“Please,” Paul whispered, his bravado instantly vanishing.

“We can make a deal.”

“Corrado told me—”

“Corrado is dead, Paul,” Vincent interrupted softly.

He took another drag from his cigarette, the red cherry glowing brightly in the dark.

“His men ran as soon as the first shots were fired.”

“You are entirely alone.”

Vincent took a step closer, his eyes shifting from Paul to me.

I looked back at him, my throat burning, my fingers still locked around the cold revolver.

“Lena,” Vincent said, his voice softening just a fraction.

“Are you hurt?”

I shook my head, though my wrist was throbbing and my throat felt raw.

“No,” I croaked.

“Good,” Vincent said.

He took another step, his cane making a sharp, final splash in the water.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean, white handkerchief.

He wiped a stray drop of dirty water from his cheek, then tucked it away.

“Now,” Vincent said, his gaze returning to my husband.

“Let her go.”

Paul looked at the silenced pistol pointed at his forehead, then at the dark water at his feet.