“Let me see, please,” Dr. Hale said, his voice quiet and polite.

He gently took my left wrist.

A sharp, hot spike of pain shot up to my shoulder, and I gasped, my vision blurring.

“It is a fracture of the ulna,” Dr. Hale murmured, his fingers pressing lightly against the swollen skin.

He walked to a metal cabinet and returned with a syringe.

“This will numb the area so I can set the bone.”

I closed my eyes as the needle pierced my skin, the medicine feeling cold as it entered my arm.

Vincent stood near the door, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the hallway.

“Why is Don Corrado calling you about Paul?” I asked, looking at Vincent.

“Paul owes him money,” Vincent said, his voice flat and even.

“A great deal of money.”

“How much?” I asked.

“Two hundred thousand dollars,” Vincent said.

I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Paul does not have that kind of money,” I said. “We barely make rent.”

“He accumulated the debt in Corrado’s illegal gambling dens in Queens,” Vincent explained.