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“Step aside, detective. I’m here for Lena.” His gaze shifts to me. “You and I need to have a conversation, baby. Privately.”

I know what hisconversationsmean. A black eye that will heal quicker than it should.

“She’s not going anywhere with you,” Callahan says, voice dangerously calm.

Marco’s hand drifts toward his jacket, where I know he keeps his gun. “This isn’t your business, Callahan.”

“I’m making it my business.” Callahan doesn’t reach for his own weapon, but his stance shifts subtly into something more defensive, more prepared.

I step out from behind him, placing a restraining hand on his arm. “Marco, go home. I’m here because of Elizabeth, that’s it. We’re discussing the case. Sleep it off. We’ll talk later.”

“Later?” Marco laughs, an ugly sound. “You spend the night with this guy and tell me we’ll talk later? You forgot who I am, Red? Who I work for?”

“I don’t care if you work for J. Edgar Hoover himself,” Callahan says. “She’s not leaving with you.”

For a tense moment, I think Marco might actually draw his gun. The hallway is empty this early—no witnesses if he decides to do something stupid. No witnesses except for me, but he doesn’t know that yet, doesn’t know that a bullet won’t kill me.

But finally, he points a finger at me, jabbing the air for emphasis.

“This isn’t over. Mickey wants to know why you’ve been asking questions about Elizabeth’s contacts. Why you’ve been poking around warehouses that don’t concern you.” His gaze shifts to Callahan. “Both of you.”

My blood runs cold. If Cohen knows we’re investigating, we’ve lost whatever element of surprise we might have had.

“Go home, Marco,” I repeat, keeping my voice steady, letting my compelling power to seep through. “Go home before you say something you’ll regret.”

His eyes narrow. “You think you’re untouchable because you sing pretty? Because men, men like this chump here, want you? You’re just merchandise, baby. Property. And Cohen doesn’t like people messing with his property.”

Callahan takes a step forward, but I tighten my grip on his arm. The last thing we need is a physical confrontation.

“Careful, Russo,” Callahan says softly. “Those sound a lot like threats.”

“Just facts.” Marco’s gaze shifts between us. “You two think you’re so smart. You have no idea what you’re stepping into.” He takes a step back. “No fucking idea.”

With that, he turns and stalks toward the stairs, leaving a tense silence in his wake. At least I compelled him enough to go without violence.

Callahan closes and locks the door, then turns to me. “Are you alright?”

I nod, though I’m shaken more than I want to admit. Not by Marco’s threats—I’ve handled worse—but by the implicationthat Cohen knows what we’re doing. We don’t just have to fear the Europeans, but the most dangerous gangster in the city.

“I think this means we might have to work together now,” I tell him.

“Funny. I already thought we were.” He holds my gaze. “Partners, then?”

He holds out his hand.

“Partners,” I agree, the word feeling significant somehow.

He shakes my hand but doesn’t let go. Instead he gives it a comforting squeeze, a simple gesture that makes my toes curl.

“Then as your partner, mind if I take you out for breakfast and drive you home? We have a lot to discuss.”

That brings a rare smile to my face. “I’d like that.”

Before I’d be worried about being seen, but since Marco is already assuming the worst, then I’ll take my chances. I just hope I compelled him enough to keep his cool for a day or two.

But as we head out to his car, I can’t help but wonder if I’m making a mistake, binding my fate to a man with so many mysteries surrounding him. But after this morning—after the intruder and Marco’s threats—it’s clear that whatever danger lies ahead, we’ll face it better together than apart.

The question is…how together will we end up being?