All Mickey could see was Pops’ face, and he was overwhelmed with the memory of how cold his touch was. He could still remember how his hand had felt like paper, so thin and frail. He would never speak to him again or hear his laugh or even know if he’d made that damn lasagna the right way.
That was all gone now.
And it was because of this man right in front of him, this sneering coward.
Salvatore’s face was bloody, and his door had somehow been jammed shut in the wreck. He looked up with wide eyes when he saw Mickey coming at him, and he laughed. “Oh! Hey! It’s you! Look, I talked to Matteo. We’re gonna work something out with Boss Cold, I swear. Everything is fine, and I—”
Mickey shot him.
The customers at the pumps screamed and began to flee.
Mickey shot him again.
“Someone call the police!” someone shouted.
Mickey kept shooting until he was out, and he drew his other gun to empty that magazine as well. He didn’t even realize Roger was standing beside him until he felt his hand on his shoulder.
“Let’s go,” Roger urged. “I think he’s dead.”
Mickey couldn’t look away from the mess, and he wondered why he didn’t feel any better. The gnawing hollow spot in his chest hadn’t left him. He’d thought killing Salvatore would bring him some sense of peace or closure, but he still felt empty.
Maybe because Pops was still dead.
“Mickey! Now!” Roger pulled on his arm.
Snapping out of the daze, Mickey hurried back to the car. Once Roger had joined him, he quickly drove off and tried to put as much distance between them and the wreck as possible.
It had been a foolish risk, but Salvatore was dead. Pops’ murder had been avenged.
“Call Cold. Tell him what happened.” Mickey took a few extra turns to take the long way around back into the city. He’d committed a tiny bit of murder in front of a lot of witnesses and very much wanted to avoid the cops.
Cold was probably not going to be happy with him either way, but getting arrested would probably upset him more.
“On it.” Roger frowned, gesturing to his phone. “He’s not answering. Tried both numbers.”
“Jules?” Mickey’s stomach turned.
“Nothing.”
“Jerry?”
“Hang on! I’m trying him too.” Roger scowled. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“Nothing?”
“No, I just enjoy randomly cussing.”
Mickey glared.
“Fuck no, there’s nothing. None of them are answering. Jerry’s goes straight to voicemail. What the fuck do we do?”
“We stick to the plan,” Mickey said firmly. “We’ve cleaned house, now we head back to the safe house until the heat dies down.”
“Yeah, okay.” Roger fidgeted. “I’m glad you killed him. Salvatore, I mean. Wish I’d had time to spit on him.”
“I’m sure he’ll be buried eventually.”
“Aw, you always know just what to say.” Roger tentatively reached over to rest his hand on Mickey’s knee. “But seriously. Thank you.”
