Page 62 of The Contract

Truth is, she won’t last the week. Soon she’ll get the offer of a lifetime—somewhere nice, somewhere safe, somewhere far the hell away from all the demons in my world.

Especially me.

“Deal.”

CHAPTER 18

Riley

I reread the email as I sit and wait.

Ms. Mullvain,

Your outstanding performance during your internship made a lasting impression on us. So much so, we’re thrilled to offer you a rare, permanent position on our international team.

The role comes with a handsome signing bonus and frequent, all-expenses-paid travel to our offices in Paris and Milan.

Acceptance requires your immediate start.

Please confirm and all travel arrangements will be made.

We eagerly await your response.

I bet they do.

I roll my eyes and promptly click delete.

How stupid do they think I am?

The D’Angelo fingerprints are all over this like luminol at a crime scene. Starting with the way they deliberately called me Mullvain instead of Luciano.

Kennedy made that distinction loud and clear at her wedding to Enzo, proudly reclaiming our real name from Jimmy-the-Jerk-Stepmonster.

They want me gone. Packed neatly into a pretty little box and airmailed straight off to Europe.

Yeah, good luck with that.

Fool me once, motherfuckers.

Brake lights flicker as the shiny new Benz finally pulls away.

About damn time.

I slip into The Inferno only after I’m sure Dante’s long gone.

And all those precious hours of sleep I wasted camped out on a bench across the street—trench coat, ball-cap, all the stalker-mode shit?

Totally fucking worth it.

Mila bunking at my place came with unexpected perks—like insider intel on staff schedules. According to her, nine in the morning means a skeleton crew and a mass exodus of exhausted employees.

Dante included.

Seriously, does the guy ever sleep? If I hadn’t seen him in the light of day, I’d swear he was a vampire.

I ditch the ball cap and use Mila’s employee card to sneak in. My nerves crackle beneath my skin, and I tighten the coat around myself. Yeah, there’s a unitard under here—just in case.

“Can I help you?” a voice asks sharply. One of the guards—black suit, black tie, and a stare darker than both. But it’s the gun at his hip that screams hired muscle.

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