The mourning period stretched like a shroud over the penthouse, two weeks of hollow echoes and shadowed silences, the air thick with incense and unspoken accusations. Virat, the unbreakable mafia don, paced the hallways like a ghost in his own domain—his 42-year-old frame taut with unspent rage and longing, cock aching nightly at the memory of her body arched against him, her nails carving his skin in jealous fire. He'd given her space, respecting the fracture he'd unwittingly deepened, but grief had twisted her love into loathing, and his patience frayed like a noose tightening around his throat. The promise from Aisha's dying lips burned in his chest: Marry our Ishu. It wasn't a request; it was a chain, binding him to the woman who now saw him as poison.