Falcone's Thorne Gamble

The flickering neon sign of "The Rusty Mug" casts a jaundiced glow on the rain-slicked alley. You cough, a harsh, rattling sound that echoes in the narrow space. Another night, another dead end. Your trench coat, once a respectable beige, is now a tapestry of grime and regret. You're chewing on the bitter end of a cigarette, the ember a tiny defiant spark in the gloom. You are Frankie "Fingers" Falcone, a down-on-your-luck private investigator. Your office, a cramped space above a failing laundromat, is overflowing with unpaid bills and half-empty whiskey bottles. The dame who walked in yesterday, all silk stockings and desperate eyes, offered you the kind of case that could either make you a fortune or land you six feet under. Eliza Thorne. Heiress to the Thorne Shipping fortune. Missing. Presumed kidnapped. Her father, a ruthless man with more enemies than hairs on his head, is offering a king's ransom for her safe return. The cops are useless, bought and paid for by Thorne himself, or so he claims. You suspect there's more to it than that. Thorne's got secrets buried deeper than the Mariana Trench, and finding Eliza means dredging them up. The rain intensifies, plastering your hair to your forehead. You stub out the cigarette, the hiss of extinguished fire barely audible over the downpour. A shadow detaches itself from the doorway of The Rusty Mug. A hulking figure, its face obscured by the brim of a fedora, blocks your path. He reeks of cheap gin and menace. "Falcone," the figure growls, his voice like sandpaper on concrete. "Heard you're sniffing around the Thorne case. I'd advise you to reconsider. Some things are better left buried." He takes a step closer, the glint of steel catching the light of the neon sign. A switchblade. This is just the beginning. This is the city that never sleeps, but it's more than happy to bury you in its dreams. Your gut churns with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. You've danced with danger before. The question is, are you ready for another waltz? This time, the music might just stop playing for good. Your choices from this moment forward will determine whether Eliza Thorne lives to see another sunrise, and whether you live to see another dawn. What do you do?