Page 61 of The Contract

My gaze drops, zeroing in on a petite waif who probably hasn’t seen a decent meal since birth. Anger flickers through my gut. But…Jesus fucking Christ. “I can’t hire her. She’s a child.”

Her eyes sharpen, steel flashing beneath lush unmascaraed lashes. “She needs a job—a safe one.” Something raw threads her voice, a plea scraping against the coal-black thing passing for my heart. A request I nearly manage to brush off because…who the fuck thinks I’m safe?

Then she whispers, “Please.”

Fuck me.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Fine. You audition. Next week. She does not. If she’s at least eighteen, maybe we make her a barback.”

“Next week?” She squeaks, disbelief flashing in her eyes. “I can’t wait that long.”

“You don’t have a choice,” I counter. “There’s a process. A background check.” Including a health check, but I don’t share that just yet. “And, a contract.”

“But—”

“But what?” I lean in, a wicked smile tugging at my lips. “What’s your rush, Pom?”

She blinks up at me, wide-eyed innocence at odds with the nervous tug on her too-short skirt. One that has me imagining pinning her up against the nearest wall.

Does she really think I have no idea she and dipshit Knox are up to something?

Sure, I don’t actually need a week. And her friend, the one with the bruise she keeps trying to hide, will start today. I’ll make sure of it.

But a week buys me time.

Time to dig up whatever twisted web Riley’s managed to tangle herself in.

Time to wrench my head from my ass, ditch my obsession, and get my priorities straight. No matter how deliciously distracting she is.

And maybe, just maybe, time to navigate the razor’s edge between my enemies’ knives at my throat and finally cement ties with the Keenans.

After a full year of blood, sweat, and torture, it all hinges on this week. My alliance with the Keenans is my key to controlling Chicago and my express ticket straight to hell.

The Keenans are savages. Vicious, blood-thirsty animals. The single most brutal syndicate this side of the Atlantic…

Well, other than us.

The difference? The D’Angelos don’t feast on the innocent. The Keenans devour them like goddamn hors d’oeuvres.

They’d circle Riley like feral raccoons around a sugar-glazed donut, and I need to keep her the fuck away.

“One week,” I repeat firmly. “Take it or leave it.”

She studies me warily, clearly weighing her options.

Good. She should be cautious. She should reconsider. Run for the hills. Anything but get in bed with the dangerous, depraved fucker standing right in front of her.

If she decides to walk, I won’t stop her. Hell, I’ll even hold the door open, because another complication is the last goddamn thing I need right now.

But then her wary eyes flare, sparking with stubborn determination. Her expression smooths from cautious hesitation into brazen, idiotic acceptance.

The pulse in my dick kicks up a notch.

She thrusts out her hand, chin lifted defiantly, eyes locked onto mine. “Deal.”

I grip her hand, her soft fingers scorching mine. Pure, fucking torture. I’d rather feel them clawing into my back or wrapped tight around my cock.

Which is exactly why I’m feeding her a pretty lie served on a silver platter.

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