Chapter 33
DRASKO
The Bankee Syndicate was the biggest mafia outfit in England, operating for almost a century.
Seventy years ago, they were but a street gang, the Bankee Boys, out of St. Giles.
Forty or so years ago, they had signed a truce with the Smethwicks, another local gang, then started running deals with the Sixty-Fivers from Manchester.
Liquor, tobacco, guns, illegal imports—it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that the Bankees ran South England.
And now they were in the diamond business.
It puzzled Drasko. He wanted to know what exactly they wanted. Yet, if needed, he was ready to fight.
He could use the razor hidden in the leather bracelet on his wrist—it had proven useful in the past. His arm pressed against his body, feeling for the concealed shoulder holster in his jacket. That was an option, too.
The question was—how far would the attackers go?
He narrowed his eyes at the approaching army.
No, they wouldn’t dare hurt him. His men, though—it was his duty to protect them from unnecessary bloodshed. The Bankees wouldn’t even blink at shooting all of them down, and now dozens of them pointed guns at Drasko’s guards.
Drasko squinted at the sun, then at one of the windows, another shotgun barrel pointing down at him.
He thought of Grace. If something were to happen to him today, it would be a pity, for he would’ve liked to bed his wife a dozen more times, a hundred, thousands. He could make her happy for a lifetime. At least, in bed.
The thought about her was, as always, untimely.
Drasko sucked his teeth and moved his shoulders, feeling the sweat-damp shirt sticking to his back, Rakshasa uneasy and wanting to fight.
Slowly stepping forward, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it, his eyes staring from under his bowler hat at the Bankees who as slowly stepped toward him, only twenty or so feet away.
The man in the center, a step ahead of the rest, the one in charge of the gang, was smaller and shorter than Drasko, as were most men. If it were only Drasko and him, the man wouldn’t stand a chance. Most men didn’t.
Drasko flicked the match away and took a long drag off his cigarette, then cocked his head and studied the enemy from the bottom up.
The man’s shoes were polished to a mirror shine.
The three-piece suit was expensive. So was his derby hat and a crisp white shirt like he was going for a fucking dinner.
A brooch shone in the center of the man’s silk necktie.
A gangster and a man of fashion—what do you know?
A cocky smirk under a black mustache. A scar tugging at the corner of his lips—the mark of a dangerous profession. He’d come to cause harm.
A pair of tar-dark eyes, fearless and mocking, cut into Drasko as he approached, and?—
Drasko stopped abruptly and huffed in surprise.
“Can’t be,” he muttered, his eyes searching the man’s face.
The man and those following him stopped, too, arrogant smirks on their faces.
This was a standoff. Drasko’s men behind him pointed their guns in all directions. But the enemies were everywhere—all corners of the street, the open windows of all floors, the roofs. An ambush, indeed.
But Drasko was still coming to terms with what he was seeing.
His heart gave out a violent thud.
Fuck…
He gave the leader a backward nod. “You lost, little man?”
The man didn’t move, but his eyes on Drasko flashed with anger.
“Boss,” Tripp whispered in a warning.
Drasko took a step forward and halted to a stop again.
What are the odds?
His lips curled in a smile. “You little gypsy scumbag,” he said louder.
“Boss?” Tripp warned louder.
The man in charge scowled. The Bankees glared at each other and cocked their guns, cursing under their breaths and ready to shoot.
So did Drasko’s. But he lifted his hand in a sign to hold back and took another step toward the leader.
“You forgot where your little gypsy arse came from?”
Confusion swept across the leader’s face.
“I’ll fuckin’ dust ‘em, boss,” the tall man next to the leader hissed and spat on the ground.
But the leader shut him up with the snap of his fingers, his eyes widening at Drasko.
“Ooooh…” The sound escaped him but was cut off abruptly as if from shock.
The burning cigarette forgotten between his fingers, Drasko only smiled, glancing again at the unmistakable birthmark right above the leader’s right brow. “You lost, little Zephie?”
The leader’s eyes bulged in shock as he took a step forward, then another, and cursed under his breath. He ducked his head, his eyes bulging in shock at Drasko.
A louder, “Aaaaaaaaa!” came from him. And then he reached Drasko in several wide strides and pulled him into a bear hug.
Confusion swept across the two lines of men. They exchanged bewildered glances and lowered their guns. The shotguns disappeared from the windows, replaced by the baffled faces of the Bankees.
If it weren’t for that birthmark, Drasko would’ve never recognized the only friend he had once had in London, a street thief just like him, lost for years.
