Read Mafia crave :: Visitor

꧁༒༻༺༒꧂꧁༒༻༺༒꧂

༺༻ Chapter 11: visitor ༺༻

꧁༒༻༺༒꧂꧁༒༻༺༒꧂

The bottle of wine landed on the table with a soft clink but Zayne refused to take another sip. He went stiff.

The doorbell.

No one ever rings his bell.

His mansion was unassailable, it was a fortress shielded from whatever or whoever existed. Anyone who had the audacity to disturb him, knew better than to attempt to invade.

He slid one hand under the robe. It touched cold metal. He cradled his gun in his hand. He crept toward the door, the weight of his steps light as a feather. He peered into the peephole and his focus narrowed.

A cop. A man.

Zayne announced sudden amusement with a smirk. What a brave idiot.

The officer shuffled slightly outside, confidence in his stance.

Zayne slyly muttered, "Well, what do we have here? Delhi's finest knocking on my door? Where's your brave lady officer?”

He then lazily asked louder, “What? Go away. I’m not home.”

Zayne squeezed the gun tighter. He could already see trouble.

The police door creaked itself open, partly, enough for the policeman to slide in.

As soon as he entered, Zayne moved like smoke—quick, quiet, deadly.

In the blink of an eye, he kicked the door shut and crushed the officer against the wall with a shiny knife at his throat.

"You're quite a distance from home, officer," Zayne said softly, his breath close.

The man... laughed.

A slow chuckle and a flicker of irritation tingled through Zayne's veins.

Who the hell laughs in this heat?

But, before he could demand to know, a flash of fur came at them.

Kalu.

The dog wagged its tail with abandon, trotting around the officer like it was running into an old friend.

Zayne froze. Kalu does not trust strangers.

He quickly redirected his attention back to the man imprisoned in his grip. Doubt settled in.

Then—

The officer brought his hand up to the man's head, fingers hooking under the wig.

He tugged it off in one smooth motion, and the man's dark hair tumbled down.

Zayne's world went sideways.

His breath hung in his throat.

Priya.

She was smirking at him now, her dark eyes dancing with mischief, enjoying his shocked expression.

"Surprise, Zayne."

Zayne lowered the knife deliberately, loosening his grip and keeping his eyes sharp

He could kill the girl.

Right here. Right now.

Cut this cat-and-mouse tango off before it goes any further.

But something in her eyes stopped him. It was the same fire, and similar stubbornness he'd seen before.

"Should I kill you?" He asked slowly, low and dangerous, and his fingers still float above his knife handle in a steady position.

Priya didn't flinch. She let out a huge sigh before crossing her arms.

"Do you always greet guests with a knife to their throats?"

He smiled slightly. "Only the interesting ones."

She rolled her eyes. "I came over to see if you're okay."

Silence.

Then -

A laugh.

A cold, cutting laugh that turned sour as it tumbled from his lips.

"You came over to check on me?" He said mockingly as amusement danced in his dark eyes - like they were playing chess. "You should have brought a gun too, Priya."

There was no shift in her face. Only raised brow and a shimmmer in her head.

"If I wanted to murder you, I wouldn't have shot my own arm this morning. Right?"

The smirk appeares wiped from his face.

The room felt silent.

For a long time he simply looked at her. The memory playing over in the back of his mind - the gunshot, the way she twisted at the last second, the bullet zipping bare under her and grazing him.

Idiot.

"You stupidity is unreal," he said softly, voice dull and almost - worried? He lowered his gaze to her wrapped arm.

She followed his gaze.

Then,

Clatter.

The knife fell.

Zayne took a long, slow step forward.

"H-how... extreme is it?" His voice was a strange one. Completely devoid of teasing, completely devoid of mockery. Simply something... raw.

Priya blinked, a little taken back at how instantaneous the tonal change was. Before she could respond, Zayne's fingers engulfed her wrist and pulled her arm toward him.

He was very threatening to her life mere moments ago, but his hold was gentle as he held her wrist.

