The car is already waiting when Vince steps out of the building’s private garage.
A long black limo, windows tinted darker than the law technically allows, idling in the far corner where the cameras don’t quite reach.
His driver opens the rear door without a word.
“Take a walk,” Vince says.
The man hesitates, then nods and disappears into the dim concrete.
Vince slides inside.
The door shuts, cutting off the last of the garage’s echo.
It’s dark in the cabin—privacy glass, polarized enough that even the city’s spill of light barely penetrates. The interior smells faintly of leather and something sharper, like expensive aftershave.
For a moment, he thinks he’s alone.
Then, the opposite corner of the limo moves.
“Vince,” a smooth voice says. “You’re late.”
His eyes adjust enough to
