I clutched the bottle in my right hand, my knuckles turning white.

Vincent stepped closer to the examination table, his shadow falling over me.

“You cannot go back to your apartment,” Vincent said.

“Paul is desperate, and Corrado’s collectors are ruthless.”

“I am moving you to a safehouse in Brooklyn tonight.”

“It is heavily guarded. You will be safe there.”

I nodded, trying to process the sheer weight of what Paul had done.

He had sold my safety to cover his own debts.

I raised my right hand to wipe a tear from my cheek, and my fingers brushed my bare collarbone.

The cold sensation of empty skin made my stomach drop.

My mother’s locket was gone.

The silver chain, worn thin by decades of use, had snapped when Paul dragged me across the floor.

It was still there, in the dark corner of our apartment, near the overturned chair.

“Vincent,” I whispered, my voice cracking with panic. “My locket. I don’t have it.”

“We cannot go back for jewelry, Lena,” he said, his tone firm.