Page 40 of The Contract

Hours tick by.

Me. The corner café. A two-dollar coffee that’s long since gone cold.

Seriously, I’ve been nursing it so long the waiter’s giving me the stink-eye every time he walks past. I glare right back and lift the nearly empty cup to my lips, sipping nothing but air.

Across the street, Kennedy’s dance studio pulses with activity. Hard hats swarm like ants, shadowed by suits blending as subtly as blood splattered across white linen.

The suits scan the street. Watching. Waiting. Circling the building like vultures over fresh meat.

Kennedy…

Because, of course, it would be just like a dickwad D’Angelo to extend her gilded cage across half the damn city.

Those have to be D’Angelo’s men.

Unless…it’s Zver’s.

No.

I shake my head, annoyed at myself. Right, Riley. Zver the Psycho is so fascinated by you that he sent a battalion of suits to babysit your sister. Please. Zver’s a lone wolf, probably knee-deep in fresh corpses without a spare thought for anyone, especially me.

A new sign is hoisted into place over the studio’s entrance. Renovating a dance studio doesn’t exactly scream ruthless kingpin. More like a dark fairytale offering. A gift from the underworld.

My thumbnail catches between my teeth as I scan the suits again. One of them pivots sharply and points right at me.

My heart rockets to my throat, and I snap the menu up over my face.

Breathe. Inhale, exhale.

Another careful peek—only to lock eyes with the pissed-off waiter instead.

“Another cup?” he asks pointedly.

“No, thanks,” I mutter.

He rolls his eyes and stalks off.

When I look back, one of the guards is now sprawled across my front step, stretched out like he’s making himself comfortable. Legs crossed at the ankle, casual as hell.

Fan-freaking-tastic.

Message received, assholes. Loud and clear.

He’s not going anywhere.

Before I can plot my next move, a plate clatters down in front of me. “Burger. Fries. Coke.”

I blink, annoyed. “I didn’t order?—”

My words dry up faster than my two-dollar coffee.

Because it’s not the waiter. It’s Dante. Dark eyes, smug grin, dropping into the seat across from me like he owns the place, daring me not to memorize every muscle beneath those jeans and charcoal tee.

A serpent tattoo peeks out from the sleeve of his bicep. Some men wear their hearts on their sleeves. Dante wears a warning.

My spine snaps straight. My glare locks onto him. “I’m a vegetarian,” I lie.

His eyebrow arches, amusement flashing briefly before he shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He pulls the burger closer, biting into it like it’s the best damn thing he’s ever tasted.

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