Goa was a vibrant state; a place that was always so lively and with a good kind of loud.

But not as loud as the quiet that was heard inside the room while the mafia boss interrogated the man, breaking his fingers, one at a time.

For good measure, he squeezed each of his captive's hands until he could feel small bones crunching.

"Hurts now, doesn't it?" He spoke, harshly gripping the hair of the guy who had been kneeling in front of him, before smashing his head to the mahogany table in his office.

It was not hard enough to kill him, but with enough force to knock his lights out, rendering him senseless.

As his men proceeded to drag the passed out figure to the basement for further torturing, he turned towards the remaining two, wiping his blood stained hands on his black blazer.

"Do you watch movies?" The mafia boss asked calmly, yet his eyes filled with darkness were in contrast to his tone. "In every torturing flick, the guy tells he didn't do anything wrong until he has been dragged to hell and back."

He took a step towards the men who were standing there, staring down at the now-bloodied carpet.

There was no light in his eyes. Nothing human that could indicate he held a bit of emotion in his heart. All that's left now was a predator that was circling its prey, calm and calculative.

"So let's make this easy for all of us and you'll simply tell me whom you've been an informant to, and maybe I'll show you some mercy."

His brown orbs stared down at the men who were visibly shaking a bit before nodding their heads.

"Simple as that," he smiled and at the same time, the door to his office swung open, revealing a slightly shorter man in a dark blue blazer, both of his ears pierced.

He held a phone in his hand, gesturing at it and the brown eyed man grabbed his gun from the table, placing it back in his holster as he walked out.

"Kill them," he said to one of his guards once he was outside. This was the highest form of mercy he could show to someone who had dared to turn traitor to him.

"You could've just let me deal with it," the one with piercings said, the phone still in his hand.

"Yeah, but tell me what's more important than prolonging their torture," the taller man replied dryly.

"Your sister called for you to pick her up," he said as they walked to the front door. "-saying, and I quote, Ishan Kishan, tell my little brother to pick his sister up from the new café he didn't care enough to take her to, end quote. And she didn't even let me speak!"

Ishan exclaimed at the end, huffing a little as his friend and colleague of such a long time just smiled a little at his sister's antics.

"Don't be so pouty, Ishu. I'll bring you ice cream," he patted the former's shoulder before getting into his black Maserati that was already waiting for him the second he stepped out of the door.

The driver started the engine as he got in the back, swiftly pulling out of the driveway and outside the front gates.

Ishan walked back inside, mumbling for the younger one to better not forget the ice cream.

Of course, more than a couple of other black cars followed and drove in front of him too.

It wasn't a matter of safety. But it exhibited the power he held. The power of his empire, its enormous wealth, and the fear people had of him.

Though none of it was needed. One look from his eyes was all it took for people to cower away. Just a glare from him is all it takes to bring anyone down to their knees. Why?

Because he is Shubman Gill.