The Invitation

1982,

"Who is this Gaza?" Rashmi's voice carried a hint of intrigue, her brow furrowing with curiosity as she leaned closer.

"Abdul Gaza," Jai began, his tone weighted with significance, "is more than just a gold smuggler. He's a shadowy figure, shrouded in tales of ruthless ambition and boundless influence. Hailing from Dubai, Gaza commands a sprawling empire that stretches across continents, his reach extending like tendrils of darkness into the heart of Mumbai's underworld."

Rashmi's eyes widened, absorbing the gravity of Jai's words. "Why does Shetty fear him?" she pressed, her voice tinged with urgency.

"Shetty's apprehension stems from Gaza's formidable reputation," Jai explained, his words measured. "Gaza is no ordinary smuggler; he's a force of nature, capable of upending the delicate balance of power with a single move. His operations were fueled by relentless determination, posing a direct threat to Shetty's control over the gold trade."

The weight of Jai's explanation hung heavy in the air. The implications are clear. Rashmi's mind raced with the implication of Gaza's presence, each piece falling into place like a puzzle of shadows and secrets.

"And if Gaza's boats were to reach Mumbai's shores?" Rashmi prodded, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jai's response was solemn, his gaze steady. "It would spell disaster for Shetty," he affirmed. "Not only would it challenge his authority, but it would also jeopardize his livelihood. Gaza's penchant for violence and his unwavering pursuit of power make him a formidable adversary—one that Shetty cannot afford to underestimate."

"Was it the first time?" Rashmi inquired, her curiosity lingering in the air like a whisper.

"No, for sure," Jai replied with a nod. "This conflict has been brewing for a long time, Rashmi. It's not a simple skirmish—a war that has seen many battles."

Rashmi's lips curled into a knowing smile. "And yet, Gaza never emerged victorious, did he? Shetty's still standing, still feared. What a testament to his resilience."

Jai chuckled softly, acknowledging Rashmi's observation. "Indeed, Rashmi. Despite Gaza's efforts, Shetty remains a formidable adversary. But it's not just about winning or losing—it's about the legacy of power and control."

Rashmi's gaze sharpened with understanding. "So, why does Shetty still fear him if he's never been defeated?"

"It's a matter of history, Rashmi," Jai explained, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "When Gaza first entered the scene, he encroached upon Washi's territory—the Coast of Malabar. That initial clash set the stage for their ongoing rivalry, leaving an indelible mark on both Shetty and Gaza's legacies."

"In that bloodbath," Jai continued solemnly, "Gaza suffered a devastating blow. Nearly 80% of his resources—his men, boats, gold—were lost in the chaos. It was a crippling setback that reverberated throughout the criminal underworld."

Rashmi's eyes widened in astonishment. "And has he managed to recover from such a loss?"

Jai shook his head. "Not entirely. Even now, years later, he's only managed to reclaim half of what he lost. The scars of that defeat run deep, a constant reminder of the fragility of power and the ruthless nature of their world. After all of this, he still managed to give such a fight."

 1966,

Shetty's building

Mumbai's monsoon was a grumpy landlord, threatening to kick everyone out with a downpour. Inside Shetty's skyscraper, the mood matched the weather. Thick air hung heavy, punctuated only by the distant rumble of thunder. Then, a sound like fingernails on a chalkboard shattered the tension - a kid's laughter echoing off the cold walls.

Shetty, a man built like a bull with a temper to rival one, roared. His voice boomed like a bomb, drowning out the approaching storm and silencing the kid's laughter faster than you could say "boo."

When the echoes faded, Shetty glared at his underlings, his eyes like burning coals. "Here we go again," he grumbled, voice a low growl. "Everywhere I turn, all I hear is whispers of the same damn name - Vazeer. They're scared of him, more scared than they are of me."

His words hung in the air, a bitter taste of a changing power dynamic. This young punk, a mere kid in Shetty's eyes, was messing with his territory.

"He's just a pup," scoffed one of his guys, trying (and failing) to hide his worry.

"A pup with sharper teeth than yours," Shetty shot back, frustration bubbling over. "We gotta clip his wings before he takes a bigger chunk out of our pie."

Suddenly, a sound unlike anything else ripped through the air. A Harley Davidson roared to life, the sound cutting through the tension like a knife. Everyone scrambled to the unfinished balcony to see who was making the racket.

There, bathed in the orange glow of the setting Sun, sat Vazeer. He was decked out in a slick black leather jacket, looking like a rebel straight out of a movie. Despite his young age, he had a presence that made you take notice.

"Apparently," drawled Pathan, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "the kids wanted this fancy bike. Seems killing a few losers makes him a big shot in their eyes."

Shetty scoffed. "Not everyone builds their rep on real power. Some just buy favors with shiny toys and hot air."

Vazeer didn't say anything, his face unreadable. But the way he sat there, so still, was like watching a predator sizing up its prey.

The tension broke with the arrival of a gleaming Rolls Royce, its polished surface reflecting the last rays of sunlight. Shetty, all fake smiles and forced politeness, practically sprinted down the stairs, umbrella in hand.

Everyone on the balcony gasped. Here was Shetty, the supposed king of the city, looking like a nervous waiter holding an umbrella for a guy stepping out of the Rolls.

The man who emerged was Daniel, a name that sent shivers down spines. He wore a black coat that screamed power and moved with the confidence of someone used to getting his way.

Daniel scanned the men before his gaze landed on Vazeer. "Which one of you is Vazeer?" he asked, his voice rough and gravelly.

Vazeer just gave him a slow nod, his face showing nothing.

Daniel walked towards him, each step carrying the weight of his reputation. "There's a job for you in Bangalore," he said, his voice low. "Do it right, and Bombay's yours."

A flicker of ambition crossed Vazeer's eyes, a silent agreement to the challenge. But then he looked at Shetty, a question hanging in the air.

Daniel's smile was a nasty one. "He can be your shoe shiner," he said, his words dripping with contempt. "Or worse. Up to you. You'll get your tickets in two days."

As Daniel walked away, the men on the balcony watched in stunned silence. They had just witnessed a king being dethroned and a new ruler taking his place.

Vazeer, the young upstart, remained impassive, but a dangerous glint flickered in his dark eyes. A barely perceptible smile played on his lips, a hint of the storm brewing beneath the surface. It was the time to reply to all that happened a few minutes before the arrival of Daniel.

"Ay, Pathan!" Vazeer speaks in the ego of being better than everyone. His loud voice carried a message.

Pathan gulped, his voice barely a whisper. "Ha, Bhai?"

"I don't eliminate a few losers to become a big shot," Vazeer said, his voice cold and laced with a deadly calm. "Every single man I've taken out... they were already big shot themselves."

Reapetd his reply in fear. "Ha, Bhai!"