Chapter 39
MARCO
The precinct was exactly as I remembered it. I’d been here enough times—not on this side of the law, typically, but that line had blurred a long time ago.
The deputy at the front gave me a tired nod, waving me back without bothering to check my ID. He’d seen enough men in expensive suits after hours to know asking questions wasn’t wise.
I slipped through the familiar hallways toward the interrogation rooms, already braced for Sebastian’s cocky smirk, his hostility.
But when I swung open the last door on the left, it wasn’t Sebastian sitting there.
It was James Callahan, leaning back in the steel chair with his sleeves rolled up, looking like he’d been here too long already. He glanced up as I walked in.
“Marco,” James said, straightening slowly. His voice was smooth—nothing like his brother’s smugness. “Long time.”
I leaned against the closed door, crossing my arms loosely. He’d never crossed fully into our world, but he understood it too well to be comfortable. Too well to sleep easy at night.
“You’re not who I was expecting,” I admitted evenly.
James smiled. “You were expecting Sebastian. Sorry to disappoint. You missed him by ten minutes.”
I bit back a curse, irritation tightening my jaw. Perfect. Of course Sebastian was gone. Not that I’d expected him to wait around politely. But now he had a head start, and with him, that was never a good thing.
I shifted, running a hand absently through my hair, trying not to look too obvious.
But fuck, this situation was already starting to grate, and James’s glare wasn’t helping. He always looked at me like he was five steps ahead, waiting for the rest to catch up.
He watched me carefully, noticing everything but saying nothing. He was the kind of guy who could read a room faster than most men could blink.
Special Agent James Callahan. The bureau’s golden boy, with his photographic memory and profiler’s instinct.
Hell, it had taken him less than twenty-four hours to connect me and Sebastian a few years back, all from a single grainy photo in a pile of Special Forces paperwork.
It had been enough for him to remember my face permanently. Enough to make me wary ever since.
Now he was standing here with his sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. His FBI credentials hung subtly from the waistband of his dark slacks, next to a standard-issue glock.
“You look a little tense,” James remarked. “Sebastian being out got you worried?”
“No,” I muttered, keeping my voice dry, but I shifted my weight again without thinking, the nervous habit betraying me. Fuck. I was off my game, and James wasn’t the type to miss details like that.
“Interesting. Usually, Sebastian’s release wouldn’t be something you’d sweat.”
I fought the urge to grit my teeth. “You profiling me now, James?”
He gave a quiet laugh, shaking his head slowly. “Old habits die hard. But I’m serious. Sebastian left here with a very specific agenda. Whatever your business was with him, he hasn’t let it go.”
“He’ll get bored,” I said, though I didn’t believe it. Sebastian didn’t get bored. Sebastian got even. He was the type to hold onto grudges with a white-knuckle grip, until everyone around him felt the burn.
James seemed to read every thought, every doubt playing behind my eyes.
His eyes narrowed slightly, clearly cataloguing the way I shifted my weight again; the way my fingers tapped against my forearm in quiet irritation.
The guy had an unnerving ability to strip people bare without ever saying a word.
“Look,” he said finally, lowering his voice just enough to imply the seriousness he didn’t need to spell out, “I’m not here because I want to babysit my brother.
I’ve got cases piling up in DC and bosses wondering why I’ve taken leave at a moment’s notice.
But Sebastian’s . . .” He paused briefly, choosing his words carefully.
“Complicated. And the minute I heard he was locked up down here, I knew you’d be involved, one way or another. You always are when it comes to him.”
“Not involved,” I corrected, shaking my head slightly. “Not this time.”
“Maybe not directly. But Sebastian holds grudges tighter than most. You more than anyone know that. And from where I’m standing, he’s got every intention of making this personal.”
“He’s always made it personal. Not much I can do about that.”
“Maybe,” James agreed quietly. “But this time he’s fixated. Focused. I’ve seen it before. The quiet before he decides to strike—and when he does, it’s never clean.”
My gut twisted uneasily. James wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know, but hearing it from him made the threat feel suddenly real.
Tangible.
Sebastian wasn’t bluffing, wasn’t just pissed off. He was mad. He’d been sitting on this for weeks, locked up, planning exactly how to hit me hardest.
