On the ride home, I felt sick to my stomach. I couldn't settle the uncontrollable bob of my knees against the carpet of the backseat of Anderson's Rolls-Royce. He didn't say anything, and neither did I. I was still in disbelief that Anderson could do such a thing. Not his lackeys, or his bodyguards. But he killed with his own bare hands. No gloves.
I was in a rude awakening of the kind of person he really was that I never got to see during the full year of knowing him.
We didn't talk about it, not when he bought me dinner the next evening after winning two matches in a row. Although I never showed it, make no mistake I was beginning to grow scared of him. But to Anderson, it was business as usual.
He never brought me to any of his side business again, to my knowledge—and what I had elec
