I pressed the gauze against Vincent’s side.

He groaned, his eyes cracking open slightly.

“You did well, Lena,” he whispered.

“Don’t talk,” I said. “Just stay still.”

The car sped through the empty streets, the wipers slapping rhythmically against the windshield.

“Where are we going?” I asked Hale. “The safehouse is gone.”

“We have a clinic in Queens,” Hale said. “A private practice. Corrado doesn’t know about it.”

Suddenly, the screen of Vincent’s discarded phone, lying on the seat between us, lit up.

It was an incoming call.

The caller ID displayed a number I recognized instantly.

It was Paul.

The phone buzzed in my palm, vibrating against the leather seat.

The bright green light illuminated the dark interior of the car.

“Don’t answer it,” Vincent said.

His voice was barely a rasp, but his fingers clamped over my wrist with surprising strength.

His hand was cold and slick with his own blood.

I stared at the screen as Paul’s name flashed in the dark car.

It was a reminder of the life I was trying so hard to leave behind.