Page 14 of Nocturne

13

CALLAHAN

T he taste of her lingers on my tongue.

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling as dawn filters through the blinds, casting stripes across my chest. Sleep came fitfully, interrupted by dreams of Lena—her scent, her skin, the sounds she made when I took her against the dressing room vanity. The way she looked in the mirror, mouth open, pure lust.

I close my eyes, feeling the ghost of her body against mine, and my cock stirs in response. Christ, what’s happening to me? I’ve never behaved like that with a woman before—demanding, possessive, almost brutal in my need. Something savage took over in that dressing room, something I barely recognized as myself.

Yet I can’t muster any real regret, only a growing hunger for more.

More, I want so much more.

The memory of Lena’s dress still bearing evidence of my claim as she returned to the stage sends another surge of heat through me. Marking her like that in front of Marco and his cronies was reckless, dangerous, even if they didn’t quite know what I’d done backstage. But they could have interrupted us. Found us. I could have put her at risk. Could have put us both at risk.

The thought of Marco Russo brings a wave of rage so sudden and intense that I have to grip the sheets to steady myself. The image of his hands on Lena, his ownership of her, makes the blood boil in my veins. It’s more than jealousy—it’s something primal, territorial.

Mine, not his.

I shake my head, trying to clear these possessive thoughts. Lena isn’t mine. She isn’t anyone’s. But that doesn’t stop the fierce, protective fury that rises whenever I think of Marco touching her, let alone anyone else.

I force myself out of bed, downing two aspirin for the pounding in my skull. The blackout in Elysian Park two days ago was the worst yet—nearly twelve hours lost, and waking with the taste of blood in my mouth. I know I need to seek help for this, but there isn’t any time.

Right now, I have to see her again.

She’s the real medicine I need.

I make it as far as the telephone before reason reasserts itself. What exactly is my plan? Show up at her apartment, demand more of whatever madness overtook us last night? I’ve got a murder investigation to focus on—two murders that are clearly connected, now that we know about Sylvia Winters. I need to keep my head clear to solve those and prevent more from happening. Something tells me this killer won’t stop with Elizabeth Short. It’s only a matter of time.

Instead, I call Norma at the office, tell her I’ll be out following leads today. She doesn’t ask which leads. Smart woman.

By noon, I find myself parked half a block from Lena’s apartment building anyway.

It’s just professional surveillance , I tell myself. Marco Russo represents a direct connection to Cohen, who’s connected to the Europeans, who are likely behind the murders. Following Marco could lead to a breakthrough in the case. Right?

It’s a thin justification, but it’s all I’ve got.

Three hours pass with no sign of Marco or Lena. I smoke through half a pack of cigarettes, scan the newspaper twice, and fight the urge to march up to her apartment and knock on the door. Just as I’m about to give up, a black Cadillac pulls up to the curb. Marco Russo steps out, straightening his tie before heading into the building.

Something cold settles in my gut.

I wait five minutes—the longest five minutes of my life—then exit my car, crossing the street with deliberate casualness. The lobby of the Alto Nido is empty except for a drowsy desk clerk who barely glances up from his racing form as I pass. No one stops me as I take the stairs to the third floor.

I don’t know which apartment is Lena’s, but I don’t need to. Marco’s voice carries down the hallway, sharp with anger. I follow the sound, moving quietly until I reach a door near the end of the corridor. 3F.

“—flaunting yourself like a common whore,” Marco’s voice seethes through the door. “In his office. At the diner. In my club, in front of my people.”

“It’s not your club, Marco.” Lena’s voice is level, controlled. “And I’m not your property, no matter how many times you say it.”

“Everything in that club belongs to Mickey, which means it belongs to me. Including you. And you can lie all you want, but I know that detective was with you last night. I know it. I could see it on your face. That spotlight hides none of your sins.”

“I think you should leave.”

A crash, like something being thrown. “You don’t tell me what to do, Red. That’s now how it works. I tell you. I tell you and you do it, like the obedient bitch you are.”

I move closer to the door, every muscle tense.

Glass breaks.

A thud.

“Get your hands off me—” Lena’s voice, suddenly tight with pain. “Please, stop! Marco, stop!” She cries out.

That’s all it takes.

I step back and kick hard at the door, just beside the lock. The wood splinters and the door flies open, banging against the wall. The scene before me burns into my brain: Lena pressed against the wall, Marco’s hand around her throat, her eye swelling.

For a moment, everyone freezes. Then Marco’s face twists with rage as he releases Lena and turns to face me.

“You picked the wrong door to kick down, Callahan.”

“And you picked the wrong woman to put your hands on.” My voice sounds distant to my own ears, cold and dangerous. The rage building inside me is unlike anything I’ve felt before—white-hot and consuming.

Marco reaches inside his jacket. I move before he can draw his weapon, closing the distance between us in two strides. My first punch catches him in the solar plexus, doubling him over. The second connects with his jaw, sending him staggering back.

“Callahan, don’t!” Lena starts, but I’m beyond hearing.

