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“Save it.” Cohen holds up a hand. “I’ve got no beef with you, Lena. You’re a good investment. Bring in customers, keep the place classy. But if Marco turns up dead, and I find out you or your detective had anything to do with it…” He lets the threat hang in the air.

“Anything I can help you with, Mr. Cohen?” Joey’s voice comes from behind me, a welcome interruption.

Cohen’s expression smooths into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just having a friendly chat with your star attraction, Joey. Nothing to worry about.” He turns back to me. “You take care now, Lena. And if you happen to hear from Marco—or your detective friend—you let me know right away.”

With that, he strolls past me, Stompanato close behind. As the bodyguard passes, he leans in slightly.

“Nice dress,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. “I’ve always wondered what you look like out of it. Maybe when Mickey’s done with you, I’ll find out.”

I stiffen, fighting the urge to bare my fangs. By the time I turn around, they’re both gone, leaving me alone in the hallway with Joey, who looks as if he’s aged ten years in ten minutes.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

I nod, though I’m far from okay. “Just need a minute before the next set.”

In my dressing room, I sink onto the small sofa, hands trembling slightly. Cohen suspects something happened to Marco—something involving me and Callahan. And given Marco’s threats yesterday, that suspicion isn’t unreasonable.

But what if something did happen? What if Callahan followed Marco, confronted him again? What if…

No. Callahan isn’t a killer. He’s a PI, a man who believes in justice, in the system. He wouldn’t…

Would he?

The image of his face as he pummeled Marco flashes through my mind—the cold fury in his eyes, the barely restrained violence. He’d wanted to hurt Marco, that much was clear. But murder?

I shake my head, trying to clear it. I need help. I need allies who understand the world I inhabit, of the trouble I might be in.

I need Abe.

The phone sits on my dressing table, beckoning. I could call Callahan, but what if Cohen’s people are watching? What if they follow me? No, I need someone who can ensure I’m not followed, someone with abilities that can protect me.

I pick up the phone and dial.

“Yes.”

“Abe,” I whisper, relief flooding through me at the sound of his voice. “It’s Lena. I need help.”

There’s a pause, then: “What’s happened?”

“I can’t talk over the phone. Can you send Adonis to pick me up? At The Emerald Room?”

Another pause. “Of course. He’ll be there in forty minutes.”

I hang up, heart racing. Forty minutes. I can get through one more set, then slip out the back. Adonis can ensure no one follows us—his compulsion abilities are stronger than mine, able to make people forget they ever saw us.

The next forty minutes crawl by as I perform my second set, forcing a smile, ignoring the empty tables and nervous glances. Cohen is gone, but his presence lingers like smoke.

Finally, I take my last bow and hurry backstage. Joey intercepts me on my way to the dressing room.

“Car just pulled up out back,” he says quietly. “Guy says he’s here for you. Name’s Adonis.”

I nod, grateful for Joey’s discretion, while knowing that Adonis’s abilities are already taking effect on him. “Thanks. I might not be back for a few days. If anyone asks?—”

“You weren’t feeling well, needed time off,” he finishes. “I got you covered.”

I squeeze his arm in thanks, then slip through the back door into the alley where a black Ford Super Deluxe convertible idles, engine purring softly. The door opens as I approach, revealing Adonis’s familiar face—dark hair falling over one eye, quiet smile firmly in place despite the tension of the moment.

“Your carriage awaits,” he says, his voice lightly accented, a mix of Egyptian and Greek.