Page 3 of The Contract

And the one, I’m pretty sure, was going full-on commando.

Dante.

Okay, so maybe I know who he is.

Or more like, I know what he is.

A D’Angelo.

In my very desperate, very one-time phone call with him, I learned three things fast:

One, he’s a rich-prick nightclub owner.

Two, he all but tricked me into luring my sister straight into his brother’s path.

And three, he comes with more warnings than a Category 5 hurricane.

Case in point: My lady parts light up like a Vegas marquee at the mere sight of him. And if my love life were a fridge, it’d be covered in Worst Idea Ever magnets.

So yeah, straight to the shit list he goes.

Especially for the mammoth-sized uzi strapped under his kilt.

Before I spin around that orbit any more, or head for the confessional, I blink out of it. “No. Sorry, I just…”

I don’t even finish the sentence.

I stumble over a pew, catch myself, and hurry off, pushing through the doors and straight into the cold, desolate Chicago night…where not a soul is waiting for me.

Not Kennedy. Not one single guest from the over-the-top wedding.

Okay, so maybe I didn’t know exactly what I expected.

But was a five-minute reprieve to screw my head on straight and ogle a priest too much to ask?

Apparently.

Across the street, a sleek black Mercedes sits idle.

Waiting? Parked?

Hard to tell.

But considering there’s no one else on this street, it has to be for me. Right?

The road is empty. Midnight stretches long and quiet.

Still, I don’t move.

My feet hesitate just long enough to hear the heavy click of the church doors locking behind me.

Right. He sleeps there.

Where else would he sleep, Riley? A Marriott?

A sharp gust of wind whips past, rattling the trees and sending a shiver down my spine.

My heart slams against my ribs, a relentless battering ram driving me forward.

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