Marco recovers quickly, a fighter’s instinct. He swings, a right hook that would have knocked me cold if it had landed. I duck under it, feeling the old boxer’s rhythm return. Jab, cross, slip, hook. Simple combinations, but effective. I land two shots to his ribs, hear the satisfying crack of bone.

He’s stronger than he looks, though, and he already looked like an ox. A wild swing connects with my temple, sending stars across my vision. He follows with a knee to my gut that drives the air from my lungs. I stumble back, gasping, as he pulls a switchblade from his pocket.

“I’m going to carve up your pretty face, detective,” he growls, the blade glinting in the afternoon light. “Then I’m going to make you watch while I carve her up too.”

The rage crystallizes into something cold and focused. Time seems to slow as he lunges forward, blade aimed at my abdomen. I sidestep, grabbing his wrist and twisting until the knife clatters to the floor. Then I’m on him, all technique forgotten as I drive my fists into his face again and again.

I don’t stop until I feel arms around me, pulling me back.

“Callahan! Stop, you’ll kill him!”

Good.

But Lena’s voice breaks through the fog of violence, brings a whisper of clarity. I want him dead, but not like this. I let her pull me away, chest heaving, knuckles split and bleeding. Marco lies on the floor, face a mess of blood, barely conscious.

“Get out,” I tell him, my voice a rasp. “Get out and don’t come back here.”

Marco spits blood onto the floor and pushes himself to his knees. “You’re dead, Callahan. Both of you.”

“Touch her again and they’ll never find your body.” The words come from somewhere deep and dark inside me, and I mean every one of them.

He staggers to his feet, using the wall for support. His eyes, nearly swollen shut, fix on Lena. “Mickey will hear about this. You think I’m the worst thing that can happen to you? Just wait.”

“Get out,” I repeat, taking a step toward him, raising my fists to remind him there’s a lot more where this came from.

I can go all night.

He backs toward the door, hatred radiating from him in waves. “This isn’t over, baby. By tomorrow night, there won’t be enough of you left for your detective to mourn.”

Then he’s gone, leaving a trail of blood droplets in his wake.

The apartment falls silent except for our breathing. I turn to Lena, the rage draining away, replaced by concern as I take in her appearance. Somehow she doesn’t look as bad as I first thought, her swollen eye already seeming to recede. I reach out, gently touching her face.

“Are you alright?” I whisper.

She nods, though she’s trembling slightly. “I’ve had worse. Nothing some makeup can’t handle.”

The casual way she says it stokes the embers of my anger. “How long has he been hitting you?”

“Does it matter?”

“It matters to me.” My voice comes out rough, raw, my chest a mix of potent feelings for her coming to a head.

She moves away from my touch, crossing to a small bar cart in the corner of the living room. “It’s not the first time. Probably won’t be the last.”

“It will be the last,” I say with quiet certainty. “I meant what I said.”

“Which was what?”

“You’re mine, not his.”

She hesitates and then pours two fingers of whiskey into a crystal tumbler and hands it to me. “You shouldn’t have done that. Marco’s not the type to forgive and forget.”

“I don’t care. I honestly fucking don’t.”

“Well, you should.” She pours a drink for herself, barely sipping it. “He wasn’t lying about Mickey Cohen. If Marco tells him what happened here…”

“Let him.” The whiskey burns a path down my throat, dulling the ache in my knuckles. “Cohen doesn’t scare me.”

“Then you’re a fool.” But there’s no heat in her words, just weary resignation.

I look around her apartment for the first time, taking in the details. It’s elegantly furnished but sparsely decorated—a few art prints on the walls, bookshelves filled with volumes of poetry and philosophy, a record player in the corner with a stack of jazz albums beside it. No photographs, no personal mementos. Like a space someone inhabits but doesn’t truly live in.

It gives me no further insight into who she really is.

And to think, last night, buried deep inside her pussy, I thought somehow I’d known her.

“You should go,” she says, setting down her barely touched drink. “It’s not safe for you to be here.”

“What about you? It’s not safe for you either.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Like you were doing when I walked in?” I wince at how sharp my words are.

Her eyes flash with anger. “You don’t know anything about me or my situation, Callahan. You don’t know what I’ve survived. What I’ll do to keep surviving.”

“Then tell me.” I step closer to her, drawn by some force I can’t resist. “Let me help you.”

For a moment, something vulnerable crosses her face, a yearning that mirrors my own. I saw that same yearning in her eyes last night, when she let herself give in to me.

Then it’s gone, replaced by careful neutrality. “I don’t need saving.”

“Everyone needs saving sometimes, kitten.” I reach for her hand, feel that same electric current when our skin connects. “Even you.”

She pulls away, wrapping her arms around herself. “What happened last night…between us…it was a mistake. I was vulnerable, you were there. That’s all.”

The rejection stings more than it should. “Is that what you tell yourself? That it didn’t mean anything?”

“It can’t mean anything. Not with everything that’s happening. You said it yourself, Callahan. You don’t know me. Maybe there’s a reason for that. Maybe I don’t want you to get any closer.”

That should hurt. The words are meant to. But I study her face, seeing the conflict in her eyes. “You’re lying. To me, to yourself.”

“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.