The Lost Sheep

The faint sheen of nail polish still visible on the chopped-off finger made the newest member of the gang feel more sick than the little pool of blood that was left behind as Boss Braginski carefully lifted it from the sticky table surface.

“Boss…” the young man watched with growing horror how the lifeless digit was meticulously tucked into a kitchen napkin and then fitted into a small box, soon disappearing in a pocket of a heavy coat. “Why are you keeping that traitor  Łukasiewicz ‘s finger?”

“Personal reasons.” Braginski answered, the smile as he patted the pocket positively angelic.