47. THE SECOND LETTER
THE SECOND LETTER
London, England
(A month before the wedding)
As head of Mawr Diamond Industries, Drasko finally made perhaps the most important decision of the past decade.
The cut-throat business didn’t bring its former satisfaction.
The South African diamond mining was growing, the competition cutting the Mawr trade at every corner.
And though Mawr Industries was still the biggest and most reputable diamond company in the world, Drasko didn’t need to prove anything to anyone. He had a better idea.
He would make a deal with the Wollendorf brothers, he decided. An alliance with the second-largest diamond mining company would make both stronger than ever before.
Uriah’s pride had kept him from seeing more opportunities. Drasko’s pride shifted his attention to more exciting areas—science and technology.
And so on a warm April day, only two months after the first letter, Franz and Heinrich Wollendorf, Drasko, and a dozen associates, sat at an outside restaurant on Willingberg Street.
The day was sunny. Their guards stood smoking at a distance. The waiters were gracious. And the wine to celebrate such an occasion was aged two hundred years.
Too bitter , thought Drasko, wondering why this decision only years ago had brought the death of Alfred Mawr and now was the matter of a stroke of a pen.
Well, not that simple.
This was only the initial discussion of the terms, one Drasko had purposefully arranged in a public place.
There would be many such meetings in the next several months, with lawyers and accountants, international dealers, board members, and stenographers.
The Wollendorfs and Drasko knew the importance of what was about to transpire.
The brothers were beset with poorly concealed gloating, for this had been a small victory but a victory, nevertheless.
Drasko simply couldn’t wait to let some of his responsibilities go away, giving him more time to tunnel his interest elsewhere.
And he couldn’t stand looking at Franz Wollendorf. Something about the man reminded him of Uriah in his thirties, the similarity making him wish he was done with this deal already.
“We are very pleased with the decision you have made,” Franz Wollendorf said, stroking the diamond ring on his middle finger.
He was the oldest brother and the main negotiator, his brother Heinrich much like Alfred Mawr had once been. A long time ago .
“I am pleased to think that the merger will make us indestructible in the international trade,” the older Wollendorf continued, no doubt already contemplating how to eventually have Mawr Diamond Industries to himself.
Drasko didn’t care much.
There was something odd about this sunny day. The street was empty, void of carriages or pedestrians. Eerily quiet, too.
The associates on both sides were exchanging whispers as they studied the business proposal documents.
Drasko narrowed his eyes on the figures in the distance—men smoked at every corner, their heads low, bowler hats concealing their eyes. Not his men, he knew that much.
He turned around searching the opposite side of the street—more men stood at the far end.
Drasko tensed with unease. The Wollendorfs didn’t have an interest in intimidation tactics, not when they were getting what they’d wanted for years, or at least part of it.
At that precise moment, the clock on the Tower of London struck three somewhere in the distance, and the waiter approached with a tray.
“This was brought for you, sir,” he said, lowering the tray that contained a letter to Drasko.
“Brought by whom?” Drasko inquired, a chill running through him as he stared at the cream letter, the brown seal, and a diamond in its center. Letter number two.
“No one among the staff knows exactly who brought it in.”
Drasko’s jaw clenched as he picked up the letter and tore the seal open.
You are not to sell Mawr Diamond Industries. Nor are you to make any sort of deal with the Wollendorf Consortium.
The two lines made him suck his teeth in bitterness.
Franz Wollendorf fixed his tie as he flicked his eyes at the letter. “Is everything all right, Mr. Mawr?”
Drasko remained calm, slowly picked up his wine glass, and took a sip. Too bitter.
Suddenly, he was too hot, his expensive suit of the thinnest wool too bulky, his shirt sticking to his skin.
Rakshasa hissed behind him, bringing him to full alert.
He was being played again. Uriah, even dead, still held the reins. This time, he was about to make Drasko look like a whimsical man.
That shall not do.
This very second, Drasko decided to go against the grain. How far did Uriah’s dead hands reach, after all?
“Everything is all right, gentlemen,” Drasko said, crumbling the letter and tossing it onto the table. “Let us continue.”
Heinrich and Franz smiled so insincerely that Drasko felt the urge to rip those smiles off their faces.
The chatter resumed.
The documents were exchanged.
Suddenly, there came a strange shift in the air, not a breeze but something more profound, as if the air was being pushed by a giant wall.
The ground trembled.
Drasko, used to living in the country, not yet deafened by the noise of the city and attuned to such changes, set his wine glass down. His eyes darted around, the streets suddenly clear of anyone, even the smoking men, only the Mawr and Wollendorfs’ guards standing around.
The shaking of the ground grew heavier. And though no one yet noticed, the wine glass in front of Drasko started trembling on the table surface, inching away from him. The flowers in the vases shivered. The heavy sound of something being trampled grew louder.
“Sir?” someone inquired worriedly as the rumbling from the distance turned into roaring with astonishing speed.
“Sir!”
“Mister Mawr!”
“Franz!”
“Heinrich!”
“Watch out!”
There were no hills in London, but the horse tram appeared out of nowhere, at full speed, heading directly at them.
“Move!” the shouts came, and Drasko pushed off the table, diving away, right as the horses and the tram they carried crashed with full force into their sitting area.
Tables and chairs burst out of the way, much like people.
Drasko was slammed onto the ground, Tripp on top of him, covering him.
The carriage slammed into the front of the restaurant, sending the glass from the window in sparkling fireworks.
When the crashing sounds stilled, Drasko slowly rose from the ground and shook the shards off his suit. His eyes searched for his partners, who were rising from the ground in shock.
People, suddenly many of them, ran toward the restaurant. A crowd was already gathering where there had been no one just a minute ago.
The tram sat mangled, sideways, halfway into the shop. Both horses lay on the ground, legs broken, bones pushing ghastly at their skin from within. Blood painted the ground red. But the driver was nowhere in sight.
Drasko glared around.
The crowd was gaping, growing by the second, and behind the people stood a man, smoking, a bowler hat low over his forehead, his eyes unmistakably on Drasko.
Another man stood a distance away.
Two more stood across the street.
Uriah’s men. Drasko gritted his teeth. Very well, warning received.
He knew that the decision he had just made would make the Wollendorfs his enemies. But he’d learned to respect his enemies and their success. The more powerful the enemies were, the greater the sign it was that they chose you for your power, too.
A bitter smirk formed on Drasko’s lips as he took his hat from one of his men and put it on.
“Gentlemen,” Drasko said coldly, “I am not a superstitious man, but I am afraid we have to postpone our deal.”
“Wait… What?” Franz grimaced. “This is uncalled for!”
But Drasko was already walking away.
Rakshasa burned on his back with the too-quickly-forgotten hate that was coming back, growling at Franz Wollendorf’s words behind him, “You shall regret it, you gypsy.”