We drove through the dark streets of Queens, heading toward the bridge to Manhattan.

The city lights smeared across the wet glass as the rain grew heavier.

I sat in the passenger seat, my hands clenched in my lap.

“Are you sure your contact can be trusted?” I asked, looking over at him.

“Assistant U.S. Attorney Vance is clean,” Dominic said, keeping his eyes on the road. “My mother tried to buy him off three years ago on a zoning case, and he nearly indicted her.”

“Why didn’t he?” I asked.

“She found a way to suppress the evidence before it reached a grand jury,” Dominic said. “This time, she won’t have that chance.”

We crossed the bridge, the steel cables rising up into the foggy night.

The skyline of Manhattan was a cluster of grey towers half-hidden by low clouds.

Dominic drove with a quiet fury, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“I’m sorry, Elena,” he said quietly, his voice barely louder than the hum of the tires.

“For what?” I asked, though I knew the answer.