Novels by Victoy Richman

The Golden Contraband and the Serpent’s Nest.The den of Mantu Singh was not a shadowy warehouse or a dank basement. It was a penthouse suite thirty-six floors above the smog-choked, ceaseless sprawl of Mumbai, a palace of glass, polished marble, and imported silence. The only concession to his profession was the omnipresent, heavy-gauge steel door and the way the light filtered through the tinted windows, giving the room a perpetual, deep-sea-amber glow.Mantu Singh was a man built on patience and the cold, unyielding logic of cash flow. His empire wasn't a riot of violence; it was a system, a well-oiled machine of corruption that ran on the simple truth of human venality. He had been a low-level cleaner at an airport, seeing the endless parade of wealth slip past customs, seeing the tired, underpaid ground staff. He had simply systematised the inevitable: the compromise of good me

A Sudden, Systemic Halt in the Kingmaker’s Court.The heat in Basti was a constant, malevolent presence, but on the morning the entire operation ground to a stop, the air felt strangely calm, charged with the nervous static of an impending storm. Karen, fresh from a series of exhausting, intimate 'intelligence-gathering' sessions with Rahul, was in a makeshift site office with Roberts and Lara, reviewing the preliminary land surveys of the Nagpur ‘satellite’ parcels. She was buoyant, energised by her double game, feeling completely in control of her treacherous strategy.“The trusts are established, Karen,” Roberts murmured, his voice low and professional, hiding his own treasonous alliance with Vinod and Rubi. “Lara’s team has the initial funds routed via Singapore. We are ready to move on the periphery the minute the official announcement lands.”Karen smiled, a tight, predatory curve of her lips. “Excellent. While the Kingmaker’s court is bus

The Kingmaker's Gold and the Accountant's Temptation.Delhi’s air was not the heavy, honest sweat of Basti’s physical labour, but a refined, air-conditioned lethargy. It clung to the silk of the curtains and deepened the colour of the Persian rug in Rachna’s opulent, fiercely private suite. Here, two hundred miles from the dust and the dismantling of the Boeing 747, the true accounting of power was taking place.Rachna, the strategist, the financier, the mind that moved the shell companies like chess pieces, stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the glittering, indifferent expanse of the city. She was dressed in an emerald-green slip that clung to her with the same exacting precision she applied to her balance sheets—a display of effortless, controlled power. Her face, usually a mask of whip-crack efficiency, held a flicker of something close to impatience. She was waiting for her weapon to report.Rahul

The Satellite Land and the Double Agent’s Kiss.The heat of Basti was a physical thing, a dry, suffocating blanket that pressed down on the corrugated tin roof of their temporary prefab dwelling. It was a utilitarian, air-conditioned box dropped onto the edge of the sprawling highway site, a stark contrast to the opulent Mumbai suites and Nagpur guest houses that housed their counterparts. Karen, however, found a perverse utility in the sparseness. It stripped away the pretence, leaving only raw ambition, a massive, segmented 747 carcass outside, and the magnetic, complicated man beside her.Rahul was a creature of comfort and silk, yet here he was, stripped down to a pair of drawstring pyjama bottoms, his skin slick with sweat that the weak AC unit fought a losing battle against. His presence, warm

The Architect of Power: A Tale of Ambition, Intrigue, and the Art of Political Dynasty.In Basti, the relentless heat of the Indian plains baked the massive, segmented hulk of the Boeing 747. The clang of metal and the low thrum of machinery were the soundtrack to the unmaking of an aeroplane and the building of a political dynasty. Down on the highway site, Karen, the CEO of Bong, was fixated on the precision of the deconstruction, arguing with her local contractors about the inadequate crane capacity for the Rolls-Royce engines. Her focus was purely technological—the preservation of the asset, the structural integrity of the wing segments. She believed her company's intellectual property and the flawless execution of this complex salvage operation were their ultimate leverage. Yet, as the sun climbed higher, the dust of the Indian earth seemed

A High-Stakes Operation Amidst the Remnants of a Retired 747.The early morning air in Basti was thick and hot, smelling of dry earth, diesel, and something metallic—the faint, lingering scent of jet fuel from the colossal machine that now sat where a highway had been. The 747, a retired Queen of the Skies, was a monumental presence, an anachronism resting incongruously on a freshly cordoned-off stretch of asphalt. Its final, dramatic landing had been executed days earlier, a political spectacle orchestrated by Minister Savita and the showmanship of Vinod and Rubi. Now, the theatre was over, and the grinding, slow-motion engineering of deconstruction had begun.The site, chosen for its proximity to the new Basti development but lacking in heavy industrial infrastructure, was a lesson in slow-paced reality. There were no massive cranes, only a few local tractors, a small, weary-looking mobile gantry, and a small army of technicians, both Indian an

