Page 8 of Nocturne

7

LENA

M arco’s hand tightens around my upper arm. Even through my coat, I can feel his fingers digging into my flesh, his attempt to mark me.

“You think you’re clever, huh?” His voice is dangerously low, the way it gets before the storm breaks. “You think my boys don’t tell me when some detective comes sniffing around my girl?”

We’re standing in the narrow hallway of my apartment building. After he picked me up outside the Musso & Frank’s, I knew I was in a world of trouble. He kept his cool for the entire ride but I knew his anger was only simmering underneath, ready to erupt. The problem with Marco is that you never know when.

“He’s investigating Elizabeth’s murder,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “Of course he’d question me.”

Marco’s eyes narrow. At forty-three, he still has the boxer’s physique that made him useful to Mickey Cohen—broad shoulders, thick neck, hands that can both caress and crush with equal ease. The broken nose and the scar along his right cheekbone only add to the dangerous aura that drew me to him initially. Now they just remind me of his capacity for violence.

“You had coffee with him.” He spits the words like an accusation. “In public. At Musso’s. Why did he lie to Leo if he didn’t have nothing to hide, huh?”

“I wasn’t aware I needed permission to drink coffee,” I say, immediately regretting the edge in my voice.

His grip tightens, and I have to focus on keeping my true nature in check. The urge to bare my fangs, to remind him just how outmatched he truly is, pulses beneath my human facade. But exposure means death in this world—if not mine, then certainly his.

And bodies create questions I can’t afford right now.

“Don’t get smart with me, Lena.” He yanks me closer, breath hot against my face. “That pretty mouth of yours is good for singing and dick-sucking, but don’t test me.”

I meet his gaze steadily, trying to compel him. It’s how I’ve gotten out of this so many times before. “Let go of my arm, Marco.”

For a moment, I think he might escalate. I can see the calculation in his eyes—we’re alone in the hallway, no witnesses, in an apartment where people mind their own business a little too much, and I’ve never fought back before. He doesn’t know I can’t afford to.

But, gosh, do I want to.

Then his subconscious obeys. He releases me with a little shove toward my door.

“Stay away from the detective.” It’s not a request. “Mickey’s got interests in this Dahlia business. We don’t need some ex-boxer with a PI license stirring things up.”

The mention of Elizabeth by that horrible newspaper nickname makes my stomach turn. “You knew her too, Marco. Don’t you want to find who did that to her?”

Something passes across his face—not guilt exactly, but a kind of wariness. “What’s done is done. Let the cops chase their tails on this one.”

An interesting response.

“I need a nap,” I say, fishing my keys from my purse. “Then get ready for the show tonight.”

Marco steps back, suddenly all charm again, the mercurial shift I’ve come to expect. “I’ll be there. Front row.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Save a song for me.”

I watch him saunter down the hallway, whistling a tune, broad shoulders shifting under his expensive suit, before I unlock my door and step inside, exhaling only when the deadbolt slides into place.

The apartment feels colder than usual, though the radiator hisses and clanks in the corner. I shed my coat, hanging it in the closet before moving to the kitchen to make tea. My thoughts drift to Callahan as I wait for the water to boil.

Victor Callahan. Even his name feels reverent in my mind. There’s something about him that unsettles me—not just his slight immunity to my influence, but something deeper. A familiarity I can’t place, like I know him somehow.

Enough that I actually told him about the diary. I don’t know why I did that, honestly. It was like I thought I could trust him, though now I’m having second thoughts. I should have second thoughts.

Especially when I saw that heat his eyes, the way they blazed when I told him what he really wanted was a good fuck with me. I noticed the way his pupils dilated, how his jaw tightened—I could smell the arousal coming off him. That man wants me, that’s no surprise, but what got me was how much I found myself wanting him. For a moment I imagined myself slipping under the table and getting out his cock, wanting nothing more than to see that carefully controlled exterior slip away as I took him deep.

The kettle whistles, pulling me from my reverie. Christ, I’m getting turned on just standing here.

As I pour water over the tea leaves, I force myself to stop thinking about Callahan’s dick and all the trouble it could get me in, and make a decision. Marco’s warning has only strengthened my resolve to find out what happened to Elizabeth. And if Callahan is the key to uncovering the truth, then Marco’s jealousy be damned.

