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)
“Just…be careful,” I say instead of answering her question. “Call me if you need anything. Anytime. Please.”
She nods, though we both know she won’t call if she can help it. She’s too damn stubborn. “Goodbye, Callahan.”
I leave reluctantly, every step away from her apartment harder than the last. In the hallway, I see the trail of Marco’s blood leading to the stairs. A visceral satisfaction rises in me at the sight, followed by a disturbing thought:
I want more.
I want to see him bleed. I want to make him pay for touching her, for threatening her. The intensity of this desire is foreign to me, yet it feels natural, like something that’s been lying dormant inside me, waiting to emerge.
I want to kill him.
I want to…kill.
14
CALLAHAN
Ifollow Marco Russo’s Cadillac through the darkening streets of Los Angeles, keeping a careful distance. The sleek black car cuts through traffic like a shark through water, turning onto Sunset Boulevard before heading north into the Hollywood Hills.
My knuckles are still raw from our confrontation at Lena’s apartment earlier today. I can feel the skin pulling tight as I grip the steering wheel, dried blood cracking with each adjustment. The image of Marco’s hands on Lena’s throat keeps flashing through my mind, stoking a rage that refuses to cool.
He threatened her. Threatened both of us.
I don’t take threats lightly.
I hadn’t planned to follow him, but after leaving Lena’s apartment, I found myself circling back, watching from down the street. When I spotted his Cadillac pull up an hour later before deciding to quickly drive off, I knew I couldn’t let it go. He may have not stopped this time, but he said he’d be back to finish her and I believe him.
So here I am, tailing a man who works for Mickey Cohen, one of the most dangerous gangsters in Los Angeles. I tell myself it’s about the case—that Marco might lead me to information about the Europeans, about Short’s murder. About whoever was in Lena’s apartment.
But I’m not fooling myself.
This is personal now.
Maybe it always was.
His car turns off the main road onto a winding street that climbs higher into the hills, eventually pulling into the driveway of a Spanish-style house perched on the edge of a steep slope. The house is modest by Hollywood Hills standards, but the view must be worth a fortune. The perfect hideout for a man who needs to watch who’s coming.
I park my Oldsmobile a hundred yards down the road and kill the engine, watching as Marco exits his car and disappears inside the house. Lights flick on behind gauzy curtains. I should leave. I should turn around and drive back to my office, focus on the case.
Instead, I reach into my glove compartment and remove my.38 revolver, checking that it’s loaded before sliding it back into its holster.
Just a precaution.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I approach the house, keeping to the shadows along the side of the property. The taste of metal floods my mouth—blood from where I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek without realizing it. Through a gap in the curtains, I can see Marco pouring himself a drink, his movements stiff, favoring his left side where I’d cracked his ribs earlier.
Good. I hope it hurts like hell.
I should turn back. I’m crossing a line that I’ve carefully maintained throughout my career. But something drives me forward, a compulsion that feels both foreign and achingly familiar.
Finding the back door unlocked is almost disappointing—I’d been prepared to force my way in. I step into a dimly lit kitchen, the smell of old coffee and cigarettes hanging in the still air. From the other room, I can hear Marco speaking, his voice low and urgent. On the phone, then. Reporting to Cohen, perhaps?
I draw my gun, its weight comforting in my hand, and move toward the sound of his voice.
“No, I understand,” Marco is saying as I approach the doorway to what appears to be a study. “It won’t happen again…yes, I’ll handle both of them.”
Both of them.
Lena and me.
I step into the doorway, gun raised. “Hanging up so soon? I think you and I have unfinished business.”
Marco spins around, the phone receiver still clutched in his hand. The surprise on his face quickly gives way to cold calculation. “I’ll call you back,” he says into the phone before hanging up.
“Breaking and entering,” he observes, eyes flicking to my gun. “That’s a bit beneath a private detective with your reputation, isn’t it, Callahan?”
“So is beating women, but that didn’t stop you.”
A smirk forms on his battered face. “That what this is about? Lena? You think you’re the first guy to get a hard-on for her? She belongs to me. To Mickey. You’re just a temporary distraction.”
The rage that’s been simmering since our encounter at Lena’s apartment boils over. “She doesn’t belong to anyone but herself.”