Page 188 of The Contract

“Emilio,” I say, breathing fire as I speak. I grit my teeth. Time for another bad apple to fall. Shit, which reminds me. “I need something from the?—”

“Bunker?” He nods. “New tattoos?”

Dominic reads my mind, already knowing a new set has been delivered.

My tattoo artist sends fresh sets every week. An exclusive product from the best in the world. Ghost ink. No trace. No questions.

Just clean sheets of temporary tattoos, each one made to last a month, though they never fucking do. Hence the stockpile.

With Dante, lethal serpents. For Zver, rose-covered skulls. An homage to my girl. Pretty on the outside. Fucking lethal underneath.

None of it’s permanent.

It can’t be. Not yet.

“I’ll be taking Ms. Mullvain on her usual errands. I can drop by the church.”

Father Marc. My trusted agent. The man is a fucking vault.

And my stand-in when Zver and Dante needed to be seen in the same room.

And the only man who can get within five feet of the secret bunker without raising suspicion—considering it sits smack between St. Michael’s and the bank.

Which, by design, shielded us from the blast.

Well. Almost.

Dominic’s hand reminds me every fucking day: Stick to the plan.

When Trinity called out, I almost answered. Almost gave in.

Dominic yanked me through the doorway just as the fire kissed my back—and scorched his hand.

But after over two months, the scars have all but healed.

On the surface, at least.

I nod. “Bring cash.”

The three women holed up down there—fresh rescues from that fucking auction.

Twenty-two down. Nine to go.

The loss of three will be taken out on Emilio’s ears, eyelids, and balls. In that order.

“The cemetery again?” I ask, peeling off my gloves and scrubbing my hands in the utility sink.

He nods. “Every day.”

I know.

Two cameras hidden inside.

She lays on my tombstone and sobs.

So fucking weird?—

And somehow, watching the only woman to hate me wish I was alive?

---