He didn’t offer me any.

“A desperate man watches,” he said. “He probably saw my men cruising the block earlier.”

“But where would he go?” I asked.

“Somewhere he feels safe,” Vincent said. “Or somewhere he can buy his way into.”

I rubbed my forehead, trying to stop the pounding in my skull.

“He has my papers,” I said. “He can use them to find where I register for work, or my bank accounts.”

“It’s worse than that,” Vincent said.

He took a sip of his drink, his gaze fixed on the dark liquid.

“Paul owes a lot of money to the wrong people.”

I looked up at him. “How much?”

“More than a line cook can make in three lifetimes,” Vincent said.

He set the glass down on the cabinet with a soft click.

“He’s been gambling at the back of the butcher shop on Grand Street.”

“That’s Corrado’s territory,” I said, the name tasting like ash in my mouth.

“Yes,” Vincent said. “Don Corrado.”

He walked back to the window, looking down at the wet street below.