I was right, five people—but that’s the only thing I was right about.
I’m pushed inside the dimly lit room and the door is shut behind me. I make a quick decision, and slide my gun onto the table once it’s close enough.
“Good job, so you do know how to listen to orders,” a different voice tells me. “You really thought you could come here and just get your way?”
I stay quiet. My eyes, cold and calculating, take in the entire room. The desk, the chair, the small window near the ceiling. The door to the left of me. The bottles of bourbon in a small cabinet to the right, crystal glasses next to them.
If I can get the gun out of his hand, grab mine, I’ll have two guns against them. Depending on if there are guards outside of the office door, I might be able to get out that way.
If not, if a shootout becomes the only option, the desk might shield me enough to not get mowed down.
“I can see them wheels turnin’ in your head, boy, don’t even fucking thinking about it.”
The voice is similar to Jackson’s, but not quite. Rough and low, with an accent that isn’t even remotely native to Italy.
“You know, I should have known that greedy Americans like you wouldn’t play fair,” I say calmly.
I feel a hand on my back, and another on my shoulder before I’m turned around against my will. My ankles nearly twist at the sudden movement.
“Shut your fuckin face,” the man spits at me.
I try to keep my temper. I know getting worked up won’t do anything against the Carvels. I can’t lose my cool. Not this time.
But I also won’t let them touch me, not like last time. Not ever again.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“What did you do to Jackson?” he asks me.
I eye his face. Large and furrowed with anger.
“Tell me, ya fag!” he hisses.
I can’t help but laugh.
“What’s so fucking funny?” another one of them says.
Their names are irrelevant, if I even knew them. They’re lackeys at best. The way they hold their guns, the way they stand too far away to really be of any danger.
I realize that maybe I’m not as outnumbered as I thought.
“You really wanna know?” I ask.
The gun is pressed to my sternum. “Tell us what happened to him, and we might let you die quickly.”
I glare at the man holding the gun to my custom-made dress shirt.
“Jackson thought I was fucking his wife,” I tell them. “But you see, that’s not the problem.”
I’m jostled around slightly and I grunt in response, trying to wiggle away from him. Trying to inch closer to the table so I can try to grab my gun.
“Stay where you are,” another voice says and I hear my gun being picked up from the table.
Damnit.
“The problem…was when he tried torapeme,” I sneer.
The big guy blinks at me, and then laughs. “What? Yeah right!”
