Page 72 of The Contract

And he’s gone. It’s just me, standing on a sidewalk at 2 a.m. outside an old warehouse in a not-so-safe neighborhood. With Dante inside.

I get out of sight mostly because I’m worried about random people fucking with me, but it’s a good thing I do because Dante comes back out sooner than I expect.

I freeze in the shadows as he walks to his motorcycle. I get one glimpse of his moonlit face, only enough to see how gorgeous he is, before he puts his helmet on. He’s sexy as fuck when he swings a leg over and straddles the bike. It roars to life. He backs it out of the loading bay and goes coasting away.

I wait until he’s long gone. Then I start hunting for an access point. It’s something I’m good at. I’ve been stealing for most of my life. I’ve never been caught.

But I don’t usually enter buildings. You can get trapped, and there are often cameras. This time, though, it’s worth the risk.

It’s the rooftop entrance that gets me in. It has a simple, manual lock that’s very little trouble. I descend to the main floor and find it basically empty. The loft office that overlooks the vast space appears deserted as well.

A stairway leads down to a basement level, and there I find a steel door with a keypad. Shit.

The only code I know is the one to Dante’s penthouse. I try it, not really expecting anything, but holy shit, the lock clicks.

I push the door open and enter some kind of weird … office? I don’t know what to call it, really. There’s a computer station with several monitors, way more elaborate than what Dante has at his penthouse or even his formal office. There are file folders stacked a foot high.

There’s a mattress on the floor and shelves with spare clothes, food, and other essentials. There’s a mini fridge, coffeepot, and electric burner.

Okay, so I guess that answers the question of where he sleeps when he doesn’t sleep at home. But why here? This place is depressing. And kinda creepy. There’s a barebones bathroom and another door.

The door is steel and has a heavy lock. A heavy lock on theoutside. My heart gives a little skip at that realization.

I’m prepared for a cell of some kind and though I’m relieved it’s empty, I’m freaked as fuck by the drain in the middle of the floor, the sharp scent of bleach, and the rack of tools. And they’re not handyman tools. Well, some of them are. There’s a hammer. A saw. A chisel. A blowtorch. But there’s a shitload of knives and forceps and other creepy-as-fuck implements. And there’s a chair. Complete with shackles.

I back out of the cell.

I should run. Of course I should fucking run. My heart is hammering. I’m dizzy. Saliva is pooling in my mouth and my stomach is churning. I close my eyes and try to think.

The desk.

The computer.

The files.

I’ll get into the computer if I can, but I start with the files because they’re accessible. I probably don’t have much time. There are undoubtedly cameras in here. Dante likely already knows I’ve broken in.

I find a lot of photos and handwritten notes. The first ones I look at are about Lorenzo Capelli. Others are about people who work for him.

I keep going until one picture freezes me. It freezes my brain. It freezes my blood.

If Evan hadn’t come to see me a few months ago, I wouldn’t have paused long on this picture. I would’ve felt only a vague sense of horror at seeing a guy with a bullet hole in his head, his eyes open and empty. I wouldn’t have recognized him as my brother.

I don’t look at the rest of the pictures in the file. I can’t. I fucking can’t. I close it. I put it aside.

Numb but shaking, I move on to the next file. What I find there is even more horrifying. So horrifying that I can barely take it in. So horrifying that I forget to hurry and get out of here.

They’re pictures of children.

They’re all boys between maybe twelve and seventeen. Their eyes are empty. Some of their faces are bruised. With each boy, identified by name, there’s a list. Some of what’s on the lists are names. Some are physical descriptions.Tall, reeked of cologne, dark hair, mustache, liked to use the word “sweetheart.”

What the fuckinghell.

I find pictures of two dark-haired boys, each about fifteen or sixteen, that aren’t identified. One, with gray eyes and a refined face, has a list. The other, with dark eyes and an equally beautiful face, doesn’t. Both have that dead-eyed look.

“Please don’t look at those.”

I yelp and whip around, losing my hold of the pictures. They flutter to the ground.

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