I have connections of my own to leverage.

The address from Elizabeth’s diary leads me to a nondescript building in the warehouse district. The afternoon sun casts long shadows between the industrial structures, the streets nearly deserted as workers finish their shifts. I park my car a block away and approach on foot, grateful for the sensible shoes I chose instead of my usual heels.

Betty had marked this location with a simple star. No notes, no explanation—just a star and the date, two weeks before her death. Is it the same warehouse she says she saw someone strapped to a table, the one with the symbols? Guess I’ll find out.

The building appears abandoned, windows boarded, loading dock padlocked. I circle around, looking for any sign of recent activity. At the back, I find what I’m seeking: a side door with a fresh lock, inconsistent with the building’s overall neglect.

I close my eyes, extending my senses beyond human capability. No heartbeats inside. No sounds of movement. If someone uses this place, they’re not here now.

But even with my abilities, the lock is substantial. I can’t pick it and though I might be able to break it down with my strength, that will only make it look like a break-in and raise people’s suspicion. I’ll need to return with better tools, or perhaps?—

“Looking for something, Ms. Reid?”

I whirl around, cursing my distraction. Victor Callahan stands a few yards away, hat tipped low against the afternoon sun, hands in the pockets of his overcoat. He looks impossibly solid against the industrial landscape, like he was carved from the same materials as the warehouses themselves.

“Mr. Callahan.” I recover quickly, clearing my throat. “Yet another coincidence.”

“Is it?” His mouth quirks slightly. “You’re a fair distance from your usual haunts.”

“I could say the same for you.” I glance meaningfully at the warehouse. “Following me again, detective?”

“Professional curiosity.” He steps closer, and I catch that scent again—amber, tobacco, and that undefinable something that makes my senses heighten. That makes my blood run hot. Makes my legs want to squeeze together.

“Is that so?” I manage to say. “And so how are you here then?”

“This address was mentioned in Elizabeth Short’s circle. I’m guessing you knew that already.”

“Elizabeth had it written down in her diary. No explanation, just a date.”

“I see. A cab driver remembered dropping her off here,” he tells me. “She seemed nervous, he said.”

Callahan moves past me to examine the door, his shoulder brushing mine in the narrow passage. That same electric jolt passes between us, and he pauses, eyes meeting mine for a moment too long before turning his attention to the lock.

“Can’t get in?” he asks, voice casual as he tests the handle.

“No. I’m not much of a lock picker.”

He nods. “You casing the place?” There’s no accusation in his tone, just mild amusement. “Or trying to cover something up?”

“Investigating,” I correct him, annoyed that he’d think I’ve got something to hide. Well, more than the usual. “The same as you.”

He turns to face me, leaning against the door, the brim of his hat keeping his face in shadow, except for the jut of his strong chin and those lips that look more enticing by the second.

“You should have told me you were planning a visit here,” he says.

“If I had, would you have let me come alone?”

He smirks. “Absolutely not.”

I take a step closer, noting how he doesn’t back away. “I like a protective man,” I tell him. “Not sure I need one, though.”

“I have feeling you don’t know what you need, dollface,” he says, the implication hanging in the air, causing the tension between us to become something palpable.

“The truth, Callahan. The truth about Betty.”

“Then we’re on the same page. Wouldn’t you say?”

I know he’s right. “We do seem to be working the same angles. Might be more efficient to pool our resources.”

Something shifts in his expression—interest, perhaps, or wariness. “Marco Russo wouldn’t approve of that arrangement.”

“Marco doesn’t own me.”

Callahan studies me carefully. “No,” he says finally. “I don’t believe he does.” A pause. “Though he seems to think otherwise.”

“My relationship with Marco is…complicated.” I offer no further explanation.

“Most things worth having are.” His gaze is too perceptive, seeing too much. “He someone worth having?”

I swallow hard and change the subject. “Do you have a way past this lock, or are we just going to stand here admiring it?”

A genuine smile this time, transforming his face from merely handsome to something that makes my chest tighten. He reaches into his pocket and produces a set of lock picks.

“Ladies first,” he says, stepping aside after working the lock with practiced efficiency.

