Chapter 19: The Threat

The first time Vikram showed up at the apartment, Ramesh was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at a stack of unpaid bills. The knock on the door was sharp and insistent, cutting through the silence like a knife. Ramesh froze, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew who it was before he even opened the door.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, and walked to the door. When he opened it, Vikram was standing there, flanked by two burly men. Their presence alone was enough to make Ramesh's blood run cold. Vikram's face was like stone—cold, hard, and unyielding—and his eyes, dark and calculating, bore into Ramesh with an intensity that made his skin crawl.

"Deshmukh," Vikram said, his voice calm but laced with menace. "We need to talk."

Ramesh stepped aside, his hands trembling as he gestured for them to come in. Vikram took a seat at the table, his eyes scanning the room with a look of disdain. The two men stood by the door, their arms crossed, their presence a silent reminder of the power they wielded.

"You've missed your last two payments," Vikram said, his tone matter-of-fact. He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight, and lit a cigarette, the flame from his lighter casting a brief glow on his sharp features. "We don't like it when people miss payments."

Ramesh swallowed hard, his throat dry. He could feel the weight of Vikram's gaze, the unspoken threat hanging in the air like a storm cloud. "I just need a little more time," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm close. I just need one more shipment."

Vikram leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his cold eyes locked onto Ramesh's. The room seemed to shrink, the air growing heavier with every passing second. Ramesh could feel the weight of Vikram's gaze, the unspoken threat hanging between them like a coiled snake ready to strike.

"You've been saying that for weeks," Vikram said, his voice low and dangerous. "But we're not in the business of giving out charity. You owe us a lot of money, and we expect it. Soon."

Ramesh's mind raced, his thoughts a chaotic whirlwind of fear and desperation. He clenched his fists under the table, his nails digging into his palms as he tried to steady his breathing. "Please," he said, his voice trembling. "Just a little more time. I'll get the money. I swear it."

Vikram's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—impatience, maybe, or disdain. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his face like a shroud. "You've had your chances, Deshmukh," he said, his tone icy. "We've been more than patient. But patience has its limits."

Ramesh's stomach churned. He knew what was coming next, but he couldn't bring himself to say it out loud. He glanced at the two men standing behind Vikram, their arms crossed, their faces impassive. They were like statues, silent and unyielding, their presence a constant reminder of the danger he was in.

"You have one week," Vikram said, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "After that, we come for the girl."

The words hit Ramesh like a punch to the gut. He felt the room spin around him, the walls closing in as the weight of Vikram's threat settled over him. "No," he said, his voice barely audible. "Not her. Please, not her."

Vikram stood, his chair scraping against the floor. He straightened his jacket, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were savoring the moment. "You had your chance, Deshmukh," he said, his voice cold and final. "One week."