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“And you’re projecting.” She moves toward the door, a clear dismissal. “You should go before Marco comes back with reinforcements.”

I don’t move. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

“I’m not asking.”

We stare at each other, locked in a silent battle of wills. Finally, I relent, but not completely. “Fine. But I’ll be watching the building. If Marco shows up again?—”

“You’ll what? Kill him?” Her voice is soft, dangerous. “Is that really what you want, Callahan? To cross that line?”

The truth is, in that moment when I saw his hand around her throat, I wanted exactly that. The violence that surged through me wasn’t just a desire to stop him—it was a desire to end him, to tear him apart with my bare hands. The intensity of it scares me even now.

“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’sabout 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.