ELARA
I sat in the solitude of my Upper East Side penthouse, staring out at the rough skyline of Manhattan. At thirty, I was supposed to be in my prime, a woman whose beauty was weaponized and celebrated. Instead, I felt like a delicate museum piece behind glass.
My husband, Lorenzo Vance, was the reason for the glass.
At seventy-five, he was the undisputed king of the New York underworld, a man whose name caused hushed silences in the underworld and desperate prayers in the backrooms of night clubs. He was a titan, a ghost, and a legend. But to me, he was becoming a stranger who shared my bed more like a brother.
As I sat there, drowning in the silence of the room, all I could think about was what Lorenzo was up to. He'd probably be up and about the docks again. Or the union strike i
