The black sedan passed Vincent Corvo three times before he decided it was a message.
First time, it went the other way on State Street, its headlights cutting through the Chicago rain like a pair of searching eyes. Second time, it slowed as it passed him at the intersection of Ashland and 31st, the driver's face blank behind tinted windows. Third time, it parked two blocks from the flophouse where Vincent was staying and sat there, idling, with the engine running and the...
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