The man’s fingernails were clean, and a heavy gold signet ring sat on his pinky finger.

For a long minute, there was only the dry sound of paper turning in the dark.

“This signature is a poor copy,” the man above me said.

“What?” Derek asked, his voice rising in pitch.

“The stamp of the notary is three years out of date,” the man said. “And the bank logo is from a branch that closed last winter.”

I held my breath, my chest aching from the tension.

“Who the hell are you to tell me my papers are fake?” Derek demanded, taking a step closer.

“My name is Vincent Moretti,” the man said quietly.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Even the low hum of the lounge’s ice machine seemed to die away.

Derek’s restless boots went entirely still on the hardwood floor.

“Mr. Moretti,” Derek stammered, all his bravado vanishing in an instant. “I didn’t realize… I was just looking for what’s mine.”

“You are going to turn around and walk out of my establishment,” Vincent said.

“If I see your face in this neighborhood again, we will have a different conversation.”

The scuffed boots backed away slowly, then turned and hurried toward the exit.

The lounge door chimed again as Derek fled into the rainy night.

I let out a long, trembling breath, my forehead resting against the cold wooden table leg.

The polished oxfords shifted.

“You can come out now,” Vincent said.

I crawled out from under the table, my limbs stiff and shaking.

I stood before him, smoothing down my wet jacket with numb fingers.

Vincent Moretti was older than me, with sharp gray eyes and dark hair graying at the temples.

He watched me with an unreadable, steady expression.

Then, he reached into his black breast pocket.

He did not pull out a weapon.