He woke up around the same time his father left for office.His name is irrelevant for the story and hence shall not be mentioned.He then proceeded to go about his usual morning activities which included yoga,meditation and power running.He had a good body and he secretly liked to admire it,but today everything was irrelevant.Anybody who met him was instantly charmed by his well bred manners and eloquence of speech.One could say that we was born with a silver spoon,his wit and charisma were despotically alluring.His deep black eyes twinkled with a cold fiery look of hazy indifference.Loved and revered,he had everything.
He opened the door of his gleaming white Skoda Superb,gifted to him nine days ago on his birthday.The engine gave a grunt of captivated power as he pulled it out of driveway and mulled into the chaos of Delhi.He reached his father's office in a about a little more than an hour.He went inside and gazed at the gleaming Italian marble,the dark mahogany wood and the precise yet firm walk of his associates.Mrs Irani,his secretary of twelve years ushered him in his father's office.
"What is it?",his father asked,a bit irritably.He smiled.His hand slithered to the soft fabric of his custom made Belgian trousers and he took out a blunt,exquisite silver knife and with raw force pushed it deep in his father's neck.
A moment passed.
Blood,dark red blood gushed out.With a resounding thud his father's head fell on the desk.He sat down and waited.Bored he took out his phone and fiddled around.Then he reached over and pressed the intercom.'Yes Sir?",came Mrs Irani's voice.'One coffee,please',he replied.He waited.
Mrs Irani always came inside and prepared coffee from a modern,italian coffee maker tucked away in the corner of the opulent office.She had started screaming hysterically before the door had closed.