We slipped through a metal side door into the warehouse, our boots squeaking on the wet concrete.

Inside, the air smelled of grease, old paper, and damp wool.

A single desk lamp was on in the back office behind a glass partition.

Sitting in the leather chair was Vincenzo, the old boss himself.

His face looked pale under the harsh light, his breathing shallow.

Marcus stood beside him, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his dark coat.

As we walked in, Marcus didn’t move his hands.

Vincenzo looked up, his eyes milky but sharp.

“You took your time, Elena,” Vincenzo said.

His voice was a dry rasp, barely louder than the rain hitting the metal roof.

“We had company at the main gate,” I said.

I kept my distance, my hand resting near my belt.

“Tony has the whole city watching the roads,” Marcus said.

“He thinks he’s already won,” Vincenzo muttered, leaning forward with an effort.

He coughed, a wet, rattling sound that shook his thin frame.

“He hasn’t won yet,” I said. “But he will if we don’t get the ledger.”