Page 103 of The Contract

But there’s nothing.

Not a flicker. Not even a ghost of his presence.

No distant rumble of an engine retreating into the dark—though everything else is suddenly there.

Dogs barking furiously.

Sirens shrieking their distant alarms.

The metallic howl of the L-train slicing through the night.

It’s as if the entire city of Chicago is demanding my attention. Everything except him.

“Shit,” I whisper hoarsely. “I’m officially losing my damn mind.”

I force myself away from the window and grab my phone.

Mila

You up.

Stop avoiding me.

The truth is I have been avoiding her. Actively—like eye contact on public transportation.

Mila isn’t just curious. She’s a full-on Spanish Inquisitioner. One tear, one hint of weakness, and she’ll cling tighter than Spanx in July.

Dante is her boss. If she suspects anything, she will confront him. Head-on. Not that he’s ever there, according to her.

No, the bastard only seems to materialize when I’m there. Because clearly, my luck runs on Red Bull and horseshit.

Me

I’m not up.

Mila

You R up!

You need a night out.

She’s not wrong there.

Three more rapid-fire pings. With a frustrated sigh, I fling my phone, and miss the nightstand entirely. It lands with a thunk in the trash bin.

Fantastic.

Whatever. I don’t even care.

I flip off the lights again. Shadows don’t scare me like they once did. Why should they? I’ve faced Dante D’Angelo, and he’s the darkest fucking monster of them all.

Punching my concrete pillow into submission, I squeeze my eyes shut.

Mila won’t stop buzzing.

She should be working. Instead, she’s busy carving out a night of bad decisions and morning-after confessions juicy enough to make a priest blush.

Well, she’ll have to chase reckless debauchery without me.

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