“You always were stupid,” he said.

“Running to the Moretti family like they actually care about a waitress.”

“Vincent is just using you, Lena.”

“You’re nothing to him.”

I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, trying to clear the spots from my vision.

“Stay back, Paul,” I said.

“I mean it.”

He laughed again and took another step.

The smell of cheap whiskey and stale tobacco reached me, cutting through the damp scent of the sewer.

“Or what?” he asked.

“You’ll call your mobster boyfriend?”

“He’s a little busy right now.”

“Don Corrado’s men are painting the street outside with Moretti blood.”

He stopped about five feet away from me.

He lowered the beam slightly, letting it illuminate my chest and hands.

I kept the gun hidden behind my thigh, pressed against the wet fabric of my jeans.

“You look terrible,” he said, his eyes scanning my face.

“Dirt on your cheek.”

“Hair soaking wet.”

“You belong in the gutter, Lena.”

“With me.”

“I am not going back with you,” I said.

My teeth chattered, partly from the cold water soaking my sneakers, and partly from the terror.