Chapter 27: The Art of Deception
The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains of the Park Hyatt suite, illuminating the man standing before the full-length mirror. Arjun was meticulously shedding the skin of the predator to don the mask of the prey.
The rugged checkered shirt and denim jeans lay discarded on the bed. In their place, he wore a tailored navy-blue polo shirt that hugged his chest just right, paired with beige chinos and brown leather loafers. He strapped on a platinum watch—expensive, understated, the kind worn by men who signed checks, not death warrants.
Shiva stood near the door, looking uncomfortable in a tucked-in shirt, his massive arms straining against the fabric.
"This feels wrong, Arjun," Shiva muttered. "Walking into the lion's den without weapons? We are exposed."
"We have weapons, Shiva," Arjun said, spraying a hint of subtle, expensive cologne. "We just aren't showing them. Today, I am not a gangster. I am an art enthusiast."
He picked up a pair of rimless spectacles from the dresser. He didn't need them, but they softened the sharp edges of his eyes, hiding the cold, calculative look that usually resided there. He put them on and adjusted the frame. The transformation was terrifyingly effective. The dangerous ex-convict had vanished, replaced by a gentle, sophisticated intellectual.
"The target?" Arjun asked, checking his reflection one last time.
Mallesh stepped forward with a tablet. "Aisha. She is at the State Art Gallery in Madhapur. There is an exhibition on 'Modern Hyderabad'. She goes there every Wednesday to sketch."
"And Satya's men?"
"They are patrolling the area. But they won't be looking for a man in loafers."
"Good," Arjun smiled, but it was the polite, practiced smile of a salesman. "Let's go make a friend."
The State Art Gallery was a sanctuary of silence, far removed from the chaotic streets Arjun usually operated in. The air conditioning hummed softly, and the room was filled with the hushed whispers of the city's elite.
Arjun walked in alone, signaling Shiva to wait in the lobby, out of sight. He moved slowly through the exhibits, pausing occasionally to pretend to admire a sculpture or a canvas. But his focus wasn't on the art; it was on the room.
He found her near the back.
Aisha stood in front of a large, abstract painting of the Charminar. She was wearing a simple white kurta with delicate blue embroidery, her hair tied back in a messy bun that held a pencil. She was frowning at her own sketchbook, chewing the end of another pencil in concentration.
She looked innocent. She looked like someone who had never seen the inside of a prison or the barrel of a gun.
Arjun took a deep breath, suppressing the darkness inside him. He channeled the persona of the innocent rich man he had spent the morning constructing.
He walked up to stand beside her, looking at the painting she was studying.
"The artist got the perspective wrong," Arjun said softly.
Aisha jumped slightly, startled. She turned to look at him. She saw a handsome, well-dressed man with kind eyes behind rimless glasses. He didn't look threatening. He looked refined.
"Excuse me?" she asked.
"The Charminar," Arjun pointed at the canvas with a polite gesture. "The artist painted it from the ground up to make it look imposing, but the shadows suggest it's noon. It makes the monument look heavy, not majestic."
He glanced down at her sketch. "Yours is better. You captured the lightness of the arches."
Aisha blushed slightly, closing her book instinctively. "I... I'm just an architecture student. I don't know much about art."
"I don't know much either," Arjun lied smoothly. "I just know what looks good. I'm Arjun."
He extended his hand.
Aisha hesitated for a split second—the ingrained instinct of a policeman's daughter kicking in. But Arjun's smile was disarming. It was open, warm, and completely fabricated.
"Aisha," she said, shaking his hand. His grip was firm but gentle.
"Nice to meet you, Aisha. Are you an artist?"
"No, just a student. My father thinks art is a waste of time," she rolled her eyes slightly, a gesture of youthful rebellion. "He says buildings should be functional, not pretty."
"Fathers are practical creatures," Arjun chuckled softly. "I just moved back from New York. I'm finding Hyderabad... overwhelming. It's changed a lot in eight years."
"You lived in New York?" Her eyes lit up.
"Yes. I came back to start a construction company, Mahaa Enterprises," he dropped the name casually, planting the seed. "But honestly, I spend most of my time lost in traffic or trying to find a decent cup of coffee."
Aisha laughed. It was a genuine, bubbling sound that echoed in the quiet gallery. "Well, welcome back to the chaos, Arjun."
"Thank you. Listen," Arjun checked his watch, feigning shyness. "This might be forward, but the coffee in this gallery is terrible. I saw a nice cafe across the street. Would you mind joining me? I barely know anyone in this city, and I could use a local's perspective on..." he gestured to the room, "...art."
Aisha looked at him. He was polite, well-dressed, and seemed genuinely lonely.
