Page 13 of Stabby Little

His eyes flit to a barge rolling down the Hudson. My gut tells me he's lying.

But I don't press it. Roy's a valuable contact and I don't want to piss him off.

“Thank you.” I slide the business card in my back pocket. “I'll head there next Saturday.”

Roy and I traverse the path up the bank. He wishes me farewell and starts to walk off.

Just before he leaves, I tap his shoulder. “One more question.”

Roy glances at his phone. “Make it quick. I don't have time for this shit.”

“Do you know where I can get more money?” I crack my neck. “I lost my job last week.”

The look that flashes across his face tells me he doesn't believe me. I don't give a fuck. I need this information more than I need him to believe my lies.

I can't work a regular job because I don't have a government ID. The Diavolos didn't get me an updated one because I was supposed to be dead.

“Tell me what kind of work you need.”

“Anything. Sex work. Stripping. Drug running.”

Roy leans toward me. “There's a club called the Little Bunny Club on the Upper East Side looking for male escorts. They're a rich club for hoity-toity elites into age play and shit like that. Call them. They might help.”

“Thank you.” I shake Roy's hand.

Roy drives his thumb into my palm. “If anything happens to you, don't involve me. My handlers will put you in the grave.”

4

GRANT

Wednesday, May 6th

Michael's mansionrises from my boss's cobblestone driveway. Iron gates surround the property, locking it away from the outside world. An oak tree towers over the ivy-coated brick walls, shielding the picture windows from potential drone surveillance. Rose petals flutter down from bushes arranged around a carved statue of Mars, the Roman god of war.

I exit my BMW and step onto the driveway. I glance at the gardens to my left.

Blue hydrangeas, beds of orchids, and carefully manicured hedges stretch as far as the eye can see. Polished stone encircles a koi pond that ripples beside a cluster of ancient oak trees, reflecting the sun's rays. A miniature waterfall trounced by wind-worn driftwood cascades into a bed of wildflowers, creating a rainbow out of thin air. To my left, a plot of land with a fresh gravestone next to a handful of lichen-covered ones sits alone. The engraving reads:Seth.

When Michael texted me, I came right away.

You don't fuck around when he gives you a command.

I walk to the front door. My fingers have barely grasped the brass doorknocker when the thirteen-foot mahogany door opens.

Michael's butler, Cadbury, greets me. "Come in."

I follow Cadbury into the mansion—though that's not the best way to put it. Michael's chief residence is a colossal estate.

Stately walls surround me as the open entryway gives way to the foyer. Crown moldings lend the already overstated luxury of the space the allure of a Tsar's palace. Curving staircases banqueted in crimson carpet vanish into upper stories. A sunken fireplace trimmed with cedar lies underneath a colossal mantle, adorned with vases.

And lastly, a pair of buck antlers mounted over the back garden's entrance, the same garden I doubt Michael has fucking stepped into once this past year, tower over the vicinity—as if intimidating me into leaving.

I'm not leaving.

I want to know why the fuck Michael called me here when I did his bidding.

I performed my duties and taught Bolverkr a lesson.

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