His voice was low, a gravelly rumble that vibrated through the leather seats. He flexed his fingers on the wheel, the platinum wedding band on his left hand catching a streetlight’s glare.

He flicked the turn signal, the rhythmic click filling the silence for three beats before he spoke again, the edge in his voice softening by a single, grudging degree.

He pulled into the underground garage of their high-rise, the tires echoing softly. He killed the engine, and the sudden silence was absolute. He didn’t move to get out, just sat there, staring at the concrete wall ahead. The faint, familiar scent of his nitroglycerin sweat—sharp and chemical—mingled with the bar’s lingering smoke on his clothes.