Dev
Taking my seat at the head of the table, with my father on one side and Veer on the other, I flick my fingers, signalling for the meeting to begin. Khurana, our head of operations, immediately begins droning on about projected numbers, risk analysis, and operational compliance. And I force my ears to suffer through his monotonous, corporate-preacher ramble.
Fucking hell! This meeting should’ve been over last week. But no. My wife had to pull her little stunt and blow my entire schedule to hell.
“We’re already behind schedule. And delays in our business mean losses, something I won’t tolerate.” I shut down his monotonous excuse about not being able to secure the new location because of paperwork delays.
Khurana runs a shaky hand through his slicked-back, salt-white hair—a nervous habit I’ve seen a hundred times. “Sir, the delay is tied to the shell company. The documents triggered an additional verification cycle. It’s standard protocol. Until that clears, the purchase can’t be processed.”
Veer taps his pen against the table. “Standard protocol, my ass. You’ve been doing this for years, Khurana. Don’t tell me you can’t push a few papers through without crying verification.”
Khurana’s eyes crease further, lines carving deeper into his face. “Mr. Veer Rathore, the issue isn’t the paperwork itself. It’s the sudden cross-check initiated by the registrar. Someone on their side flagged the shell company for a routine audit. I am handling it, but forcing it through too aggressively will draw the wrong eyes.”
Dad exhales slowly, the kind of sound that makes every man at the table sit a little straighter. “Khurana, there’s a difference between caution and incompetence. You should know that by now. If the registrar flagged it, then find out why and fix it without delaying the operations again.”
“Khurana, get the registrar sorted,” I say, drumming my fingers twice on the table. “Now let’s move to the structural map for the new site.”
Khurana picks up the remote and switches on the projector. A blueprint splashes across the wall in crisp blue lines.
“The ground floor will house the pub,” I say, pointing to the layout with the tip of my pen.
Veer leans forward. “Basement?”
“That’s where we expand.” I zoom into the hidden section. “Temperature-controlled storage. Reinforced walls. Private elevator access from the manager’s office. Entry is restricted to six people: me, Veer, Dad, Khurana, and the two handlers. No staff below the second tier knows anything. We keep the drugs here before distribution.”
“So the warehouse district entry still stands?” Dad asks.
“It stands.” I clasp my hands. “Two containers marked as liquor shipment. The customs officer is already bought. He’ll stamp whatever my man puts in front of him.”
Veer smirks. “Meaning he can’t tell cotton from cocaine.”
I allow myself one stiff nod. “Exactly.”
“And transport?” Dad shoots his next question.
“Four vans. Each driven by men who know the code,” I answer. “They even carry loaded guns if needed.”
Khurana flips a page. “Distribution only happens after the vans reach the pub.”
“Split into micro-consignments. Small enough to pass through police checks, large enough to maintain profit. Runners change routes every two days,” I say and click the next slide. “We launch in thirty days.”
“Good.” Dad nods in approval, and I shut the laptop.
The four other men around the table, who had sat silently through the meeting, nod their approval. Dad leans back in his chair, adjusting his shirt cuffs as his eyes flick to the empty crystal glasses lined up on the credenza.
“Whiskey, neat,” he says to the attendant by the door.
Minutes later, the amber liquid sits before each of us. Dad raises his glass. “Cheers.”
We all follow suit. We take a sip, then ease into casual conversation.
Rohan, the asshole Meera had served earlier, takes a sip and smirks. “We should’ve had this meeting at your place, Dev. Your sexy wife would’ve made it a hell of a lot more interesting.”
And that’s all it takes.
In a heartbeat, I am out of my chair, my hand fisting his collar as I yank him up and slam him into the nearest wall.
“You bastard. That’s my wife you’re talking about?” I snarl. A few drinks and the fucker has forgotten who I am, forgotten his place, and dared to utter my wife’s name with his filthy mouth.
