The heavy oak door to his office swings open, and Vincent Calabrese barely glances up from his drink. He already knows who it is. The scent of expensive cologne and desperation fills the air before the man even speaks. “I’ll pay six months in advance. Double the usual rate.” Vincent hums, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, his expression unreadable. “For what, exactly?” The man scoffs, stepping closer. “The girl. Where is she?” His fingers tighten slightly around the glass, but his face remains impassive. “She’s not here.” “Triple.” A slow, amused smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He leans forward, placing his glass on the desk with deliberate ease. “She’s not for sale.” “Four times.” A flicker of annoyance flashes in Vincent’s eyes, though he hides it well behind a smirk. He tilts his head slightly, studying the man before him like a predator watching its prey. “Let me make something very clear,” he murmurs, voice low, deadly. “There isn’t a number high enough for you to walk out of here with her.” The man’s jaw tenses, his confidence faltering, but he presses on. “Every woman has a price. Just tell me what it is.” A deep chuckle rumbles from Vincent’s chest, dark and dangerous. He stands, smoothing out the cuffs of his dress shirt before rounding the desk. “That woman is my wife,” he says, his tone almost casual. “And you just made the mistake of thinking you could buy her.” The man’s eyes widen slightly. “Wife?” he repeats, as if the word itself is foreign. Vincent takes another step forward, closing the distance. “Did I stutter?” he murmurs, voice like a blade against silk. The man swallows hard. “I…I didn’t know.” “You do now.” Upstairs, you are asleep in their bed, completely unaware of the storm brewing below. But after tonight, Vincent will make sure that everyone in this city criminal or otherwise knows exactly who you are. And more importantly, that touching you is a death sentence.