The warehouse interior is cavernous and dark, what little daylight filters through cracks in the boarded windows revealing a mostly empty space. The air smells of dust, mildew, and something metallic and familiar that makes my throat constrict.

Blood.

Old blood.

Callahan moves with surprising silence for a man his size, making his way toward the center of the space. I follow, my vampire vision adjusting quickly to the dimness. There are marks on the concrete floor—dark stains that would be nearly invisible to human eyes, but to me, they tell a story of violence.

“There was a table here,” Callahan says, crouching to examine the floor. “Heavy. Left these scratches.”

I kneel beside him, careful not to touch the stains. “How can you see that in this light?”

He glances up, momentarily confused, then shrugs. “Good eyes.”

Too good , I think, filing away another anomaly about Victor Callahan.

“What do you think happened here?” I ask, playing human, though my senses are screaming the answer.

“Nothing good.” He rises, scanning the walls. “But whatever it was, they cleaned up thoroughly afterward.”

I follow his gaze. The walls are bare except for… wait . I move closer to the eastern wall, where faint outlines are visible beneath a hasty coat of whitewash.

“Callahan,” I call softly. “Look at this.”

He joins me, standing close enough that I can feel his body heat. Together we study the partially obscured markings—symbols I recognize from Elizabeth’s diary. Symbols that seem to call to me like something from my past.

My blood runs cold. Elizabeth had stumbled onto something far worse than Cohen’s criminal operations. I know it.

“What is it?” Callahan asks, voice low.

“They’re the same ones in her diary,” I say, tracing the air above one symbol without touching the wall. “Some kind of…cult symbols, maybe? A weird religion?”

Before he can respond, a noise from outside freezes us both. Car doors slamming. Multiple footsteps approaching.

Callahan’s hand finds the small of my back, guiding me toward the rear exit. “Time to go,” he whispers.

We slip out the back door just as the front entrance crashes open. Keeping low, we make our way along the building’s edge to the narrow gap between warehouses. The voices inside are muffled, but the tone is unmistakable—anger, urgency.

One voice rises above the others, accented and commanding. “Someone was here. Check the surrounding buildings.”

Callahan pulls me into the shadow of a loading dock as footsteps circle the building. His body shields mine, arm braced against the wall beside my head. We’re close enough that I can count his heartbeats, feel the warmth of his breath against my hair.

For a moment, the danger recedes, and all I’m aware of is his proximity—the slight tremor in his muscles, the scent of his skin, the way his gaze drops briefly to my lips before returning to my eyes. It’s all-consuming, taking over every cell in my body, slowly but surely. When he moves slightly, I swear I feel the hard press of his cock against my thigh, making my mouth water.

The moment stretches, electric and dangerous. I find myself leaning imperceptibly closer, drawn by something beyond physical attraction. Something deep and primal that’s been hiding in my blood.

His free hand rises, hesitating just shy of touching my face.

Do it , I think. Touch me. Kiss me. Fuck me.

Part of me is scared I might reach him, might compel him.

Scared he might do it.

The spell breaks at the sound of approaching footsteps. A man in a dark suit appears at the end of the alley, scanning the shadows. He looks directly at our hiding place, but his gaze slides past without recognition.

After he moves on, we remain frozen for several breaths.

“Friend of yours?” Callahan whispers, still pressed close.

“Not that I know,” I reply. “We should separate. They’re probably looking for me, not you.”

He frowns. “I’m not leaving you?—”

“I can handle myself,” I interrupt. “Trust me.”

His reluctance is palpable. “You sure?”

“I’m sure. I’m a big girl. I’ve survived this long. And being seen with me right now will only lead to trouble.”

He nods, conceding. “Be careful, Lena.”

The use of my first name startles me. More startling still is how natural it sounds in his voice.

It feels like a song.

“Always am,” I murmur, slipping from beneath his arm.

I make my way back to my car through a maze of side streets, mind racing with implications. The symbols on the wall, the blood, strange men searching the warehouse—it all connects to Elizabeth’s murder, I’m certain of that now.

But how?

And why can’t I shake the feeling that Victor Callahan is somehow part of this mystery too? Not just investigating it, but embedded within it in ways neither of us yet understands.