"Okay," she smiled. "But just for twenty minutes. My driver gets paranoid if I disappear for too long."
"Twenty minutes is all I ask."
They sat by the window in the cafe across the street. Arjun ordered a cappuccino; she ordered a cold coffee.
He played the part perfectly. He told her stories about Central Park which were true, about struggling to set up his office which was half-true, and about missing the simple life which was a complete lie. He listened intently as she talked about her architecture projects, her dreams of designing eco-friendly homes, and her strict father who barely let her breathe.
"He sounds protective," Arjun said, sipping his foam.
"Over-protective," Aisha sighed, stirring her drink. "He is the DGP. He thinks everyone is a criminal out to get me. I can't even go to a movie without two constables tailing me. It's suffocating."
"That must be tough," Arjun said sympathetically. "But maybe he knows something you don't. The world can be a dangerous place."
"Maybe," she looked at him, her eyes searching his face. "But then you meet strangers in art galleries who turn out to be nice. So the world isn't all bad."
Arjun felt a strange stillness settle over him. She was the key to his empire, the leverage he needed to destroy her father's integrity. But she was also disarmingly real.
"I'm glad I met you, Aisha," Arjun said, his voice gentle. "Hyderabad feels a little less lonely now."
She smiled, looking down at her coffee cup. "I should go. My driver is probably panicking."
"Of course."
Arjun signaled for the check and insisted on paying with a platinum card. They walked out of the cafe together into the bright afternoon sun.
"Can I drop you?" Arjun asked.
"No, my car is just there," she pointed to a white Innova where a driver was waiting nervously.
"Then... maybe I'll see you again?" Arjun asked, putting his hands in his pockets, looking like a hopeful boy.
"Maybe," Aisha grinned. "I'm here every Wednesday."
She walked to her car, waved once, and got in. Arjun stood on the pavement, waving back with a gentle smile until her car turned the corner and disappeared into the traffic.
The moment the white Innova vanished, the smile dropped from Arjun's face.
His posture changed. His shoulders squared. The innocent rich man evaporated, and the cold, calculative look returned to his eyes.
He turned to walk toward the alleyway where his car was parked. Shiva stepped out of the shadows, looking tense.
"We have a tail," Shiva whispered urgently. "Three guys. Satya's scouts. They saw you talking to her."
"Where are they?"
"In the alley. Behind your car."
Arjun adjusted his rimless glasses. He cracked his neck. "Mallesh, bring the car around to the front. Shiva, come with me."
Arjun walked into the alley. It was a dead end behind the cafe, filled with dumpsters and shadows. Three men in leather jackets were standing near his Mercedes, one of them running a key along the paintwork. They looked up when they saw Arjun.
"Hey, hero," one of them sneered, flicking a cigarette butt at Arjun's feet. "Nice watch. Hand it over."
They didn't know who he was. They just saw a soft target in a polo shirt.
Arjun sighed. He calmly unclasped his expensive platinum watch and placed it carefully in his pocket. He took off the rimless glasses and handed them to Shiva.
"Hold these," Arjun said.
"Don't ruin the shirt," Shiva warned.
The three goons laughed, pulling out knives. "Look at him, he thinks he's a fighter."
Arjun walked forward. The movement was fluid, devoid of fear.
The first goon lunged with the knife. Arjun didn't even raise his hands to block. He stepped inside the arc, grabbed the man's throat with one hand, and slammed him into the brick wall. The impact was sickening. The man choked, dropping the knife as he slid down the bricks.
The second goon swung. Arjun ducked, drove a fist into the man's liver, and swept his legs. The man hit the pavement hard, gasping for air.
The third goon froze. The realization hit him too late that this wasn't a soft NRI.
Arjun walked up to him. The goon tried to throw a desperate punch. Arjun caught the fist in his palm. He twisted the arm behind the man's back until the shoulder joint popped with a loud snap.
The man screamed.
Arjun kicked him in the chest, sending him flying into the garbage dumpster.
It had taken ten seconds.
Arjun stood amidst the groaning men. He smoothed out his polo shirt and checked his chinos. No dust. No blood.
Shiva handed him back the glasses.
"Did anyone see?" Arjun asked, putting the glasses back on.
"No. Clean."
"Good."
Arjun took his watch out of his pocket and strapped it back on his wrist.
"Leave them here," Arjun said, stepping over the man on the ground. "Let them tell Satya that the 'Rich Guy' hits hard."
He walked out of the alley, back onto the main street, blending perfectly into the crowd of corporate executives. He felt a rush, not from the violence, but from the deception. He had walked right up to the DGP's daughter, charmed her, and she had no idea she had just had coffee with the city's new nightmare.
Step one was complete. Now, it was time to buy a movie.