One Grain of Salt Dropped into a Glass of Bootleg Gin
Dominic Falcone first noticed something wrong with Marco on a Tuesday night in February when the wind off Lake Michigan came through the seams of his overcoat like a straight razor looking for bone. They were standing in the alley behind the Green Mill, the jazz bleeding through the walls in muffled waves of cornet and piano, and Marco had just killed two men without breaking a sweat. The men...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior