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Rage simmered within me as Vishnu continued his threats. How dare he speak to my father this way? The media exposure, the police, the destruction of everything Dad had worked for—each word from Vishnu’s mouth felt like a personal attack. The urge to kill Vishnu grew stronger and stronger. How dare he come into our home and tear us apart?

I wanted to burst out, to stop this nightmare, to grab Dad and run far away from here before he got into trouble.

But then, Dad opened the drawer, pulled out a gun, and everything changed. My initial fear and anger was replaced by a smug smile. If he shot Vishnu right here, right now… it would all be over, wouldn’t it?

Vishnu didn’t even flinch on seeing the gun.

“Don’t be a fool, Qureshi,” he said, his lips curving into a smirk. “Those files—the proof of your corruption, the evidence of your attempt to murder Pratap Walia—they’re are already in the hands of the media. As we speak, every journalist across the state is heading to your doorstep, and the police? They’re not far behind.”

My father’s hand shook, the gun wavering as he aimed it at Vishnu. For a moment, I thought he might actually pull the trigger. But then, the police sirens wailed in the distance, and I saw Dad’s eyes dart to the mirror behind Vishnu—straight to where I stood, hidden in the kitchen doorway.

Our eyes met in the reflection, though technically, it wasn’t even possible. He couldn’t see me, couldn’t even be sure if I was watching this entire scene or not. Yet, somehow, it felt like he knew—like his eyes saw right through the reflection, piercing through the glass and locked with mine, as if he knew I was there. As if he knew I had been standing there the entire time. There was something deliberate in his eyes. It was not just a glance, but a knowing, intentional stare. It was as though his eyes weren’t just looking at the reflection but peering into my very soul.

And then, without warning, he started laughing.

It was the kind of laugh I had never heard from him before. It wasn’t the mocking chuckle he reserved for his rivals, nor was it the light-hearted laughter from our rare moments spent together as father and son. No, this was something else entirely. A laugh clouded with madness and despair, with fury and finality.

“You think you’ve won, don’t you?” he hissed. “Just because you have some evidence against me, because you’ve cornered me here, you think you’ve beaten me? Don’t fool yourself, Vishnu. Don’t ever underestimate a man who has nothing to lose. That’s the kind of man who becomes unstoppable. So go ahead. Show the evidence to the world. Bring the police and the media. Get me arrested. But none of it will matter anymore, except for one thing.”

The police sirens outside grew louder. They were almost here. I held my breath, waiting to know what Dad would do now. Shoot Vishnu? If he did, would he be able to escape with the police just moments away?

“You and the Walia family will be wiped off the face of the earth. You hear me? This is Qureshi’s promise,” he added. “Count your days, and count Pratap Walia’s too. My blood will take the revenge.”

Blood? What did Dad mean by that? Before I could even think about his words, the police barged in and surrounded Dad, asking him to drop his gun and surrender.

“Put the gun down, Mr. Qureshi,” one of the officers ordered firmly, closing in on him.

But Dad didn’t move. He neither lowered his gun nor broke his gaze from Vishnu.

“My eyes will always be on you,” he said again, his voice icy cold.

Vishnu scoffed and turned to leave, dismissing his threat. And then—before anyone could react—Dad turned the gun on himself.

“Dad, no!” I wanted to shout, but my voice was trapped in my throat. What was he doing?

Everything happened so fast. I was still processing Dad’s final words when the gunshot rang out, echoing through the room. It was too late. I froze, watching in horror as Dad’s body collapsed on the floor. Blood spread across the hardwood floor—the very same floor where we’d sat drinking tea countless times in the past. And now, my father—my hero—lay there like a fallen king.

I wanted to scream. To shout his name so loudly that it would reach him and pull him back. I wanted to run into the living room, to throw myself at his side, to shake him awake, and demand that he return back to me. But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I stood there, staring at him through the glass, unable to do anything but watch the nightmare unfold before my teary eyes.

The police sirens were still wailing when Shasha, Dad’s most trusted and loyal bodyguard, grabbed me from behind, his hand clamping over my mouth to muffle my screams. It was then that I came out from the shock and fought like a wild animal, desperate to get back to Dad’s lifeless body lying in a pool of his own blood, but Shasha’s grip was iron-strong as he dragged me through the back door and shoved me into a waiting car.

I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. My fists pounded against the windowpane, wanting to get back to the house where Dad was.

“Your mother’s orders,” Shasha cut me off, his voice gruff but carrying a hint of sympathy. “We’re taking you back to New York.”

My father’s blood was still fresh on that floor, and yet they were shipping me off like a piece of cargo. The car sped away, leaving behind the farmhouse where my father lay lifeless.

And then it hit me. My dad was no more. He’d left me.

I finally screamed his name, my voice cracking as I thrashed against the men who pinned me down in the backseat. Their hands smothered my cries, their faces grim as they carried out the orders given to them. My mother, Monica, had arranged everything—my escape, my flight back to New York. It wasn’t until we reached the airport that I realised the enormity of my mother’s actions. Somewhere during the confrontation between Dad and Vishnu, she had tried calling me. I hadn’t heard my phone ring amidst the chaos, and when I didn’t pick up, she called Dad next.

But Dad, embroiled in his standoff with Vishnu, hadn’t answered either. That’s when, in her growing panic, my mother dialled Shasha, desperate to find out what was going on.

And Shasha had told her everything—the police closing in, the confrontation, the inevitable arrest of my father. That’s when she made her move.

My mother, had no love left for her ex-husband, Qureshi, and she wasn’t about to let his sins drag me down with him.

She had shipped me away to shield me from the inevitable backlash of being a Qureshi. She knew the police and media would come for me and hound me relentlessly, trying to uncover any information I might have about my father’s dark deeds—deeds that I had no part in. She didn’t want me tangled up in the fallout, didn’t want the authorities digging into my life simply because I was his son. So, she had ordered Shasha to isolate me, and to get me out of the farmhouse before the police arrived. But now, there was no arrest. My dad was dead. He was gone. Forever.