CHAPTER 67 ROHAN
ROHAN
Midnight, London time, found Rohan standing at the top of a grand staircase overlooking a palace-worthy ballroom below.
Rohan knew the room, knew every inch and cranny of it: every gold molding on the walls; every thread in the lush sapphire rug that covered the white marble floor; every hidden camera; and above all, every table.
He knew the games.
He knew the dealers.
He knew the players.
Rohan was the Mercy. He always had been. The expanse of the atrium, the blood shed in the ring, the rooms where alliances were made and broken, the pleasures, the pain—Rohan was all of it. He was the house.
And the house always won.
Beside him at the top of the staircase, the Proprietor hit his cane against the ground three times. The room fell silent, players pausing mid-game, conversations hushed in an instant.
“My time as Proprietor has ended,” Alastair announced. With no small amount of dramatic flair, he lifted the platinum cane from the ground and spun it, holding its elaborately carved handle out to Rohan—a scepter in every way that mattered, to go with an invisible crown.
Mine. Rohan’s heart refused to pound. It beat steadily with no more and no less force than he was used to as he reached out to lock his hand around the cane. Alastair braced his weight against the banister, Proprietor no longer, and Rohan hit the cane against the ground three times.
Down below, at the gaming tables and throughout the grand ballroom, heads began to bow, one after another after another, the equivalent of the most powerful men in London taking a knee.
There was nothing soft or warm about this moment, no gently hummed song playing in Rohan’s mind, no water, dark or otherwise, lurking in the hollows of his mind. There was nothing but victory.
There was a price to be paid for power, always.
Rohan had paid it.
Long live the king.