“Marcus owes a very large sum of money to people who do not like to wait,” the scarred man said.

He took a step closer, his muddy boots squeaking on the wet tile floor.

“He told us you would be the one to pay it back.”

“I have nothing to do with his debts,” I said. “We are divorced.”

The scarred man laughed, a dry, humorless sound.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, tossing it onto the counter between us.

It was a copy of a loan agreement.

At the bottom, next to Marcus’s signature, was my own name, written in a hand that looked terrifyingly like mine.

“He said you signed it,” the man said, leaning in.

Before I could speak, the lock on the back door clicked, and the handle began to turn.

The man with the scarred face spun around, his hand moving toward his waistband.

A tall man in a tailored charcoal overcoat stepped through the threshold of the back door.

It was Leo, Dante Russo’s head of security.