“Fuck! Me!” The leader pulled away and held Drasko’s head between his palms, his wild eyes roaming his face and outfit. “Oh, my fucking lord and savior.”
Grinning, Drasko took in the sight of his friend. “Long time no see, Zeph,” he said softly.
At that moment, Zeph’s violent agenda didn’t matter.
Neither did a battalion of armed goons by his side.
What did were his eyes that, despite two decades, were so familiar, except for the tiny wrinkles around them.
His dark hair was now longer, with an addition of the sideburns and mustache, but the same shade of raven black.
Drasko couldn’t take his eyes off Zeph, examining every bit that was new atop the familiar sense of a strong bond, forged a long time ago.
“Bankees, huh?” Drasko nodded.
Zeph produced a mad laugh, then a surprised whistle, his gaze sweeping over Drasko’s clothes. “Drasko-fucking-Mawr? That was you all this time?”
“Well, Drasko is not a common name.” Drasko shrugged. “If your head wasn’t filled with chicken shit, you would’ve thought of it. I’ve been searching for you for fucking years.”
Drasko was brazen, too informal with a man who could still be his enemy despite once brotherly bond. Yet Drasko felt people, and years hadn’t erased the memories of poverty and hunger the two of them had fought together in the slums.
At last, they let go of each other. Their eyes locked, stayed locked for the longest time, yanking them back in time, to the dingy streets of the slums that had raised them. Smiles chased each other.
Until Zeph lifted his derby hat and, exhaling loudly through his puffed lips, ruffled his hair, wildly looking around. “Fuck… Fuck… I mean… Drasko fucking Mawr ?”
He whistled to someone and motioned with his head.
In an instant, the guns were tucked away. The tension dissipated with the wind.
“Zeph Brodia, huh?” Drasko lit another cigarette and offered one to Zeph. “You didn’t have a surname last time I saw you.”
They started walking, the street suddenly filling up with people and carriages, the shop shutters opening.
“Ha! Neither did you,” Zeph answered with amusement, puffing out smoke as the two of them studied each other with broad smiles, walking shoulder to shoulder. “But that was two decades ago. I am a man of stature, mate.”
“Was that the stature that punched you in the face?” Drasko nodded at Zeph’s scar that ran across the side of his mouth.
“Something like that. And you?” Zeph nodded to Drasko’s scars. “Got yours in a battle with diamond gods?”
They both laughed.
They walked along the now suddenly busy street, the crowds quite thick, the carriages and trams passing by like they’d been there all along.
“ The Mawr, huh? Fuck. Me…” Zeph studied Drasko in awe. “I had no clue. Didn’t even cross my mind. I mean… If I knew, I would have come asking for a job.”
Drasko snorted. “Looks like you can clear a street with your current one.”
“I can clear a city, if needed.” Zeph nodded proudly, his thumbs tucked under his belt, the cigarette bobbing in the corner of his mouth.
Their men followed, an army of them dispersed at a distance.
Drasko and Zeph stopped to buy crumpets from a street seller and kept on walking, eating as they did.
“At least you don’t have to steal these anymore,” Zeph said with a full mouth.
“Uh-huh.” Drasko studied him with humor. “So, you are a big man now?”
“Third in command.”
“That is something.” Drasko sized him up. “Little gypsy,” he said quieter and broke out in laughter when Zeph elbowed him in the ribs.
“You know,” Zeph said, giving the leftover of his pastry to a beggar and smiling to himself, “any other man saying such words would be hanging from a light pole by now, his guts hanging out, his family watching.”
Drasko finished his pastry and wiped his hands. “Good thing I used to give up my meals for you when you were seven because your gypsy arse was too little to steal like a true thief king.”
They broke out in laughter.
Perhaps it wasn’t their long-forgotten friendship that now was bonding them together, but what sort of friendship they’d had.
Both orphans and nicknamed “little gypsies.” Both homeless with no one to turn to for help.
They’d shared hundreds of freezing winter nights, sleeping by bonfires on the street.
Drasko had brought Zeph many meals when Zeph almost died from pneumonia.
They’d thieved together.
They’d laughed together.
They’d almost died together once.
One especially awful winter night—Drasko, eight, and Zeph, seven—they had made a pact that one day, they would rise above everyone else in this city.
It was a silly desperate pact as they trembled from cold in a filthy corner of some dingy alley, sharing an old rag and trying to survive until morning.
Many such hopeful pacts were created in the slums every day. Theirs had come true.