Chapter 12: The Meeting with Vikram (2)

Vikram leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. The cigarette dangled from his fingers, the ash threatening to fall onto the scarred wood. His eyes, dark and unreadable, locked onto Ramesh's, and for a moment, the room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in around them. The faint hum of the flickering fluorescent light above was the only sound, a monotonous buzz that grated on Ramesh's nerves.

"Let's say we give you the money," Vikram said, his voice calm but laced with menace. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his face like a shroud. "What's in it for us?"

Ramesh hesitated, his mind racing. He had rehearsed this moment in his head a hundred times, but now that he was here, the words felt heavy and clumsy on his tongue. "I'll sign over my apartment," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's not much, but it's all I have."

Vikram's lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. He tapped the ash from his cigarette into a chipped ashtray, his movements deliberate and unhurried. "Your apartment," he repeated, his tone dripping with disdain. "A crumbling flat in a building that's one strong breeze away from collapsing. Do you really think that's enough?"

Ramesh's stomach churned. He had known this wouldn't be easy, but the cold dismissal in Vikram's voice made his chest tighten. "It's all I have," he repeated, his voice trembling slightly. "But I swear, if you give me this chance, I'll make it worth your while. I'll pay you back double—no, triple—what I owe."

Vikram leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. He studied Ramesh for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "You've said that before," he said, his tone flat. "And yet, here we are. You owe us more than you can ever repay, Deshmukh. Your promises mean nothing."

Ramesh's hands clenched into fists under the table, his nails digging into his palms. He could feel the weight of Vikram's gaze, the unspoken threat hanging in the air like a storm cloud. "I have a plan," he said, his voice firmer now, though it still wavered with desperation. "A solid plan. If you just give me the capital, I can turn it around. I'll pay you back, I swear it."

Vikram exhaled a cloud of smoke, his eyes narrowing. "A plan," he repeated, his tone mocking. "Let me guess. Another one of your brilliant schemes that's going to make you rich overnight?" He shook his head, a slow, deliberate motion that sent a chill down Ramesh's spine. "We're not in the business of charity, Deshmukh. If you want our money, you'll have to give us something we can't refuse."

Ramesh's heart sank. He knew what Vikram was implying, but he couldn't bring himself to say it out loud. "I don't have anything else," he said, his voice barely audible. "Just the apartment. Please."

Vikram's expression hardened, his patience wearing thin. He leaned forward again, his face inches from Ramesh's. "Let me make this simple for you," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "We don't want your apartment. We want something… more valuable."

The room seemed to spin around Ramesh, the walls closing in as the weight of Vikram's words settled over him. He knew what was coming next, but he couldn't bring himself to accept it. "No," he said, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and defiance. "Not her. Never her."

Vikram's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Your daughter," he said, his tone cold and matter-of-fact. "She's young, pretty. She'd fetch a good price."

Ramesh's stomach turned, a wave of nausea washing over him. He felt as though the ground had been ripped out from under him, leaving him suspended in a void of dread and despair. "No," he said again, his voice firmer this time. "I won't do it. I won't involve her."

Vikram shrugged, as if the matter were of little consequence. "Then we have nothing to talk about," he said, his tone final. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and stood, the chair scraping against the floor as he pushed it back. "Good luck, Deshmukh. You're going to need it."