“He has more than that,” Vincent said. “Corrado doesn’t risk a war with me just to help a husband drag his wife home.”

“Paul worked for some of your subcontractors last year,” I remembered suddenly. “He kept logs of the delivery trucks. He used to write down the license plates in a little black book.”

Vincent’s jaw tightened.

He spoke back into the phone. “Marco. Get closer. I want to know exactly what is being offered on that table.”

“I’m already on it,” Marco said. “I’ll call you when the meeting ends.”

The line went dead.

We drove in silence for the next ten minutes, leaving the bridge behind and entering the dark, narrow streets of Brooklyn.

The warehouses here looked like giant, sleeping beasts in the rain.

Water pooled in the deep potholes, splashing against the underside of our car with a heavy, metallic clang.

Vincent turned the wheel, steering us into a gated alleyway behind a dry-cleaning business.

The metal gate rolled down behind us, cutting off the view of the street.

“We stay here for an hour,” Vincent said, switching off the engine. “Dr. Hale is waiting inside.”