The Velvet Cellar
Frankie Callahan knew his body the way a mechanic knows an engine: intimately, without sentiment, with a working appreciation for what each part was designed to do and what it could endure. At thirty-five, he was broad across the shoulders and thick through the chest, the kind of man who filled a doorway the way a storm fills a room. His knuckles were scarred from a decade of fighting in South...
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