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“I am.” I manage a smile, though it feels brittle on my face. “I always am.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he knows better than to press. Joey has survived in this world by minding his own business and keeping his mouth shut. It’s why he’s lasted so long at The Emerald Room.

“Ten minutes till your first set,” he says, checking his watch. “Band’s ready when you are.”

I nod, moving to my dressing room to make final preparations. As I touch up my lipstick, I scan the room through the mirror, half-expecting to find Callahan lurking in a corner as he had the other night. But the room is empty save for my reflection.

The hollow disappointment I feel is unwelcome. I shouldn’t want to see him. Not after the threats Marco made. Not with Cohen’s people undoubtedly watching.

Yet I do. With an intensity that frightens me.

I push it out of my head, talk briefly to Anne, giving her the sandwiches, then it’s time to go on.

The first set goes smoothly, though I find myself scanning the crowd between each song, looking for Callahan’s steady gaze, for Marco’s simmering anger. Neither is present, and their absence leaves me unsettled. Where are they? Why has Marco not shown up? What happened after Callahan left my apartment yesterday?

I finish with “I’ll Be Seeing You,” letting the final note linger in the air before taking a modest bow. The applause is enthusiastic but smaller than usual, the crowd thin and nervous. I can’t quite shake the feeling that something is wrong.

Backstage, I’m halfway to my dressing room when I feel the prickle of danger. I turn slowly, knowing before I see him.

Mickey Cohen is not an impressive figure physically—short, balding, with features that might be considered plain if not for the power they exude. Back in the day he was a boxer and was known for throwing a punch, something I’m sure he can still do, but he cultivates a more civilized air these days, seeming to prefer diplomacy.

But there’s no mistaking the aura of menace that surrounds him, the casual cruelty in his dark eyes.

At his side stands Johnny Stompanato, his bodyguard and enforcer—tall, impeccably dressed, with a face that belongs on a movie poster and a reputation for extreme violence. The contrast between them would be comical if it weren’t so terrifying.

“Ms. Reid,” Cohen says, his voice deceptively gentle. “Got a minute to chat?”

It’s not a request. I nod, gesturing toward my dressing room. “Mickey. Of course.”

Cohen shakes his head. “Here is fine. Just a quick conversation between friends.”

The hallway is deserted, everyone else having made themselves scarce at Cohen’s arrival. I straighten my spine,meeting his gaze directly. Showing fear to men like Cohen is like bleeding in shark-infested waters.

“I understand Marco paid you a visit yesterday,” he begins, watching me closely. “A visit that ended with him looking like he went three rounds with Joe Louis.”

I swallow hard. “He was upset. Things got out of hand.”

“Things got out of hand,” Cohen repeats softly. “And that private dick of yours decided to play hero, that it? Or was it you that laid down the punches?”

I say nothing, which seems to amuse him.

“See, here’s the thing, Lena—can I call you Lena?” He doesn't wait for my response. “Marco’s missing. Didn’t come home last night. Didn’t show up for work today. That’s not like him.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday afternoon.”

“And your detective friend? When’s the last time you saw him?”

The question sends a chill through me. “He left my apartment right after Marco did. I haven’t seen him since.”

Cohen studies me, head tilted slightly like a predator considering its prey. “You know, I always liked you, Lena. Good voice, good look, keep your nose clean. But I’m starting to think you might be holding out on me.”

Stompanato shifts his weight, the movement drawing my eye. His hand rests on his hip, close to where I know he keeps his gun. The threat is implicit.

“I’m not,” I say, injecting a note of fear into my voice—not entirely feigned. “I swear, I don’t know where Marco is.”

Cohen sighs, as if disappointed. “See, I think you do. Or at least, you know more than you’re telling me. Maybe about Marco. Maybe about those Europeans he was working with—the ones your friend Elizabeth Short got mixed up with before she ended up in two pieces.”

My breath catches. “I don’t?—”