Page 109 of The Contract

“Yes!” She squeals triumphantly, bouncing on her toes. “Dante’s Inferno won’t know what fucking hit them.”

I nod slowly, convincing myself, my resolve clicking into place. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Mila pauses, skepticism shading her expression as she gives my sad t-shirt and bare feet a once-over. “Not like that, Captain Underpants. Minimum three-inch heels, or you don’t leave the apartment.”

I roll my eyes, reluctantly heading toward the closet. “You’re so bossy.”

“Boss of the circus monkeys,” she sing-songs smugly after me.

She chatters behind me, her voice becoming a blur of enough sin to burn Inferno to the ground. I tear through Kennedy’s closet, searching for something lethal enough to wear.

My fingers scrape silk, spandex, lace—and then cold, merciless steel slides across my palm.

The air punches from my lungs in a rush.

A knife. Da’s pocket knife.

Pain crashes through me in a suffocating wave, splitting the old wound wide open.

My fist clamps tight around the blade, knuckles whitening, tears stinging hot and ruthless as I grip it like it’s the last fucking piece of him left on this earth.

I lost Da.

I refuse to lose Kennedy too.

Marriage or not, she’s my sister. And maybe she chose darkness—but tonight, I’m carving a hole through it and dragging her back to the light.

Whatever it takes.

Whatever it costs.

Even if I have to serve a D’Angelo head straight to Knox’s boss on a silver platter, I will.

I have to.

Mila’s voice cuts through my thoughts—bright, reckless, tequila-fueled excitement already igniting every word. “Tonight, we’re leaving our mark on Dante’s Inferno. All the circles of hell. Committing every. Fucking. Sin!”

I rip a dress from the hanger and snatch a garter belt from the drawer, shoving my grief down beneath layers of don’t-fuck-with-me determination.

You bet your goddamned ass we are.

CHAPTER 36

Riley

Mila bumps my shoulder, eyes fixed lazily ahead. “You’re pouting.”

“I’m not pouting,” I snap, arms crossed tight against the cutting Chicago wind.

Pouting doesn’t cut it. This line? It’s where patience goes to die.

She snorts, utterly unfazed. How she manages to maintain this puppy-dog excitement after standing here for going on two hours is beyond me.

I scan the crowd, silently willing them to part like I’m Moses overlooking a sea.

I shift impatiently from one foot to the next. At the end of this line, there better be a fucking Disney ride.

A text pings. I check my phone.

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