood and betrayal. Yet the moment his eyes found her, something inside him shattered. She became his obsession. His insanity. His Deewangi.
She tried to run. He caged her.
She tried to fight. He consumed her.
She tried to hate him. He loved her—in ways that were anything but sane.
But when old ghosts rise and enemies dare to touch what belongs to Altair Iskander Khan, the world will witness a madness with no boundaries.
Because when a man like him falls—
He doesn’t love.
He owns.
Author
This story is a complete Mafia world tale—filled with curses, violence, anger, hatred, and a mid-dark romance. If you’re uncomfortable with such intensity, feel free to skip it.
Author
It’s my very first time attempting something like this, completely different from His Dulhan.
Author
Where Taha was a green flag—steady like a forest—Altair may not be one. Or maybe he will. I don’t know yet how his journey will unfold. What I do know is that she is his obsession, and that makes things both dangerous and terrifying.
Author
I’m sure many of you have read similar stories before, so you can already imagine the madness this one will carry.
Author
I truly hope you’ll support me with your encouragement, comments, likes, and votes. That’s what keeps me going.
Author
So… wait for the next episode. Updates will come slowly, but they will come.
Born from Streets
The morning light flickers through the torn curtain, forcing my eyes open.
I roll over and glance at the cracked screen of my secondhand phone—the only thing ...
I ever bought with my own hard-earned money.
The room around me isn’t much. Chipped walls. Holes in the floor.
Rust creeping along the window frame. But it’s mine. My space. My freedom.
Even if it means fighting for it every single second.
Since I can remember, life has been nothing but survival.
Selling pens on the road. Sleeping on footpaths. Eating stale, thrown-away food.
Drinking dirty water when I was lucky to find some.
That was me. A child abandoned before she even learned what “home” meant.
Should I blame the parents who didn’t want me? Cry about the family that never came back? No. What’s the point? If they didn’t need me, then I don’t need them either.
I’ve done every job the streets could offer—selling balloons, slippers, washing dishes, helping food vendors, carrying loads, even begging shopkeepers for a day’s wage.
I’ve fought off men with filthy eyes, survived animals and storms alike.
And through it all, I fed myself, clothed myself, protected myself.
Yes, sometimes I cry when it gets too heavy. But only for a while. Because tears don’t feed you.
They don’t protect you. I wipe them away and keep moving, because life isn’t waiting for me to break.
And still, despite it all, I want to live. Not just breathe, but live.
That’s why I drag myself up, wear the same faded jeans with the ripped knees I once picked out of the garbage, pair it with my long kameez, and step out into the street.
I’m twenty-two now. My life is better than it was before.
I have a stable job—cleaning tables and taking orders at a new café in Chandigarh.
I had to beg the old owner to take me in, but he finally agreed.
He’s strict, but kind. He laughs a lot too… sometimes I wonder what there is to laugh about in this world.
But who cares? I need money. He gives it. That’s all that matters.
The truth is, I don’t have the luxury to dream of studying.
I’ve already learned enough from the streets—lessons harsher than any classroom could teach.
I don’t waste energy hating people, not even the disgusting old men in my apartment building whose lecherous stares burn my skin.
I’ve beaten some of them black and blue when they tried crossing the line.
It’s hell here. But even in hell, I’ve learned to fight.
Because I’m Yasmin.
And I am strong.
While walking, I tell myself autos are a luxury I can’t afford.
Come on, even ten rupees is a lot for me. How can I waste it for a twenty-minute path?
My stomach twists, reminding me I haven’t eaten anything. But what’s new? I already spent everything on the room rent.
I have just twenty rupees left, tucked away like treasure,
And I can’t dare spend that too. Not today.
The footpath is crowded, but I’ve walked worse.
My legs ache, but compared to what I’ve gone through, this is nothing.
I tell myself it’s even good for health. Free exercise, right?
Finally, I reach the café. My aching body feels lighter as I push open the glass door.
Yasmin
“Assalamualaikum, Chacha,” **I greet with a smile.
Irfan chacha/cafe owner/
"walekum assalam"
Irfan Chacha isn’t that old, but still much older than me, so I call him chacha out of respect.
He nods, already busy at the counter.
I head straight to the storeroom, slip into the plain white apron, and then get to work.
Cleaning the floor, wiping down tables, scrubbing the windows until they shine—this is my routine.
