The Weight of Command. 

The Weight of Command. 

Twenty leaders. Twenty countries. Twenty men powerful enough to move nations from the shadows. They held the kind of power that could shift the entire balance of the underworld with a single decision.

And yet, in that room, only one voice truly mattered, under this roof, silence belonged to him. And only him. The Don. 

“Still,” another leader spoke up, breaking the silence, his tone measured, “we need someone on the inside. Someone who can watch them closely.”  

His tone was calm, but firm when leaned forward slightly.

“If we want control, we cannot rely on assumptions. We need certainty. And certainty comes from having them under our watch before they even suspect it.”

He folded his hands on the table.

“We need eyes within their circle—someone who can keep them under our grasp before they realize they’re already trapped.”

“We have quite a predicament, unfortunately,” another leader stated, his expression still and unreadable. “Whoever takes on that role must be someone absolutely trustworthy—which clearly limits it to one of us.”

“Trust,” one of them muttered, “is the most expensive mistake in this business.”

Trust.

In their world, it was both currency and poison.

A few exchanged glances across the table. Others remained still, knowing better than to speak too quickly in a room like this.

Don Shreyaanz said nothing at first. His silence alone was enough to make men rethink their words.

“I beg to differ.”

Don Shreyaanz lifted his gaze, his expression tight-lipped, curious rather than offended.

“And that would be?”

“Indeed, there needs to be a mole within their circle—but not one of us.” Another underworld Capo spoke up, his tone calm but firm, making his point unmistakably clear.

A pause followed.

Then, quietly—

“But if they discover the mole…”

His eyes darkened.

“…death would be the kinder punishment.”

No one argued.

Even Uzair felt the weight of that truth settle heavily in the room.

This was no longer strategy.

It was sacrifice.

Cuttingly, another member added, “sending one of our own would be too obvious. They would expect that. What we need is someone unexpected—someone they would never think to question.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“Someone who can stand close enough to hear everything… and remain invisible while doing it.”

“Or perhaps,” another voice cut in coldly, “You already have someone in mind.”

Uzair remained silent, but he could feel the room tightening. This was no longer a discussion—it was the beginning of a decision that would cost someone dearly.

It could be a chance. His chance. His very chance to do what he hoped to achieve. 

“True enough. I agree completely—if needed, I can be the—”

“No, Uzair.”

The refusal came instantly.

Don Shreyaanz’s voice cut through the room like steel, sharp and absolute. There was no hesitation in it, no room left for argument.

The entire table fell silent.

Uzair stilled.

Sending his only younger brother into a den of wounded lions?

Absolutely not.

It wasn’t that he doubted Uzair’s intelligence. If anything, that was the problem—Uzair was far too capable. Too sharp. Too willing to walk straight into danger if it meant getting the job done. He was too good at it. Too clever. 

And perhaps that was exactly why it terrified him. And Shreyaanz knew exactly what that cost.

He had only just returned home after completing a perilous mission that had kept him away for six long months.

Six months.

Six months of silence. Six months of waiting. Six months of wondering whether the next call would be the one that shattered everything.

Fortunately, it didn't. He returned home safe and sound. A breath of relief escaped his nose at the thought. 

And now, barely home, he was ready to leave again. No.

Absolutely not.

He just wanted to leave again the moment he arrived?

No.

Shreyaanz wouldn’t allow it.

His younger brother needed rest, not another battlefield.

And if logic wasn’t enough, there was always Neelam.

Just the thought of her made him exhale through his nose.

And besides—his wife would skin him alive if she so much as caught the faintest hint that he had sent her “only baby boy” into danger again without asking for her permission first.

The thought almost made him smile.

Neelam.

That tiny woman somehow held enough power to shake even him—the Don.

That woman had somehow managed to become the only person in the world capable of frightening him more than his enemies.

And he loved her for it.

He smiled inwardly.

He was lucky—far luckier than a man like him had any right to be.

And truthfully, he considered himself lucky for it.

Lucky to have found a woman like her.

A woman who had accepted Uzair as her own when he was barely more than a wounded boy seeking parental love, asking no unnecessary questions, demanding nothing except trust.

She had never asked for explanations.

Never demanded proof.

She had simply opened her arms and decided he was hers.

Not just as Shreyaanz’s younger brother.

But as her son. Before she became his wife, she chose to be a mother first. 

She had made him call her Maa.

And the first time he had done it—awkward, hesitant, almost uncertain—she had cried for nearly an hour.

Uzair, of course, had looked horrified.

Shreyaanz nearly laughed remembering it.

No wonder his younger brother would gladly set the world on fire for her.

And she?

She would do worse for him.

She had not only been a remarkable wife to him, but a mother to Uzair in every way that mattered.

He was deeply indebted to her—not only for what she had done for him, but for the way she had made him feel like he belonged.

No wonder his younger brother would walk through fire for her without hesitation.

She was rare—the kind of woman fate grants only once, if at all. And he never forgot how fortunate he was to call her his.

In a life filled with violence and distance, she had given him something he had never expected to find—home.

And after fifteen years, they were finally forced to have children of their own.

Uzair had been the one to push for it.

He had insisted—shamelessly, relentlessly—saying how badly he wanted little children running around the house, children just like them.

Children he could spoil without limits. Children Neelam could fuss over endlessly. 

And in the end, Shreyaanz had no choice but to oblige.

Though he would never admit it aloud, the thought of a family that full—of laughter, of chaos, of tiny footsteps echoing through the halls—had tempted him more than he cared to confess.

Though, their first son would always be Uzair. Their first son, long before fate decided to give them another.

Still… pregnancy had turned her into a far more dangerous force altogether.

Frankly, Shreyaanz feared her mood swings far more than he had ever feared bullets.

A gunshot, at least, gave you a warning.

Neelam did not.

One wrong word, one careless glance, one poorly timed comment—and suddenly, the Don of the underworld found himself standing trial in his own home.

And somehow, no enemy had ever made him surrender faster.

Lately, both he and Uzair had been living on the edge of their seats—careful, cautious, and far too aware of Neelam’s moods.

In their world, danger usually came with bullets and blood. At home, it came with silence—and Neelam folding her arms.

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