The Gulfstream G650 kissed the Mumbai tarmac just as the afternoon sun began its lazy descent, spilling honeyed light over the private terminal reserved for those who never queued, never waited, never had to explain themselves to the world. The aircraft’s engines whispered into silence, and moments later the door sighed open, releasing a gust of air conditioned opulence into the thick, humid embrace of the city. Ranjeet Rathore descended first, his six feet two inch frame wrapped in a deceptively simple white kurta pyjama that whispered of handloom cotton but cost more than most people’s annual salaries. His black sunglasses hid the predator’s calm in his eyes, and his beard was trimmed to perfection. Behind him, a steward handed down a single leather duffle bag, which Ranjeet ignored, an attendant materialised from nowhere to collect it. Then Ranjeet turned, extending his hand back toward the cabin door with the casual authority of a man who owned everything he touched.