Chapter 4: Beneath the Habit

Secrets, Seduction, and Sin

He didn’t pray after she left.

Father Arjun sat in the confessional box, drenched in her perfume and memory. His lips still burned from the kiss—violent, unexpected, almost a dare.

She’d walked away without a word, but left the storm behind in him.

There was no penance for what he wanted now. No absolution for the thoughts clawing their way through his skull.

Mira Thakur was a forbidden scripture, and he’d started reading her line by line.

He pressed a cold palm to his jaw, his breath ragged. “What the hell are you doing?” he muttered to himself.

But the voice that answered was no longer priestly.

It was CEO. Predator. Mehra.

---

Twelve hours earlier.

Mehra Corp – Black Level Archives.

The walls here were matte black, noise-cancelled, light-filtered. A room designed for the unthinkable.

Only five people in the world had access. Arjun was the first.

He stood before a curved wall of screens, watching surveillance footage of Mira’s operations, Zoya’s suspicious movements, and something else: the last surviving audio logs from Project Ananta, the government-funded blacklist Mira’s father had secretly created before his death.

The final log played. The voice was unmistakable.

Thakur Sr.:

"I’ve made a deal with the Mehra boy. He thinks he can clean the city with his machines, but he doesn’t understand—it’s not the city that’s dirty. It’s the bloodline. My own. If I vanish, it won’t be the cops. It’ll be her. Or Zoya. Or both. I raised wolves."

Arjun closed his eyes.

He hadn’t heard this recording in years. And now, he wasn’t sure what stung more: the man’s cynicism—or the accuracy of it.

I raised wolves.

And one of those wolves had kissed him like she wanted to bite his throat open.

---

Present Day.

Thakur Mansion – Mira’s Private Gym.

The punching bag swung like a pendulum as Mira drove her fist into it over and over. No gloves. No tape. Blood bloomed across her knuckles.

She didn’t wince.

Her mind was splintered—images of Zoya as a girl, laughing beside her in boarding school… and Arjun, standing in candlelight, whispering truths that tasted like betrayal.

She hit the bag again. Harder.

Behind her, Zoya entered. Quiet. Careful.

“You’re bleeding,” she said.

“So is my trust,” Mira replied coldly.

Zoya raised a brow, masking her tension with calm. “Then let me stitch it.”

Mira didn’t turn. “Tell me something, Zoya. When you first saw my father’s body… were you surprised?”

Zoya froze.

Then: “Why would you ask me that?”

Mira turned now, face like fire wrapped in calm. “Because a little bird told me you were there.”

Zoya stepped forward. “And if I was?”

“Then you should’ve come to me first.”

“I did what I had to do,” Zoya snapped. “Your father trusted people he shouldn’t have. You think Arjun’s not spinning a web? I’ve seen his face before, Mira. Not in a chapel. On screens. In dossiers. At the Ministry.”

Silence.

Then Mira said something that broke the air like a gunshot.

“You’re not just my best friend, Zoya. You’re a RAW asset gone rogue.”

Zoya didn’t deny it.

Instead, she said, “And you’re not just a mafia queen, Mira. You’re a crown forged by murder. The question is—who really deserves the throne?”

They stared at each other. Old love. New poison. One heartbeat away from war.

---

St. Dominic – Arjun’s Quarters

Arjun poured a double bourbon and stared at his reflection. Half-shadow, half-virtue.

He still wore the collar. But tonight, he’d wear it for the last time.

He opened the closet behind the bed. Inside: black suits, high-caliber weapons, forged passports, and a silver laptop sealed with biometric lock.

He placed his thumb on the sensor. It clicked.

The screen lit up with a single word: ANANTA: REACTIVATE?

He typed:

YES. TARGET: ZOYA KHAN.

Then he changed.

No collar.

No robe.

Just a dark suit, sleek pistol, and a mind wired for blood.

The Shepherd was gone.

The Wolf had returned.

---

Rooftop Bar, Lower Parel – Midnight

They met without ceremony.

Mira arrived first, dressed in a slit sari as black as her intentions. Arjun joined her ten minutes later, rain dripping from his trench coat.

“Why here?” she asked, sipping whiskey neat.

“Because this is neutral ground,” he said. “No crosses. No guns. Just truth.”

Mira laughed bitterly. “You think we’re capable of that?”

He leaned in close. “I think we’re addicted to it. Even when it burns.”

Their hands brushed.

She didn’t pull away.

“I know about the Goa project,” she said. “About you and my father.”

“I know about the boat house in Ratnagiri,” he said. “Where Zoya took him the night he died.”

Their faces were inches apart.

“Then why are we still dancing?” she whispered.

“Because we don’t know how to stop.”

His lips hovered over hers. But this time, she didn’t close the gap.

Instead, she whispered: “You wear too many masks, Arjun.”

He pulled back, smile cold. “And you don’t wear enough.”

She laughed. “Touché.”

Then, slipping him a small key, she whispered: “You want the truth? Use this. Safe house. Juhu. 2 a.m.”

And she vanished into the storm.

---

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