Page 14 of Stabby Little

A fatal lesson.

Cadbury guides me down the hallway and stops in front of Michael's study door. He raises his left hand to knock. "Mr. Barrett is here to see you."

"Send him in."

Michael's back is turned to me when I enter. He faces his gardens, focusing on the Elysian paradise he crafted out of the war spoils of his enemies.

My eyes rake over the tall wooden bookshelves, the Japanese wallpaper, the turn-of-the-century desk with a pitch-black paperweight keeping the blood-red letter opener company, the heavy Venetian blinds, and the area rug concealing the oak flooring.

The coffered ceilings dotted with pinprick miniatures of classical scenes give the illusion of spaciousness while boasting of ostentatious wealth.

I hear the grandfather clock ticking in the corner, the sound of Michael's breathing, the shuffle of Cadbury's feet on the carpet.

The smell of polished leather and lacquered wood mix in my nose like a paint that conceals something deadly.

Like a fucking body.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

“Sit.” Michael gestures to the leather chair in front of me. “Take a cigar.”

I sit down. “No, thank you.”

Michael picks up a glass of scotch and brings it to his lips. He appears to mull something before turning to me.

“You fucked up.”

Anytime Michael chastises you is a potential life-ending event. He doesn't tolerate incompetence.

“I don't know what you mean.”

Michael sits down in the seat across from me. “I told you to teach Bolverkr a lesson.”

“I did.”

“You killed him.” A vein bulges in Michael's forehead. “I didn't ask you to do that.”

I furrow my brow. “He lied about having a sister undergoing cancer treatments. I did what you told me to.”

Michael sets his glass on his mahogany desk. “A lesson doesn't involve killing. Bolverkr is one of my top hitmen. He was disloyal but I could've retrained him.”

“I didn't know. I would've beaten him up if you'd told me. Your instructions weren't clear.”

“They were clear enough.” Michael's voice deepens. “You took out one of my top hitmen.”

I raise my hands in self-defense. “He was a malefactor. He manipulated you and stole your product. His story about his sister didn't add up. Jagger and I did what we thought you said.”

Michael pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Come here.”

When I walk to his side, he flips open his encrypted files application and selects a picture.

It's the photo he sent Jagger after we finished our business in the warehouse.

Gordon sits on a sofa, blood trickling down his chest.

His throat is slit and there are puncture wounds in his flesh.

In place of his right hand, there rests a bloody stump.

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