Maybe the storm was just a blessing, a sign of fate giving them a chance to work things out. Perhaps the universe finally agreed with her because she had never had a more evident sign. They had talked, and it had been a lot of talking. They considered all possibilities, positive and negative, and they decided what was best for them was to get back together despite all odds. She always saw many things, but when it came to herself, it was always unclear, just like her situation and the moment, but she vowed she would live her best life with those who mattered to her, no matter how short. The Yadav home knew she was safe, and she had sent a message informing them she was with Zayn and would be back once the storm was over, although that wasn't looking promising again. It was everything she wanted; for once, her thoughts and vision were clear. She saw peace and solitude, for her soul was at rest. Each time her mind diverted to Zayn Vendant, she saw a hint of darkness, sometimes blur. She

Everyone in town was shopping for the next three days and rushing home to avoid getting caught up in the storm predicted by the weather forecasters. It was expected to hit in four hours and last for three days. It was a big-time rush, but Zayn wasn't a part of it. He needed to get things cleared up with Isha. Myra was gone, and that was a good thing. He just needed to see her, and despite the advice from his closest friends, he couldn't wait for the storm out without her. He wasn't sure he would make it without her.He was informed that she was out when he got to the Yadav household. It was her day off, and she had gone out, as usual. Only some people knew where. He called her several times, and she didn't pick up. He was a confused man in Delhi.He drove back to the Yadav household and met with one of the helpers."You should go home; this storm will be here anytime." She said, picking different saree colours from the cloth line where they had been left to dry. She looked bored and ju

They caught her in the most vulnerable state. With the ninety-nine issues going on with Zayn, she didn’t expect another one on her desk, so as she realised she had been set up, she just gave up. There was no fight; she was wise enough to know that it was either the 78-carat crown or her life, and for such huge some, her attackers wouldn’t have to hold a conference to decide to kill her, so she just let them take everything that had meant the world to her.The memory stayed with her, and she remembered it as fresh as if it were happening now. She and her crew had been going to the Triumph Hall on East Lane for the Oscars ceremony. When asked to bring her crown, she knew it was a bad idea. Of course, she acknowledged that it was such a huge event that all eyes were on her. For it to be hosted in India, it would be a shame if she couldn’t witness it. In the same way, it would be disrespectful to her country for her to show up without her identity, the crown. Near home, she and Vivi sat b

It had been four days since her encounter with Myra, and Isha couldn't deny that she felt like the most stupid person on the planet. The funny part was she knew she had no right to be angry like the guy was in a relationship with someone else. Officially, he belonged to Myra, but then she couldn't get the picture of him being in bed with her. It disturbed her in ways she didn't expect.Her hurt was too much. It nearly crushed her, but she needed to keep moving, which she did. She stopped picking up his calls and just avoided him generally. She tried looking at the good side, like him not dying, which was good, right?As usual, the Yadavs had a get-together dinner, and it was something they frequently did, something to boost their political involvement and expand their territory. Today, she was to serve, and she tried as much as she could to keep calm when she saw Zayn seated among the VIPs. Of course, he had been invited; he was considered one of the most influential people in the coun

The plan was to go unnoticed and so she did just that. Myra was in joggers and a sports bra, with dark glasses to hide her identity. Her hair was tied in a small ponytail that bounced as she walked into the gym. She glanced around for a while and then saw Isha at the corner working the treadmill. She walked up to the receptionist and flashed a smile.“A month, please. What’s the cost?” she asked.“Rs 1000” the receptionist replied. “Name please.” She asked as she received cash from Myra and began filling out the registration form on the system.“Abitha Solan” she lied.Things had gone down with Zayn; she had recognized the name as soon as Zayn mentioned it, who could easily forget the girl at the engagement party? Zayn didn’t have an answer to the question she asked that night and he was a terrible liar so she immediately interpreted what was going on, and she wasn’t wrong. He had sat there all night while she went into the room and man had she cried, she was hurt and didn’t think she

Uptown Delhi was the most beautiful place in India, and as they held hands, taking photos, she could see all the possibilities she had always dreamed of coming to pass. They got to a serendipity restaurant called the unicorn sundae and were back in the streets, diverting into the little tracks leading to the lake.To both their surprise and satisfaction, the lake was empty. The water was a runoff of the downfall at the end of the city, and they knew it was safe. The government kept it clean.“Hold on!” Zayn shouted as he raced behind her, struggling to get through the shrubs that lay around.Isha giggled. “Keep up, CEO.” She yelled in return. As she got to the edge of the stream, she took off her oversized polo shirt, which was his actually, and the shorts she wore joined it. She did a twirl in her optional cloth state just before his arrival.He joined her, pulling away from his dress and walking to meet her. His hands circled her waist, and he pushed her to himself. She felt him hard