Chapter 93 Uncle Thomas
With the same precision, he began to cut shapes out of the pale flesh.
First a circle.
He placed it into his mouth and chewed slowly, thoughtfully, as though tasting not fruit but information.
Damien waited, the seconds stretched.
When Percival swallowed, he asked, “Assignment?”
“Arms carriers.”
The word hung in the air like smoke and Percival stopped chewing.For the first time since answering the call, his movements froze.
Silence poured through the line, thick and unsettling. The faint background noise of the room on his end—the distant hum of air conditioning, the creak of wood—suddenly felt amplified.
Percival’s gaze slid once more to the heavy wooden doors of his office. Then, without another word, he lifted the phone and removed it from speaker, pressing it directly to his ear.
“I will get back to you in a week’s time,” he said quietly.
And then the line went dead. Damien stared at the darkened screen of his phone.
For several long seconds, he didn’t move.
Then he exhaled sharply and dragged a hand through his hair, fingers tangling in it, ruining the neatness he had fixed only minutes ago. His heart pounded in his chest, not from fear alone, but from the knowledge of what he had just set in motion.
Three.
Arms carriers.
A week’s time.
Damien leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, phone still in his hand. His reflection stared back at him from the black glass—hard eyes, clenched jaw, a man split between love and violence.
Slowly, he lifted the phone again.
The wallpaper lit up, showing Jasmine.
Smiling. Soft. Alive.
His tesoro.
His thumb brushed over her face on the screen, tracing her cheek as if he could feel her warmth through the glass. He had promised her, no more lies. After these favors were paid… he would never lie to her again, never go back to Dominic again, never drag her into this world of blood and shadows, never again.
Damien closed his eyes and whispered the vow like a prayer.“Never again.”
~
Jasmine stepped out of Damien’s car and stood on the sidewalk for a moment, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag.
The door closed softly behind her, and the sound of the city rushed back in—horns blaring in the distance, voices blending together, the rhythm of New York pulsing like a restless heart. She lifted her gaze to the familiar sign above the restaurant entrance.
Uncle Thomas’s restaurant.
For a second, she couldn’t move.
The glass windows reflected her image back at her: pale yellow dress flowing gently around her legs, hair pinned into a neat braided bun, the loose strands framing her face like they always had. She looked calm, composed.
She didn’t feel calm at all but when Damien pressed a kiss to her cheek her heart settled a bit.
Her heart thudded violently against her ribs as she pushed the door open.
A soft bell chimed overhead.
Warmth wrapped around her instantly—the scent of garlic, roasted peppers, fresh bread, and spices she had grown up with. The restaurant looked exactly the same. The dark wooden tables, the cream linen cloths, the golden glow of hanging lights, the framed photographs of Uncle Thomas shaking hands with politicians and chefs along the walls.
It felt like stepping into a memory.
Jasmine paused just inside the doorway and slowly turned her head, taking it all in.
Nothing had changed.
And somehow, that made her chest ache.
She smiled faintly when her eyes landed on the counter.
There he was.
Uncle Thomas stood behind it, speaking to one of the cooks, his back half-turned toward her. His posture was straight, proud, familiar. And then she noticed his hair.
The same red pepper and white salt mix she had always teased him about.
She smiled at that.
Still refusing to dye it, she thought fondly.
Before she could take another step, his voice cut through the hum of the restaurant.
“Jasmine?”
She froze.
Slowly, she turned toward him. Uncle Thomas’s eyes widened when he saw her properly. For a moment, he simply stared, as if unsure whether she was real.
Then he stepped out from behind the counter.
“Jasmine,” he said again, this time softer.
Her throat tightened. “Uncle Thomas.”
They met halfway across the restaurant. He pulled her into a hug immediately, strong arms wrapping around her shoulders, his hand pressing to the back of her head.
“You look well,” he murmured. “You look… grown.”
Jasmine laughed weakly. “You haven’t changed at all.”
He pulled back and studied her face, his sharp eyes scanning her from head to toe. “You’re thinner.”
“I eat,” she protested lightly.
“Not enough,” he said, then gestured toward a table near the back. “Come. Sit.”
They walked together and took their seats.
Almost instantly, a waiter appeared.
“Miss Jasmine,” he said with a polite smile. “Welcome back.”
Before she could respond, he placed a plate in front of her. Her breath caught.
It was her favorite dish—spiced rice with grilled chicken and caramelized vegetables—exactly the way Uncle Thomas used to make it for her when she was younger.
And beside it, a tall glass of banana smoothie.
She stared at it in disbelief. “You remembered.”
Uncle Thomas allowed himself a small smile. “Of course I remembered.”
The waiter lingered, waiting for instructions.
Uncle Thomas lifted a hand. “Bring nothing else. We need privacy.”
The waiter nodded and retreated.
Jasmine picked up her fork but didn’t eat. Her appetite had vanished.
They sat in silence for a moment, the restaurant noise muffled around them.
Then Uncle Thomas leaned forward slightly.
“You should not be here,” he said quietly.
Jasmine blinked. “What?”
“You should not have come back to New York alone,” he continued. “Not after everything.”
“I didn’t come alone,” she said. “I have Damien.”
His expression darkened. “Your employer.”
She hesitated. “He’s more than that.”
Uncle Thomas waved a hand dismissively. “He is a powerful man, yes. But power attracts danger. And now…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Now with father is being released... And I wasn't able to find him"
The world tilted.
Her breath caught. “What?”
“Within weeks,” he continued. “Early release for good behavior. His name came across my desk this morning.”
Her fingers went cold in his grasp.
“No… no, that’s not possible.”
“I wish it weren’t true.”
Fear crawled up her spine, wrapping around her heart like barbed wire. The memories she had buried—the shouting, the bruises, the nights she hid under her bed—rose violently to the surface.
Uncle Thomas squeezed her hand.