Page 104 of The Contract

I’m too busy juggling Dante’s twisted mind-fuckery while desperately plotting how to pry Kennedy free of Enzo’s iron grip.

Not that I have a snowball’s chance in hell at that.

Enzo’s untouchable. Wealthy, dangerous, and psychotic, according to every news outlet in Chicago.

And Kennedy married him.

Her wedding-of-the-century to the monster who put a bullet straight through Da’s chest, and I need to know why.

I yank the comforter over my head, desperate to suffocate the fury burning through every nerve-ending in my body.

Maybe Dante’s right. Maybe Kennedy wants to be with him, blood-stained hands and all.

Right. And maybe Satan just opened a gelato shop in hell.

Yeah—zero fucking chance.

Ever.

My ringtone—Mila’s godforsaken “Barbie Girl”—slices viciously through the silence.

With a growl, I flip on the lights and glare at my phone wedged deep in the trash, nestled among ramen cups, crushed cigarette packs, and Inferno matchbooks.

Whatever.

“In a Barbie world!” shrieks again. She is fucking relentless. Grimacing, I fish the damn thing out gingerly, quietly thanking karma it wasn’t the bathroom trash—two girls, irregular cycles, enough said.

Blessed silence lasts exactly three seconds before the damn thing shrieks again.

“…made of plastic, it’s fantastic!” drills mercilessly into my skull.

Growling, I jab at the speakerphone. “Speak now or forever hold your peace, O evil one.”

“I’m rescuing you,” Mila chirps, annoyingly cheerful. “I believe the phrase you’re looking for is, ‘Thank you, Mila. You’re amazing.’”

“Pass.” My voice is flat as stale beer.

“Don’t make me send masked hotties to kidnap you.”

“Promises,” I murmur darkly.

Instantly, my traitorous imagination conjures the shadowy watcher.

Was he wearing a mask? Is that why his face was hidden?

And why does the thought spike my pulse instead of scare the shit out of me?

Oh, right. Because therapy is definitely in my near future.

“Are you even listening?” Mila snaps.

I fake an over-the-top yawn. “Nope. Sleeping.”

“You’re a vampire. Vampires don’t sleep.”

Annoyingly correct. A part of my former toxic relationship with the dark.

“Just promise this isn’t about some guy,” she sighs dramatically. “Because if some asshole broke your heart, I swear to God, I’ll slash his tires, decorate his windshield with glittery ‘DICKHEAD’—all caps—or just straight-up shit on the hood of his car. Your call. Say the word.”

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