Page 17

"Forty-eight hours from contract placement and your signature. Your window starts the moment you accept."

The elevator opens on the far side of the floor. Every runner in the lounge sits straighter. The receptionist's posture sharpens. Even the shadows pull tighter.

Harlon Constantine crosses the Dark Floor carrying with him the aura of death. He’s coming up from the basement. Nothing good happens down there.

He reaches the parlor and pins his gaze on me. "Cross. This contract was assigned to you specifically. I reviewed the client, the target profile, and the risk level personally." His voice fills the space without effort, controlled and low. "You have forty-eight hours from acceptance to deliver. If the job is not completed in that window, you are terminated from the contract. Are those acceptable terms?"

Killing a fucker has never been a problem for me. I haven’t come across a single person I’ve put under that hasn’t earned it.

I consider Harlon’s terms. They are the same with every contract and delivered in the same cold tone every time. This contract is business as usual.

Terminated from the contract means terminated from breathing. Runners who fail closed contracts on the Dark Floor don't receive a pink slip. We get a shallow grave in a location no family member will ever find. No headstone necessary.

It’s part of the job. I don't take it personally.

I give a stiff nod. "Understood."

Harlon holds my gaze for one beat longer than necessary. Searching for hesitation, for arrogance, for a crack in the foundation. I don’t fucking know. Whatever flaw or weakness he’s hunting for, he won't find. I've been doing this since before most of his current roster started shaving.

He turns to Sapphire. "Walk him through the details. I want confirmation of acceptance before he leaves this floor."

Harlon exits the way he arrived. The elevator opens and then he’s gone.

Sapphire pulls a folder from the stack beside her laptop and opens it flat on the dark wood between us. Contract summary on the top page. Target name, fee structure, conditions, client code, known addresses and daily patterns. Standard layout. Thorough.

She sets a pen beside the folder. Genesis issue, black barrel, weighted for the undertaker's ledger. "Review the terms. If everything is accurate, sign and the clock starts."

My eyes track the text with the same clinical detachment I've brought to every contract for years. Names on paper. Numbers in escrow. Work is work.

Target: Neve Castellano. Twenty-three. Sole blood heir to the Castellano empire.

The stepdaughter who bakes for a living while rival bosses and competitors fight over the empire she walked away from. I file the details and keep reading. Conditions, timeline, fee structure. Standard layout.

"Everything checks out. What does the target look like?"

Level. Controlled. A voice I barely recognize as my own.

Sapphire slides a photograph across the dark wood.

Green eyes stare up at me from glossy paper. Dark hair falling over bare shoulders. Pale skin that flushes pink when she's aroused, when she's gasping my name, when she's calling me a word that rebuilt my entire world from the foundation up. Full lips I know taste sweet as sin.

The room tilts. My vision narrows to the photograph and nothing else.

“Name?” I need to verify what I’ve read because my brain refuses to believe what I’m seeing.

“Neve Castellano. She the stepdaughter of the client.”

Neve.

No wonder I couldn’t find a trace of her. Her father did a good job of keeping her tucked away.

The universe has the sick, twisted audacity to deliver her face to the one man in Chicago who would burn this entire building to the ground before he let anyone lay a finger on her.

Seven days I searched for this woman. Seven days of running every angle, every network, every tool I've built over two decades. I couldn't find her.

"Interesting. I'll take the job."

I pick up the pen. My hand is steady and my signature comes out precise, each stroke of ink sealing a promise I have no intention of keeping.