The metal felt greasy and heavy in my palm.

Another loud clang echoed from the ceiling, and a shower of rust fell onto my shoulders.

The boots of the men above were striking the iron grates.

I looked at Paul’s pale, sweating face.

I hated him for what he had done to me, for the scars on my ribs and the fear in my chest.

But as I stared down the barrel of the gun, a cold clarity settled over me.

If I pulled this trigger, I would become just like him.

I would be a killer, bound to Vincent and this dark underworld forever.

There was another way out, a path that didn’t involve blood on my hands.

I thought of the thick envelope hidden inside the lining of my winter coat.

The financial ledgers I had stolen from Paul’s desk, detailing every cent Don Corrado had laundered.

Vincent had once mentioned a federal prosecutor, a man named Miller who couldn’t be bought.

If I could get those documents to him, I could destroy Paul and Corrado without ever firing a shot.