Valentina.
The thought flashed through my head before I could stop it, and James immediately caught the subtle tension shift in my posture. Damn profilers.
“What did you guys get into? He got leverage on you or something?”
“He’s reaching,” I said, trying to dismiss the thought before it fully formed. “He doesn’t have leverage on me.”
James tilted his head again. “Come on, Marco. You’ve got a tell, you know. Your left hand.” He nodded toward my fingers still tapping irritably against my forearm. “Always restless when you’re worried.”
I stopped tapping, my jaw tightening subtly.
He gave me a small smile. “Look, just do us both a favor. Handle this. I’m tired of cleaning up Sebastian’s messes, and you’re tired of dealing with the fallout. Deal?”
James wasn’t the enemy—not exactly—but he wasn’t on my side either. His loyalty began and ended with family, even when that family was a walking liability.
“Sure,” I muttered finally, pushing away from the wall. “You enjoy the paperwork.”
James gave me a dry look. “I appreciate your concern.”
“I figured you would,” I replied, already halfway out the door, leaving him with a pile of forms and Sebastian-size headaches. If nothing else, watching the bureau’s golden boy stuck with late-night paperwork offered a sliver of satisfaction, however fleeting.
I moved quickly through the precinct, the hollow echo of my shoes bouncing off the white walls.
I hadn’t bothered to ask where Sebastian was.
No point—James had said it clearly enough.
The only question that mattered was whether he’d already found Valentina.
And if he had, how much damage he’d done.
If Sebastian didn’t reach her first, I’d have to kill him—simple.
I wasn’t thrilled about it, but hell, Sebastian had always been a pain in the ass anyway.
Bastard probably had it coming. The idea of dumping his body in the Manhattan crossed my mind, and for a split second I almost smiled.
Problem was, that would open up too many messy cans of worms, and I wasn’t exactly in the mood for a family war.
Besides, there were less bloody solutions—like swallowing my pride and striking another deal.
I knew Sebastian well enough to understand what he’d want.
He’d asked me once before, politely, if I’d consider working with him again.
I’d said no. Now I might not have the luxury of turning him down—not if it meant keeping Valentina from knowing exactly who she’d married.
Because the thing was, Sebastian held one very particular card over me: Cillian.
That whole mess had started out simple. Knock, knock, shoot, done.
One quick shot to the head after he’d swung open his front door, as easy as ordering pizza.
No struggle, no fanfare. I hadn’t thought twice about it.
Hell, I hadn’t even stepped inside—just closed the door and walked away as calm as ever, leaving him bleeding on his own doorstep.
Except Cillian had a wife. I hadn’t known that part—guess I’d spent too much damn time in Chicago and too little time keeping track of who owed who in the circle. An amateur mistake I never would’ve made if I’d bothered with my homework.
Valentina had called the cops almost instantly.
Poor girl was hysterical, according to the reports I saw later, standing barefoot in her husband’s blood, trembling and screaming into the phone.
Rumor had it she wasn’t crying because she loved him.
Apparently, love had nothing to do with it.
She’d been crying because Cillian’s death meant losing the money she desperately needed to pay for her mom’s medical treatments.
She’d been forced to beg, barter, and claw her way out of it ever since.
And I was the domino that tipped the whole fucking thing into chaos.
I’d never pitied her, exactly—Valentina wasn’t the type who’d want pity even if I offered it—but guilt?
Yeah, that was harder to avoid. At first, I’d told myself that was all it was.
Guilt. Responsibility. Hell, maybe some twisted sense of obligation.
But then I’d met her—really met her—and things had started to shift.
Turned out I didn’t just feel guilty; I actually liked her. Her sarcasm, her stubbornness, the way she threw every damn curveball right back at me. The more time I spent around her, the harder it got to keep things simple. To keep her at arm’s length. She made everything messy and complicated.
Personal.
And now Sebastian had found that weakness.
He’d exploit it—gladly, smugly. He’d tell her exactly who’d pulled that trigger—no hesitation, no remorse—and I’d be left picking up pieces I wasn’t even sure could fit back together.
Fuck. Sebastian Callahan had just become the biggest problem in my life, and I was running out of options that didn’t involve a body bag.