Soon, customers begin to trickle in.
Irfan Chacha is famous for his chai and coffee. I’ve never tasted them myself, of course.
Spending money just for “taste” would be foolish when one proper meal a day is the real luxury I chase.
Energy—that’s what I need, not flavors.
As I move between taking orders and wiping tables, something unexpected happens.
Warm arms wrap around me from behind.
I freeze. A hug.
Someone hugged me.
I turn, stunned, and find her—her face bright, her eyes sparkling. It’s been barely a week since I met her, and yet…
She hugs me as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Do you know what’s funny? I’ve never been hugged before. Not like this. Not warm. Not gentle. Not real.
And it feels… good. Too good. Like I could melt into it and stay there forever.
I manage a small, polite smile, still not knowing how to react. She’s kind.
She talks to me every time she’s here.
She never treats me like the poor orphan girl in rags—I’m just Yasmin to her.
She’s Irfan Chacha’s granddaughter. Same age as me.
She just shifted here for her studies, and when she’s bored, she comes to help at the café. She speaks endlessly about her college, her friends, her little adventures. I don’t say much—I’m always guarded—but I listen.
I love listening. Her words are like pieces of a world I’ve never seen, and somehow, hearing them makes me want to see it for myself.
And maybe… just maybe… she’s the first real friend I’ve ever had.
Aaliyah
Talking to her nonstop, following her around**
Author
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Pretty? Me?
Aaliyah makes me sit on the small couch in the corner, her face glowing with excitement.
Aaliyah
She leans in, staring at me dreamily**
Aaliyah
“Oh my goodness, yrr—you have the most flawless skin. Glowing, yrr… ughhh, so pretty,” **she gushes, her eyes sparkling.. 😍✨
It’s always the same with her. Since the first day we met, she keeps saying these things.
Admiring my hair, pinching my cheeks, insisting I’m beautiful.
She looks at me like I’m some rare jewel.
But from where I stand… she’s the gorgeous one. With her sleek hair, bright eyes, and effortless grace—she looks like she belongs in a world far away from mine.
Me? I’ve never thought of myself as beautiful.
Still… her words did something to me. The first time she said “You’re beautiful, Yasmin,”
I couldn’t get it out of my head. So much that I went and bought a small mirror for ten rupees.
My very first mirror. Just because of her.
Sometimes, secretly, I look at myself in it.
Golden, frizzy hair that shines under light. Chapped, dry lips. Red pimples scattered across my skin, painful at times.
A fair, porcelain complexion that never looked special to me.
But when I hear her voice calling me pretty… I blush.
I smile without meaning to. It feels like she presses a fresh breeze into my tired mind.
Then she asks the question I’ve avoided my whole life.
Aaliyah
“Yasmin… do you want me to look for your… p-parents?” **she says gently, almost hesitating,
Like she’s afraid of hurting me.
I don’t feel anger. I just shake my head.
Yasmin
“No, no… it’s fine. I’m good. I don’t need people who don’t need me.”
Aaliyah
She frowns, then tries again** “But… what if they didn’t abandon you? What if they lost you? Maybe they’re still looking for you?”
Her voice is full of hope, like she’s trying to stitch some into me too.
Yasmin
I inhale slowly, then smile faintly**
Yasmin
“Aaliyah… thank you. Really. For your kind words. But I don’t want to look for anyone. I’m fine without them. You don’t need to feel bad for me. Okay?”
Aaliyah
She pouts, her lips pushing forward like a child, but nods**
Then she gets up to help Irfan Chacha with the tea and coffee.
I return to my work—taking orders, wiping tables, carrying trays.
By the time the café closes, it’s nine at night. My body aches, but I don’t complain.
I’ve already bought bread for dinner—cheap, filling, and my favorite.
I eat as I walk, heading back to my apartment through the dark streets.
The alleyways are familiar. The shadows too.
I turn into one, and see the usual group of drunk men sprawled on the ground, laughing, talking nonsense.
Two of them look up at me, their eyes crawling over my body. Their mouths curve into smirks.
They whisper things, dirty comments.
Yasmin
I ignore them, keep walking, keep my head straight**
But if I say I don’t shiver, I’d be lying. Their eyes, those filthy gazes, always make something inside me shrink. I’ve lived through worse, fought through worse…
And yet, a part of me—the girl inside me—still feels scared.
Some fears never leave you.
Author
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