He pulled it out and looked at the screen.

His face hardened.

“What is it?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

“A message from an unknown number,” Vincent said.

He turned the screen toward me.

There was a picture of my mother’s locket resting on a wooden table.

Underneath the picture was a single line of text.

“Let’s make a deal.”

My heart stopped.

“Is it Paul?” I asked.

“No,” Vincent said, his voice flat. “The number belongs to a burner phone registered in Brooklyn.”

He zoomed in on the photo.

In the background, just out of focus, was the edge of a green felt card table.

“That’s Corrado’s club,” Vincent said.

He stared at the screen, his fingers tightening.

“The deal has already begun.”

The tires hummed against the wet metal of the bridge.

Vincent tapped the screen of his phone, his thumb tracing the image of my mother’s silver locket.

“Paul doesn’t have the courage to walk into Corrado’s club alone,” I said, my chest tightening. “Unless he was dragged there.”

“He wasn’t dragged,” Vincent replied.

He pressed a button on the dashboard console, dialing a number.