Page 9 of The Contract

And it had nothing to do with me. At all.

So, back to the matter at hand.

Who the fuck is Andre?

A deep, Russian growl slices through my thoughts. “Andre?” he asks, like he’s plucking the thought straight from my skull. “Andre… D’Angelo?” A small chuckle erupts, and dies swift. “Is that name supposed to mean something?”

“Everyone knows Andre D’Angelo,” Numbnuts offers. “Knows you don’t fuck with him.”

“I don’t,” the Russian says flatly.

That makes two of us. Though I doubt his confusion comes with zip ties and a head sack.

“Last I checked,” he murmurs, his thick accent sharpening tight like a blade, “this is my territory. My territory, my property.”

I huff under my breath.

I can’t believe I’m being battled over like the last free weight at the gym.

Creepy Guy finally dislodges his balls from his throat and chimes in.

“Yeah? Well, you should learn to count, comrade. Two of us. One of you.”

Color me surprised the loser can actually count that high.

“First of all,” the Russian says, calm as smoke, “I’m not your friend.”

His voice moves around me like vapor, slipping through the air, in and out, everywhere at once.

Hard to pin down.

Impossible to ignore.

“And second,” he goes on, footsteps slow and circling, “you’ve got ten seconds to leave or I’ll send you back to your boss in ziplock bags. Parts labeled for easy assembly.”

A beat. Then, to my surprise, the asshole actually backs down. “Fine. No need to go to war. We’ll just take what’s ours and leave.”

Shit.

I’ve managed to inch myself around the side of a car, but footsteps rapidly approach. A gruff hand clamps down on my shoulder—hard.

My cry is instant.

“I’ll make this simple,” the Russian interrupts. “Put a finger on what’s mine, and I’ll put one of you out of your miserable existence. For good.”

All of a sudden, the vise-grip on my shoulder tears away. Almost as instantly, a razor-whizz of something slicing past my ear, followed by a feral, pain-laced howl.

Then, a grunt.

Then a strained, “What the fuck?—?”

“A hira shuriken,” the Russian says softly, slipping into sedate lecture-mode as he wades through his lesson.

“Argh! I’m going to k-kill y-y—” The man’s words crumble away.

Professor Russian continues, “A Japanese throwing star. Tipped with monkshood.”

“Monkfruit?” Creepy Guy slurs, already writhing.

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