Chapter 62
DRASKO
He should’ve known that there would be no grand fight, no unnecessary display of cruelty—no, Uriah had always done things smoothly.
So, Drasko was deep in his thoughts when his carriage got stopped at Pimbrone Street.
“A horse tram is stuck in the middle of the intersection,” Tripp said, peeking out the window.
Even when his carriage was directed into a smaller street, Drasko didn’t suspect anything.
“The other men are stuck behind,” Tripp said.
Only when his carriage was suddenly at a stop and Tripp pulled his gun out of the holster did Rakshasa stir.
A cold shudder crept over Drasko.
This is it.
Five horsemen surrounded their carriage. One stuck his head inside. A derby hat over his bushy brows, his eyes flashed at Tripp who stuck the barrel of his gun into the man’s face.
“Wrong move and I blow you into pieces,” Tripp ground out.
The man’s cold eyes shifted to Drasko. “If you value your wife’s safety, you will come with us, Mr. Mawr. Nothing funny. You are aware of the terms.”
Drasko put his hand on top of Tripp’s gun, lowering it. He had expected it to be different. More men? More blood? A shootout?
“He stays here.” The man nodded toward Tripp as Drasko stepped out of the carriage and buttoned up his jacket.
People walked down the street, carriages and bicycles passed by. Gray clouds weighed onto the buildings, threatening to break out into a summer downpour, just like back then, when it had all started months ago.
The musty air was suffocating. Blood pounded in Drasko’s ears. Yet, tense as an iron rod, he obeyed the commands with calculated calmness. He had always been aware of the terms . And now, no matter what happened, Grace’s safety was his priority. He had broken the rules, and he had to pay.
Five horsemen studied Drasko. No guns on display. No unnecessary violence. Yet, he knew that one wrong move, and they would do their worst.
Grace was supposed to be home and safe. And yet, he had a feeling she wasn’t.
“Where is my wife?” he inquired.
The man motioned toward the carriage parked behind the horsemen. “They are waiting for you. Please, come.”
This was the hierarchy of brutality. Thugs were violent.
Gangs dealt with a bang. Police thrived on absolute authority.
But the cruelest deals were bloodless. Those who turned fortunes around, often did so in silence, with a small nod, one word, or a snap of their fingers.
When the most powerful men were taken down, the grim fate usually snuck up on them.
But Drasko had known it would come down to this.
So, he stepped into an empty carriage and took a seat, willing himself not to fight, no matter what.
The man joined him. In a split second, a black bag was over Drasko’s head. The low words, “Do not make a sound,” followed.
The carriage was on the move. Drasko tried to listen to the sounds on the street, counted the time, and paid attention to the turns. But his heart was louder than his logic, beating to the dreadful thoughts of Grace in danger.
The ride was short. He was guided out of the carriage and into a building, with the heavy bang of a metal door closing behind him. The echoes of the machinery behind the walls were a clear sign they were in some warehouse, a factory, perhaps.
He was pushed at the same time as the bag was yanked off his head, the light in the room too blinding, making him squint.
He whipped around and found her .
“Grace,” he whispered but wanted to roar at the unfairness of it all.
She wasn’t supposed to be here.
The guards shall be fired , he thought angrily, then rushed toward her.
“Drasko,” she whispered, her pretty eyes full of panic, and ran into his arms.
He stroked her hair, calming her, as he studied their surroundings.
The room was large and empty, a warehouse of sorts—high stone ceiling, moldy walls, crates of all sizes lining the perimeter.
A dozen men stood around, none of them his, several guns casually pointing at him and Grace.
He couldn’t fight, not with Grace at his side. This was the deal. Fuck.
A heavy silence hung in the air, save for the echo of the footsteps as several men shifted and the hiss of the matches as they lit their cigarettes.
“It will be all right,” Drasko whispered to Grace, who clung to him. “Did they hurt you?”
“No.”
He glared around at the men who simply stood in a circle around them, watching them indifferently.
“What is happening?” Drasko demanded.
No one answered, but the door at the far end of the room opened.
Two men walked in. A cane clacked against the stone floor, the sound of it mixed with a heavy shuffle—the limp of the third man behind them.
Drasko squinted, trying to make out the person behind the guards, until they were only twenty feet away and parted, revealing what they’d hidden.
For years, Drasko had thought this could be possible.
For years, he had hoped it wasn’t.
Yet, the cold smirk under the gray mustache was unmistakable. So was the cunning sort of squint, under the gray brows, the deep wrinkles marring the pockmarked face so familiar but belonging to a ghost.
His beady eyes lingered on Drasko. The devil himself was back from the dead, right in front of him, with that familiar cold raspy voice, giving Drasko chills, when he said, “There you are, my boy. Look. At. You.”