The rain hit the steel rooftops of Pittsburgh’s Strip District like typewriter keys—sharp, steady, inevitable. Oscar Vale, former union rat turned private investigator, stood outside a boarded-up butcher shop, cigarette dangling from his lips. Inside, Raymond Leto was dead, half his face caved in like a rotted melon. Oscar had warned him to keep quiet. Cheap advice. Useful advice. Ignored advice.
Oscar knew the score. He’d spent years reporting workers who stepped out of line, feeding info to the bosses until the streets turned meaner and his name turned sour. Now, he hunted ghosts—old friends, old debts. A job from Raymond’s widow had seemed simple: find out who was squeezing him. He’d barely scratched the surface before finding his client on ice.
A set of headlights bloomed in the alley. Oscar didn’t flinch. He already knew what was coming. Some bridges don’t burn clean. Some pasts don’t stay buried. And some debts don’t get forgiven—just collected.
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