The night air in the sprawling mansion still carried the faint metallic tang of blood. Rajesh Singh, the rival syndicate leader who had once ruled half the city’s underworld with an iron fist, lay dead in his study downstairs—three bullets to the chest, one to the head. His empire crumbled in a single coordinated strike. Now, his beautiful widow belonged to the victors.

Simran Kaur was twenty-eight, a Punjabi beauty with long raven-black hair that cascaded down her back like silk, almond-shaped eyes that could melt steel, and a body that had been the envy of every don’s wife in the city. Full, heavy breasts, a narrow waist flaring into wide hips, and smooth golden skin that glowed under the chandelier light. She had been dressed in a simple white saree for mourning, the pallu draped modestly over her head when they dragged her into the master bedroom—the same room where she had once moaned her husband’s name night after night.