The ringing tone was loud in the quiet cabin of the car.

“Speak,” a low voice answered on the second ring.

“Marco,” Vincent said, his eyes fixed on the rain-streaked windshield. “I need eyes on Corrado’s place on 18th Avenue. Now.”

“We already have someone down the block,” Marco said through the speakers. “A silver sedan pulled up forty minutes ago. Your girl’s husband got out.”

My breath hitched in my throat.

I pressed my hand against the cold glass of the passenger window.

“Was he restrained?” Vincent asked.

“No,” Marco said. “He walked in on his own feet. He was carrying a manila envelope under his arm.”

“Who did he meet?” Vincent asked.

“Corrado himself,” Marco replied. “Our guy inside the cafe says they went into the back room. Paul was sweating, but he looked like a man who thought he just won the lottery.”

Vincent leaned back against the leather headrest, his expression blank.

“What does Paul have that Corrado wants?” Vincent murmured, almost to himself.

“He has me,” I whispered.

Vincent looked over at me, his dark eyes reflecting the green light of the dashboard.