Akamaya

In the ruthless underworld of Mumbai, where bloodlines rule and bullets speak louder than words, Arpan More was born not into life—but into power, violence, and shadows. Groomed to inherit his father’s criminal empire, he rules with silence, strikes with precision, and loves with caution—until a girl named Samruddhi Jadhav ignites the one war he never prepared for: the war within himself.

Samruddhi, an idealistic journalist with a haunted past, is chasing a story that could burn the city down—starting with the More family. What begins as a mission to expose a crime lord becomes a dangerously intimate obsession with the very man she’s meant to destroy.

But this isn’t a tale of love and roses—it's love drenched in gunpowder, betrayal, and buried secrets.

As Arpan and Samruddhi fall deeper into each other, their pasts begin to bleed into their present. A hidden photograph, an unsolved murder, a voice from the dead—each chapter unearths a truth more brutal than the last.

And when love is caught between legacy and justice, between revenge and redemption—every choice is a trigger, and every heartbeat might be the last.

In a world where loyalty is currency and trust is fatal, **can love survive the war of kings and killers? Or will their story end like all others written in the underworld—**with blood on the walls and silence in their names?

Crimson Veins: The Love That Burned the Underworld

Karishma's bandaged leg shook as she leaned against the hotel window, her eyes taking in Mumbai's skyline engulfing the night. The city never really slept—neither did guilt. Samruddhi stood by her side, arms folded, her reflection divided between the glass and the woman standing beside her.

"I was twelve when I watched Rina bleed out," Karishma spoke softly. "She whispered your father's name. Not Devraj's. Jai. Over and over.

Samruddhi's throat constricted. "I witnessed my father's death in our sitting room. I was ten. He uttered, 'Don't believe the Mores.'"

Karishma spun around. "We were born in blood. Brought up in silence. And now we're reauthoring the last page."

Samruddhi couldn't answer before the door flew open.

Karishma raised her palms, serene. "You're late. Your ex-cop acquaintance already attempted to murder me. She rescued me.

He looked at Samruddhi. Her silence confirmed it.

"She has more of the ledger," Samruddhi said. "But she's not the only one."

Arpan put back his gun. "Devraj's files. The ones no one discusses. The records that even the police don't have."

Samruddhi's eyes tightened. "You've seen them?"

"I was a kid. I broke into his office. Saw a vault behind the painting of Shivaji Maharaj. The passcode? My birthday."

"He constructed the empire on accuracy," Arpan said. "But paranoia created fissures."

The More Mansion in Lonavala was a fortress. Surrounded by private security, high walls, and electric fences, it seemed to whisper of sins drenched in luxury.

They came in the cover of a storm.

Samruddhi and Arpan approached the back—memories holding their feet firm, adrenaline coursing through them.

Inside the house, it was silent. Too silent.

"Camera blind spot," Arpan breathed, taking her down the servant stairs. "I paid for this silence."

They arrived at the study. The painting hung over the fireplace.

Samruddhi pushed gloves out of her coat. "After you."

Arpan pushed the painting aside. Keypad. Beeping.

Rows of ledgers. Tapes. USBs. Marked in Devraj's neat, deadly handwriting.

Label: "Operation Shivraaj: 2002. Political Eliminations."

Samruddhi's hands shook. "These are enough to topple the entire state."

The vault door clanged behind them.

"You never got the timing right, Arpan."

Arpan lifted his gun. "Neither did you."

Devraj didn't blink. "You think this makes any difference? You were forged out of me. My blood. My shadow. You can't remove what you are."

Samruddhi took a step forward. "Perhaps not. But we can reveal it."

Devraj smiled. "Then do it. And burn with me."

There was an explosion below the floor.

The wall slid open again. Automatically.

They took what they could and fled.

Then saw them emerge from the mansion, fire following them.

Until a bullet burst through the windshield.

Arpan and Samruddhi arrived at the van. Another shot hit the tire.

They dove in. Engine roared. They tore off into the mountains.

On the road, breathless, bloodied, Samruddhi looked at Arpan.

She reached for his face, wiped the blood from his cheek.

Karishma screamed, "They're following us!"

But the taste of that kiss—stayed like smoke.

A Kiss Before the Bullet