Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
It’s just professional surveillance, I tell myself. Marco Russo represents a direct connection to Cohen, who’s connected to the Europeans, who are likely behind the murders. Following Marco could lead to a breakthrough in the case. Right?
It’s a thin justification, but it’s all I’ve got.
Three hours pass with no sign of Marco or Lena. I smoke through half a pack of cigarettes, scan the newspaper twice, and fight the urge to march up to her apartment and knock on the door. Just as I’m about to give up, a black Cadillac pulls up to the curb. Marco Russo steps out, straightening his tie before heading into the building.
Something cold settles in my gut.
I wait five minutes—the longest five minutes of my life—then exit my car, crossing the street with deliberate casualness. The lobby of the Alto Nido is empty except for a drowsy desk clerk who barely glances up from his racing form as I pass. No one stops me as I take the stairs to the third floor.
I don’t know which apartment is Lena’s, but I don’t need to. Marco’s voice carries down the hallway, sharp with anger. I follow the sound, moving quietly until I reach a door near the end of the corridor. 3F.
“—flaunting yourself like a common whore,” Marco’s voice seethes through the door. “In his office. At the diner. In my club, in front of my people.”
“It’s not your club, Marco.” Lena’s voice is level, controlled. “And I’m not your property, no matter how many times you say it.”
“Everything in that club belongs to Mickey, which means it belongs to me. Including you. And you can lie all you want, but I know that detective was with you last night. I know it. I could see it on your face. That spotlight hides none of your sins.”
“I think you should leave.”
A crash, like something being thrown. “You don’t tell me what to do, Red. That’s now how it works. I tell you. I tell you and you do it, like the obedient bitch you are.”
I move closer to the door, every muscle tense.
Glass breaks.
A thud.
“Get your hands off me—” Lena’s voice, suddenly tight with pain. “Please, stop! Marco, stop!” She cries out.
That’s all it takes.
I step back and kick hard at the door, just beside the lock. The wood splinters and the door flies open, banging against the wall. The scene before me burns into my brain: Lena pressed against the wall, Marco’s hand around her throat, her eye swelling.
For a moment, everyone freezes. Then Marco’s face twists with rage as he releases Lena and turns to face me.
“You picked the wrong door to kick down, Callahan.”
“And you picked the wrong woman to put your hands on.” My voice sounds distant to my own ears, cold and dangerous. The rage building inside me is unlike anything I’ve felt before—white-hot and consuming.
Marco reaches inside his jacket. I move before he can draw his weapon, closing the distance between us in two strides. My first punch catches him in the solar plexus, doubling him over. The second connects with his jaw, sending him staggering back.
“Callahan, don’t!” Lena starts, but I’m beyond hearing.
Marco recovers quickly, a fighter’s instinct. He swings, a right hook that would have knocked me cold if it had landed. I duck under it, feeling the old boxer’s rhythm return. Jab, cross, slip, hook. Simple combinations, but effective. I land two shots to his ribs, hear the satisfying crack of bone.
He’s stronger than he looks, though, and he already looked like an ox. A wild swing connects with my temple, sending stars across my vision. He follows with a knee to my gut that drives the air from my lungs. I stumble back, gasping, as he pulls a switchblade from his pocket.
“I’m going to carve up your pretty face, detective,” he growls, the blade glinting in the afternoon light. “Then I’m going to make you watch while I carve her up too.”
The rage crystallizes into something cold and focused. Time seems to slow as he lunges forward, blade aimed at my abdomen. I sidestep, grabbing his wrist and twisting until the knife clatters to the floor. Then I’m on him, all technique forgotten as I drive my fists into his face again and again.
I don’t stop until I feel arms around me, pulling me back.
“Callahan! Stop, you’ll kill him!”
Good.
But Lena’s voice breaks through the fog of violence, brings a whisper of clarity. I want him dead, but not like this. I let her pull me away, chest heaving, knuckles split and bleeding. Marco lies on the floor, face a mess of blood, barely conscious.
“Get out,” I tell him, my voice a rasp. “Get out and don’t come back here.”
Marco spits blood onto the floor and pushes himself to his knees. “You’re dead, Callahan. Both of you.”