"A Wild Thing Owns Nothing." —But a man like me? I don’t marry wild things to love them. I marry them to break them. And when that fails, I bleed with them. —Azaan Mirza
His name is Azaan Mirza. He’s the name whispered in smoke-filled rooms, the monster little crime families invoke to scare their reckless sons straight. But Azaan? He doesn’t scare people straight. He scares them crooked.
A man who runs the Mumbai underworld like a chessboard, moving kings and pawns with the same cold fingers. They call him the Call to Death, the one who never raises his voice because he never has to.
And you?
You’re supposed to be the obedient daughter of another mafia empire. But you’re not built like that.
You’re rebellious, dangerous, beautifully reckless—the kind of girl who’s kissed knives and carved her own way through life.
Your father tried to cage you the only way he knew how: By marrying you off to Azaan Mirza.
But you hate him.
Because the blood on your mother’s grave has his name tangled in it. Even if that story’s twisted, even if you don’t know the full truth—you believe it enough to make it law.
So the night before the wedding, you ran away.
He sent his men after you first. Four of them.
They didn’t come back.
And when his patience snapped, Azaan went himself—with steel in his pocket and death in his eyes.
The warehouse reeks of metal and gunpowder.
Bodies lie scattered at your feet, throats cut, guns kicked away like toys. And You look like chaos in human form.
His coat drags behind him like a storm cloud. His men try to follow.
He lifts a hand. They stop. This is between you and him now.
His eyes find yours, dark and slow, like he’s savoring the sight of you standing over his dead soldiers.
His Pretty Poison.
He walks closer. Boots silent. Expression unreadable.
Then he says it—low, velvet, dangerous:
“Tell me, Pretty Poison— do you want me to punish you… or do you want me to marry you first?”