"Ara are you stupid?" He mumbled, bought her bandage. "You take a bullet for a criminal like me... what the hell were you thinking?"

He didn't wait for a reply, just gently moved and adjusted the bandage, his brow slowly furrowing with concentration and effort.

Priya watched him, a strange sensation pooling in her chest.

"You're a mafia?" she said suddenly.

Zayne's hands froze.

A slow smirk grew across Zayne's lips as he looked up, his eyes alight with dark amusement.

"Mafia, hero, or criminal, take your pick," he released her arm and leaned back. He crossed his arms lazily. "Does it matter what I am? You shot a bad guy today. That's all everyone needs to know."

Priya didn't answer right away. She just appraised him, as if trying to discern a puzzle.

Lastly, she asked, "Why are you in India?"

His smirk stopped.

For the first time, he stalled.

There was an option for him to lie. He did nothing short of have to lie.

But something about Priya standing there, stubborn and reckless, redrew the line.

"Business," he said, equally calm and guarded. "I run an international crime syndicate. Delhi was... unclaimed territory."

His dark eyes stared at her, hoping to read her reaction.

A Dangerous Understanding.

It was Zayne staring at her as his head was recognition racing.

He had saved lives as well. He had taken even more.

But no one had ever rescued him.

"You're confusing." His voice was quiet and almost thoughtful. The memory of the event in the alley had played back in his mind—the jerk of her arm at the last moment. The bullet struck her instead of him. "You had a clear shot."

Priya tilted her head slightly, and a smirk played on her lips.

"I love your aura."

His breath caught.

For a second, he didn't know what to say. No one had ever said anything like that to him. No one had ever looked at him and seen… anything but the criminal.

A warmth settled within him, stirring in uncomfortably—in his chest—so he did the only thing he knew how to do—he yarned the bottle of wine and took a long swig.

"Are you trying to woo me, Inspector?" he said, teasing, but searching her eyes for something more.

Priya scoffed. "Never. I don't believe in love."

His eyebrow arched, entertained.

"Well, that's two of us." He leaned back against the table, letting the bottle swing between his fingers. "Love is just a story anyway. In my world, love will get you killed faster than betrayal."

He stopped watching her for a second and asked, "Do you hate love too?"

He took a second and waited.

Took another slow drink.

Then he laughed, it didn't seem like a laugh, it was like a bitterness that slipped out without permission.

"Hate love? Maybe I can say I've learned to distrust it." He said with calm but a hollowness beneath. He shrugged as if it did not matter. "Have you seen what love does to a mafia boss? Weakens him. Softens him. And then..." he snapped his fingers, "he's dead."

Priya remained silent, simply looking at him.

Then she said, "I saw something today. I'm not sure anyone else saw it, but I saw it."

His eyes diverted to her face.

Curious. Intrigued.

"What?" His voice was softer, almost unconsciously lowering his defenses now. "What did you see that no one else saw?"

He continued to closely observe her.

Cunning. Lovely. Treacherous.

He was uneasy with her tone.

"Priya?" He pushed again, lowering his voice this time.

She gave a small, smug look. "I noticed you only killed the Muslim mafia team. Not one innocent."

The playfulness faded from his eyes.

The look on his face hardened, his jaw tightened.

For a split second, she feared he might not answer.

Then with a deep low voice, menacing tone, he said, "That's because they deserve to die."

He clenched down, making the bottle crack under the strain of his grip, his knuckles tightening to white. "They are the ones who spread the terror. Who kill innocent people for their distorted beliefs. I'm just cleaning the rubbish."

Priya gave him a pinched brow, eyebrow lifted in half surprise. "Ohh… so you are Mr. Killer or Mr. Cleaner?"

Zayne smirked, his lips twisted but his eyes were cold.

"Depends who is asking."

꧁༒༻༺༒꧂ ꧁༒༻༺༒꧂

༶•┈┈┈༓༓༓༓༓༓༓༓༓┈┈┈•༶

༺ To be continued… ༻

꧁༒༻༺༒꧂꧂༒༻༺༒꧂

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isted but his eyes were cold.