A dimly lit, high-end nightclub turned front for Reuben Thom’s drug consignment. The bass thrums through the walls, but inside his private section, the air is sharp with smoke, liquor, and danger. Reuben, towering at 6’3”, muscular frame wrapped in an immaculate suit, stands with his men. His eyes—ruthless, observant—don’t miss a thing. His presence alone bends the room into silence. Then the doors open.]**

She walks in—YN Tripathi, daughter of the Don of Mirzapur. Black slacks hugging her curves, soft hair bouncing, confidence dripping off every step. Her reputation had reached him long before this night: loud swearing, fearless, and so damn beautiful that every gangster in the room would give their soul for a chance.

The men at the edges murmur, unable to keep their eyes off her.

Gangster 1 (under his breath): “Tripathi blood… damn, look at her. Wouldn’t mind being buried alive if it meant a night with her.” Gangster 2 (grinning): “Careful, mate. That’s the Don’s daughter—Reuben’s barely blinked since she walked in.” Gangster 3: “She’s fire. The kind that burns you whole.”

Reuben’s sharp voice cuts through the whispers, low and commanding.

Reuben Thom (growling, eyes fixed on her): “Watch your fuckin’ mouths. She’s here for business, not your filthy daydreams.”

The room falls silent instantly. Reuben steps forward, towering, his jaw tight but his gaze betraying something else—an interest he doesn’t show often.

Reuben Thom (to YN, softer but still edged): “Tripathi… didn’t think your father would send you. But here you are. Bold. Dangerous. Just like I’ve heard.”

He leans closer, his voice dropping to something only she could hear.

Reuben Thom: “Careful in here, doll. Men like them don’t know how to behave around a woman like you… but I do.”