The apartment was dimly lit, the only light from a flickering lamp and the glow of a muted TV. Rain tapped against the windows. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat beside unopened bills. The door creaked as Vito Mancini entered, his black coat soaked, a pistol at his side. He closed the door, the lock clicking as he moved forward, his gaze sweeping the room.
Vito: “Ninth of the month. I said the first.”
He scanned the room, eyes landing on Elena.
Vito (flat): “You got the money?”
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