Page 88 of Mob Saint

“Thomson, I may have the red hair, but I’m the Big Bad Wolf. You’re about to find out how Little Red Riding Hood felt right before she got gobbled up. Back up.”

“Make me.”

“You don’t want to do that. Come on. We have paperwork.” Ron tries to rescue the kid, but it’s way too late.

Sam has no success either. “Tommy, come on. You have other stuff to do.”

“Tommy Thompson?” I sneer at him. “Or is Tommy your nickname because you still have your training wheels on?”

“You don’t scare me, O’Rourke.”

Now I grin. I watch him flinch. It’s not the grin I give my family when we’re having fun. It’s not the grin I give Tiera when she makes me happy. It’s the one I give men right before I kill them.

“I will.”

The douche finally gets the message and takes a step back. I take a step forward. I know people have stopped what they’re doing to watch. I still whisper.

“Are you running away from the Big Bad Wolf? Does Little Red Riding Hood want his TO to keep me from tearing him apart? I know your name now.”

“You—you—can’t do anything to me.”

Now I laugh. There’s no mirth in it, and at least a dozen cops know what it means. I might not kill him, but I’ll own him.

“Consider this the one and only strike you get in this game. I am not in the mood to play ball. I’m supposed to be with my family right now. Your petty attempt to prove your dick’s as big as everyone else’s wasn’t well-timed. I’d get out of my face while you still have one anyone recognizes.”

I won’t mention Tiera because it would only add to the danger.

I straighten to my full height—not that I slouch—and I lift my chin and press out my chest until my shoulder blades meet. I’m twice his size, and he’s just realized it. You can’t miss I’m bigger than him, but he looks scrawny now.

“You better not have missed leg day because you need to run.” I cross my arms. I get my suits tailored to allow me to move in them. I need the extra fabric, so I can cross my arms or put them on my waist without ripping them. They still strain over my biceps and back.

He gulps and nods. He barely twists in time for me not to ram into him when I move forward. I look down at him since I’m a good four inches taller as our shoulders brush. He can’t meet my gaze.

“Good job, kiddo. You learn fast.”

Ron nudges Thompson away, and I follow Sam to the cells. Mitchell’s relief is obvious to me, even if most people wouldn’t recognize it. He’s close to my dad’s age and can sell milk to a cow. I don’t blame him for getting busted. I’m certain the Kutsenkos were looking for any of our scalpers at the show. I wonder if Laura and Christina know that while they and their children were enjoying a kids’ musical show, their husbands—Maks and Bogdan—were using their attendance as an excuse to pursue one of our guys.

Mitchell happened to be the unlucky bastard working that event. I don’t know if he even spotted the Kutsenkos. One of the bratva guards might have recognized Mitchell and told Maks and Bogdan. However it happened, I need to get Mitchell out, get home to Tiera, and fill Dillan in, so he can plan our retribution.

“Shay, I’m fucking glad to see you. That little shit thinks his balls have dropped and gave me this.”

Mitchell points to a livid bruise on his ribs when he pulls up his shirt. It reminds me of the bruise Tiera got during the game. I don’t have any arnica for Mitchell. Oh, well. It looks like a billy club did the damage. I pull out my phone and snap pics. Mitchell knows what to do, so he turns in each direction. He will have conveniently taken photos earlier today with a time stamp of some sort.

If this goes to trial, we’ll have evidence of unnecessary roughness. If it doesn’t go to trial, we’ll have a sound argument for the precinct captain to keep his fucking mouth shut when we take care of Tommy boy. We make sure all our scalpers and fencers take pics before they go out in case we need them to compare later. Whether it’s selling tickets illegally or selling knock-off or stolen goods, our guys are pros. These are guys who’ve been trained to do it since they were in middle school and pickpocketing tourists. They’ve grown into their positions.

“Did he say anything useful?”

“Nah. Read me my rights after taking me to the ground as though I was resisting. Plenty of people saw, and some were even taking videos.”

“Were you by the street camera?”

“Of course.”

He won’t have turned his face toward it, and he’s wearing all black. I’m certain he had a ball cap on, too. But he will have been visible, so I’ll get the video from the city. We’ll say someone leaked it to us. And by that I mean, the city’s system to encrypt the security videos is shite compared to what my cousins can do. It’s like the city gives it away to us. Info given to us by someone on the inside is a leak. Once Mair gets it into the newspaper, the TV news will pick it up. Then people will come forward with their videos.

Thompson can go to his union rep, but it won’t do him any good where we’re concerned. Bobby McLaughlin is like my fifth cousin and knows which side his bread is buttered. He’s a great union rep for the cops—until we’re in the picture. Then he rolls over just like we pay him to. The NYPD won’t have any choice but to act since we’ll stir up the public outcry if they don’t. If we don’t feel they adequately punish him, then we’ll take care of it.

“Anything I need to know?”

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