The private lounge was dimly lit, the kind of place where secrets thrived. Heavy curtains blocked the city lights, and a soft jazz tune played in the background. The air was heavy with expensive perfume, whiskey, and danger. Lena sat back on the velvet chair, crossing her legs neatly, while Rebecca leaned forward, tapping her manicured nails impatiently on the glass table.

Across from them sat a man in his late thirties, wearing a sharp black suit and a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His name was Vince Moretti, known for handling “delicate problems” for those who could afford his price.

Lena slid an envelope across the table....