Page 52 of The Contract

He chuckles softly, a skin-crawling sound. “I need an answer, but my patience is wearing thin. Refuse, and I’ll make sure the shadiest assholes in Dante’s circle think you’ve been whispering sweet secrets to the Feds. Trust me, they’ll gladly trade intel for that little gem. By the time I’m done, your life won’t be worth a dime.”

My eyes cut sharply to Caleb, who’s suddenly fascinated by the cracked pavement beneath his feet.

Shaw shrugs, cold and practiced, the casual cruelty so routine it’s chilling. “The D’Angelos aren’t exactly known for forgiveness. I’d hate to be Kennedy when those seventy-two hours are up.”

My voice trembles with anger. “You’re bluffing.”

A practiced smile twists his lips. “Am I? Guess we’ll find out.”

A man in a dark suit and shades approaches briskly. “Mr. Shaw, we need to leave now to make your next appointment.”

Shaw’s stare never leaves mine. He clears his throat impatiently, eager to close the deal. “Well?”

He’s waiting for your answer, Riley.

I swallow back the acid rising in my throat, words scraping out bitterly. “Since you put it that way, I guess I’m in.”

“Good.” Shaw steps away, his driver—or bodyguard or whoever the hell he is—following close behind, their strides long and confident. Caleb climbs silently back into the driver’s seat and pulls away. Except for the white-knuckled grip on the wheel, he’s the picture of controlled calm.

I stare out the window, buildings and faceless strangers blurring into meaningless smears. My ordinary, peaceful life is right where it’s always been. Just out of reach, and slipping further and further away.

“I’m sorry about that,” Caleb says quietly, and already I’m sick of his voice.

“It’s fine,” I reply numbly. Mostly to shut him up before I start bawling on the spot.

I want the D’Angelos to suffer, no matter the cost. And I know this is my way in.

But how do I set the world on fire without watching Kennedy get burned alive?

Caleb pulls over a block from Kennedy’s place, stopping in front of the corner deli exactly as I requested. I’m dimly aware of his fingers drumming a restless rhythm against the steering wheel.

He nods slowly, gaze drifting thoughtfully across the humble, dilapidated neighborhood. “Now that you’re working with us, I’ll set you up somewhere nice. Make sure you’re safe, Riley.” A soft hesitation. “You and Kennedy.”

His promises drip like syrup on pancakes, sticky-sweet lies thick enough to choke on. I don’t bother responding.

“You’re bleeding,” he says suddenly.

I glance down, following his stare.

He’s right, of course.

Old habits die hard.

He hands me a greasy napkin, probably salvaged from whatever cheap dive he grabbed his takeout from. I snatch it from his fingers, dabbing half-heartedly at the blood because that’s what normal people do—even if a small, savage part of me would rather bleed all over his crappy upholstery.

I shove open the door, ready to bolt, but he thrusts out another grimy napkin for the road.

“I’ll wait to hear from you,” Caleb says.

“I’ll need time,” I insist. A deliberate stall.

“A month is standard. If you need more, let me know.” His gaze hardens slightly. “And if you need help brainstorming ways to infiltrate Dante’s world?—”

“Help?” I snap, gripping my breasts like they’re the biggest set of balls this side of Chicago. “According to your boss, these are all the brainstorming I need.”

I slam the door hard enough to rattle the windows.

Buttheads.

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