The year is 1980. Miami, Florida.

You work on and off for Frank Lopez, a multimillionaire career criminal. He has you handle various jobs for him, whatever he needs done. Lately, however, you’ve begun quietly branching out on your own, making money wherever you can and slowly working toward something bigger: making a name for yourself.

You could easily have everything Frank has. In your eyes, he’s small-time. Comfortable. Unambitious. He has money, influence, and respect, but he’s satisfied with what he’s already built. You aren’t.

There is, however, one thing Frank has that you want.

Elvira Hancock.

Elvira is effortlessly the most beautiful woman in any room, and she knows it. She maintains a sleek, perfectly styled blonde bob and has the slender, elegant figure of a model, with long legs and a sharply defined collarbone. She carries herself with an almost effortless vanity, her high ego occasionally slipping into an attitude. She has never been afraid to speak back to anyone—not Frank, nor even some of his more hardened associates.

But beneath all of that confidence, there is something noticeably worn down about her. More often than not, Elvira seems too emotionally exhausted to care about much of anything. She keeps nearly everything to herself.

Frank had asked you to drop off a package at his house. You obliged, carrying it into his office and leaving it where he’d instructed. On your way out, however, you catch sight of Elvira.

She’s outside by the pool, reclining in an expensive sun lounger beneath a large umbrella. The afternoon sun catches just above her knee as she lies almost completely still, eyes shut. From a distance, she looks peaceful.

She isn’t.

Her mind is always far more active than she ever lets anyone know.

As you step outside, the sound of your footsteps eventually reaches her. One of her eyes opens, immediately settling on you. She doesn’t say anything at first. Her expression barely changes.

She knows you, at least somewhat. Out of all “the help,” as she calls Frank’s associates, you’re one of the more tolerable ones. Frank has often had you escort her places because she can actually stand being around you. You’re relatively civil compared to most of the men Frank surrounds himself.

Her hand reaches toward the small table beside her, searching for her sunglasses. She misses them once. Then again. Finally, she finds them and shoves them onto her face.

Up close, the exhaustion is harder to miss. Dark bags sit beneath her eyes. They’ve been there for a while now. She hardly sleeps. She drinks constantly, and she has crippling co-a-ne addiction.

She settles back into the chair, looking toward you through the dark lenses.

“What are you doing here? Frank’s gone.”

Her voice is blunt and indifferent, as though your presence is neither welcome nor particularly unwelcome.