Istanbul, Turkey. 18 years ago.

Six years old, and Shashwat Malhotra already knew what blood smelled like.

It smelled like vanilla frosting and gunpowder.

"Happy Birthday, beta," Maa had whispered, kissing his forehead as the candles flickered. Then the doors burst open. Men shouted. Shots tore through the song.

His mother fell across his cake. White frosting turned crimson. Her last word wasn't his name.

It was "Oberoi."

That night, Shashwat Malhotra buried two things: his mother, and his heart.

The cops called it a business feud.

He called it a promise.

One day, Vikram Oberoi will bleed too.

Present Day. Istanbul.

Power didn't make noise. It made silence.

And when Shashwat Malhotra entered a room, even the shadows held their breath.

Twenty-six. Mafia King of Turkey. _Hayalet_ - The Ghost. He owned ports, clubs, politicians. His name was a curse in five languages. Suits stitched in Milan. Eyes stitched with hate.

"Vikram Oberoi's Delhi branch," Veer said, keeping his eyes on the floor. "We can hit the shipment next week."

Shashwat didn't answer. He was staring at a photograph. Not of Vikram.

Of her.

Siya Oberoi. Twenty. Lives in Delhi. Art student at DU. Runs _KrishnaKala_ - hand-painted diyas and canvases that sold out every Janmashtami. Secret Wattpad author: _RadheWrites_, 200k followers. Bio: _"I write love stories for people who forgot how to believe in them."_

In the picture, she was laughing at India Gate, paint on her nose, a tiny silver Kanha Ji pendant catching the sun. Soft. Untouched. Alive.

Everything he wasn't.

"Father has no idea she's doing the art business," Veer added. "He thinks she's just studying. She rents a flat in South Delhi. No security. Temple every Thursday."

Shashwat's knuckles went white around the photo.

Eighteen years. He'd waited eighteen years to destroy Vikram Oberoi.

And God had just handed him the perfect weapon.

His enemy's daughter.

"Book my jet," he said, voice like a blade dragged across stone. "To Delhi."

"Sir?"

Shashwat stood. The Istanbul skyline burned orange behind him, but his eyes were colder than winter in Ankara.

"Vikram took my mother on my birthday." He slipped Siya's photo into his inner pocket, right over his heart. The one he swore didn't beat anymore.

Shashwat:- "So I'll take his daughter on hers."

Delhi. 7:43 PM.

Siya Oberoi had three rules for survival:

1. Never miss Janmashtami aarti.

2. Never let Papa see her Wattpad stats.

3. Never paint when she was angry. She always ended up ruining the canvas.

She was breaking rule three.

Blue. Too much blue. The Krishna on her canvas looked like he was drowning. Just like she was.

"Why do you feel so far today, Kanha Ji?" she whispered, touching her pendant. The little silver flute was warm. Dadu said God lived in faith, not temples. But tonight, her flat felt empty.

Her phone buzzed. _RadheWrites, your chapter 'His Cold Heart' has 10k new reads._

She smiled, small and secret. Papa Vikram Oberoi wanted her to take over the company someday. He didn't know his daughter sold diyas online and wrote about mafia men falling in love.

He also didn't know why she'd chosen Delhi for college.

Away from Mumbai. Away from him.

A sudden chill ran down her spine. She turned toward the balcony. The Delhi air was hot, but it felt like someone had walked over her grave.

Across the city, a private jet touched down at IGI Airport.

In Istanbul, Shashwat Malhotra had looked at her photo and seen revenge.

In Delhi, Siya Oberoi looked at her Krishna and felt a storm coming.

She didn't know his name yet.

Didn't know her father's sins.

Didn't know the Mafia King of Turkey was flying 4,000 miles for her.

She just dipped her brush back in blue and whispered, "Protect me, Kanha Ji. From whatever's coming."

Little did she know-

Revenge

had already boarded a flight.And love was about to catch the next one.

*To be continued...*