He pulled a thick, unmarked envelope from his coat pocket.

“Your husband owes a great deal of money to people who do not negotiate.”

The car turned a sharp corner, the tires splashing through a deep puddle.

Just then, Vincent’s phone lit up on the console between us.

A name flashed on the screen in bright white letters: *Don Corrado*.

Vincent let the phone ring.

The bright screen cast a pale blue glow over his sharp jawline.

He did not slide his thumb to answer it.

Instead, he turned the phone face down on the leather console, cutting off the light.

“Corrado,” I whispered, the name dry in my throat.

“He is checking his trap,” Vincent said, looking out the rain-streaked window.

The car moved quickly through the dark streets of Manhattan.

The tires hummed against the wet asphalt, splashing through deep puddles at every turn.

“Your husband is a very stupid man, Lena,” Vincent added.

I pressed my injured arm against my ribs, trying to absorb the vibration of the road.

“He told me he had business partners,” I said.

“He lied,” Vincent replied.