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My mother begged me to stop. She tried to make me understand that my father was wrong. She told me my father was not the man I thought he was—that he was a bad person who had hurt people, who had committed crimes far worse than I could ever imagine. She said that was why people and the media in India spoke about him with such contempt.

But she didn’t understand. She would never understand what my father meant to me and what it was like to watch him take his own life. I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t breathe without feeling the weight of injustice crushing my chest.

When things didn’t turn in her favour—when her attempts to reason with me only fuelled my anger—she resorted to desperate measures. She dragged me to therapists and psychiatrists, anyone who might be able to ‘fix’ me. I spent years at Riverside Haven Mental Health Center, trapped in endless therapy sessions where they analysed my anger, trying to tame it with words or numb it with medication.

But they didn’t understand—this wasn’t madness. This was my purpose. This was my destiny. No amount of therapy could douse the flames of my fury or the ache of my loss.

When I was alone in that cold, sterile room, staring at the ceiling while the world outside carried on without me, Dad’s voice would echo in my mind.

‘My blood will take revenge. My eyes will always be on you.’

Those words haunted me, looping endlessly in my mind, but they didn’t break me. Instead, they fuelled me. Those words became the fire that burned brighter in the suffocating silence. They reminded me of what was taken from me, of the man I’d lost and the revenge I owed him.

It was there, in that lonely room, that I began to plan. Piece by piece, I constructed the blueprint for what I had to do. Every therapy session, every evaluation became a performance. I learned to play their game. Smiled at the right moments. Said all the things they wanted to hear about ‘moving on’ and ‘healing.’

Nearly four years after my dad’s death, I managed to convince them—convince my mother—that I was ‘better.’ The perfect son, ready to rebuild his life. I smiled at her, kissed her cheek, and lied about a study program in London. And while she thought I was flying to London, I boarded a flight to Mumbai, India.

Shasha met me at the airport. Clearly, he hadn’t moved on either. Same as me. He was the only one who truly understood my pain.

“They need to pay for what they did,” I told him, no longer hiding the pain that I’d buried for years for my mother’s sake.

“They will,” he promised me.

Over the years, he had kept a watch over the Walias, collecting every detail, every weakness. My father might have been a devil to some, but to men like Shasha, he was a saviour. These loyal soldiers became my army, united in our mission for vengeance.

For six months, we worked in silence, tracking Pratap Walia and Vishnu. We studied their routines, their security measures, their every move. The fortress they lived in—Walia Mansion—seemed impenetrable, a place guarded by high-tech security, loyal guards, and a vigilance that made it impossible to strike without careful planning.

But I was patient. Revenge wasn’t something to be rushed. With each passing day, the hunger for revenge grew stronger, a living, breathing thing clawing at my insides. But we knew our plan had to be perfect. One mistake, and everything would be lost. And so, we waited. We prepared. Because there could be no room for error.

*****************

Then came the night that changed everything. While shadowing Vishnu, I found him at a club—Josh—a place reeking of sweat, alcohol, and temptation. I was there to fulfil my father’s last wish—to end Vishnu. And the crowd in Josh club provided the perfect cover for what I had to do.

I watched him from the corner, a glass of whiskey untouched in my hand. He was drinking more than I’d ever seen him drink in the last six months, his usual guarded demeanour replaced by a slouched, vulnerable figure. This was it. The perfect moment. Drunk and defenceless, Vishnu was at his weakest. It would be so simple to end it there, to watch him bleed just like my father had.

But fate had other plans. Just as I was about to make my move, she appeared—Simran. The woman who had unknowingly delayed my revenge. She slid into the seat beside him. I watched her speak to him in hushed tones. I strained my ears, eager to catch their conversation.

And then I heard it—the confession that froze me in my tracks. Vishnu was Pratap Walia’s illegitimate son.

His words hung in the air as he confessed to Simran, each syllable fuelling a fire I didn’t think could burn any brighter. Vishnu wasn’t just a loyal bodyguard. He was blood—Pratap’s blood. A Walia. Suddenly, everything made sense: his unwavering loyalty, his fanatical protection of the Walia name. He was protecting his own blood, his own father, even though Pratap Walia hadn’t yet publicly acknowledged him as his son.

The irony of it set my blood on fire. He was a man just like me—a son who would do anything for his father, for his family. But while I had lost everything, he stood there, still playing guardian to the family that had destroyed mine. The vengeance that had been burning in my heart exploded into an inferno.

Now, it wasn’t enough anymore to simply kill them. No, I would make them suffer first. Make them feel the pain of watching their world crumble, just as I had. And now, I knew exactly how to do it. For the first time in years, I felt alive.

When Vishnu and Simran headed out together, I trailed behind them, staying far enough not to be noticed. They got into her car, and I followed them, curiosity gnawing at me. What role did this woman, Simran, play in Vishnu’s life? Why had Vishnu, the man I’d heard kept himself away from any romantic entanglements, left with her?

I followed them to her apartment, parking a safe distance away, hidden in the shadows. Hours passed as I sat in my car, waiting for Vishnu to come out. My patience slowly wore thin as the night stretched on. But as dawn came, Vishnu finally emerged, and something about him had changed. His usual hardened expression was softer, almost reflective. Whatever had happened that night in that apartment, it had shifted something in him, and I hated it.

My plans had to wait because, as cruel as life always seemed to be, my mom fell gravely ill that same week. Cancer—stage four. The news shattered me, and despite my burning need for revenge, I couldn’t leave her alone in her final moments. I returned to New York, knowing my men in India would keep an eye on the Walias and Simran for me.

The next two months passed in a blur of hospital visits and whispered goodbyes. Mom, despite her pain, never showed her weakness. “Live your life, Zane,” she said to me once. But how could I? My life had ended the day my father pulled that trigger.

And as if fate hadn’t dealt me enough blows, in the midst of watching my mother wither away, another storm hit me. Pratap Walia, in a move that sent shockwaves through the nation, publicly acknowledged Vishnu as his son.

The news was everywhere—headlines, news broadcasts, social media. Pratap Walia had finally admitted to having an illegitimate son, and not just that—he embraced Vishnu openly, claiming him as part of the Walia legacy.

It felt like the universe was mocking me. Here I was, standing by my mother’s deathbed, losing the last thread of family I had left. And there was Vishnu, the man who had torn my world apart, not only thriving but being celebrated and embraced by his bloodline.