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Minutes later, the kid’s fingers clack as he hacks into what’s probably the city’s cameras.

“Give me time.” His voice crackles through static. “Face match will spit him out. I’ll call when I have him.”

Now I have to wait again. This wait’s worse than the one in the hall. I scroll through my phone, and my thumb hovers over Sophia’s name, lowers, and then hovers again. I want to call her so much, to ask if she’s okay, but I also tell myself she’s safe with Nonna Rosa and reaching out to her wouldn’t feel natural.

Marco smirks. “Cold Ricci enforcer a concerned husband now?” His laugh grates.

“Say another word.” My growl carries the unspoken threat.

Marco shuts up immediately.

Though I succeed in silencing Marco, the voices inside my head aren’t as compliant. I want to be like any other husband. Call when I miss her voice. Ask what color dress she picked. Request a picture of her smile. Hours bleed by before Billy finally calls close to midnight with a location. A seedy nightclub on the East Side.

Marco drives while humming nonsense, his knuckles relaxed on the wheel. City lights smear into neon streaks. On the journey, thoughts spiral where they shouldn’t…to chestnut hair, green eyes, and lips too soft for this world. I wonder what she’s up to and how she’s dressing for the dinner.

As we approach our destination, I push the thoughts and the craving away.

The nightclub reeks of sweat and smoke as perspiring bodies writhe against each other, the bass pounding through the walls and rattling the bottles behind the bar. Red and purple lights strobe overhead.

An unexpected place for a journalist fighting for justice to hide. Probably why he chose it.

We stroll through, and the crowd, sensing our presence and penchant for violence, parts for us.

After a quick talk with and heavy wads of cash left for the bartender, we get the details we need. The man we’re looking for has rented the room above for the last couple of days. We head upstairs to find a cheap accommodation cluttered with notebooks, crumpled photos, and a camera on the table.

The man sitting in the middle of all this is mid-thirties and rail thin, with glasses sliding down his nose. He looks up from his computer, and when he sees us, his face pales and his hands freeze mid-type on his keyboard.

I nod at Marco, who lurches forward to grab the man’s collar and drag him closer. My eyes pin the man in place as I set a bag of cash beside him. “You have two choices, mister. Either take the money and disappear, or you and the great stories you might write in the future will be buried now.”

The words come out flat and icy.

“Who…who sent you? This isn’t right. There’s freedom of the press.” His hands quake as he backs into the wall.

I nod at Marco once more, prompting him to grab the man’s camera with one hand and smash it against the wall. The pieces scatter.

I pull a small case from my jacket, flip it open, and take out a syringe. “I’ve got Fentanyl in here. I found out about your love for dosing on this before you write.”

The man shakes his head, his eyes widening.

“I’ve got it mixed with other unspeakable things strong enough to give a horse a heart attack. What do you think will happen when I jab this into your neck?”

He starts heaving. “What do you want?”

“For you to delete all your work on the senator you’re investigating.”

He rushes around, pulling out papers and flash drives that he then dumps at Marco’s feet. I tilt my head toward his computer, silently encouraging him to log on to his cloud accounts and scrub all the digital files saved on there as well.

After that, we gather his papers, flash drives, and laptop. Marco films it, whistling low.

“Burn them.”

The man pulls out a lighter and sets what’s probably all the physical evidence of his life’s work on fire while we watch.

Then I take the phone from Marco and shove it into the journalist’s trembling hands. “Talk. Confess that your obsession with Senator Goulding is personal and that everything you’ve been digging into is a lie.”

He stumbles through his vendetta against Senator Goulding and fabricated evidence. I suppress a twinge of pity for the man as he stutters through his words, his voice wavering. Sweat drips down his temple. I view until the video is done.

After pocketing my phone, I flash him a cold smile, enjoying the way he pales a little too much. “One word out of place, and you’ll be carved into silence.”