The Carrero Contract - Selling Your Soul (Mafia Romance)

I walk until I feel like I can’t anymore, not that I have got very far, and sit on a bench to try and regain some of my energy. Tired, fed up and drumming my brain on what I should do. My body is in no fit state for a hike, and I am so breathless and faint that walking all the way home looks like it’s going to take hours. I am moving at a snail’s pace.

I still have to pick up a paper and start scanning the ads for a new job, figure out how the hell to keep my landlord at bay without resorting to oral pleasure and get home before it gets dark and too dodgy to be out and about my own neighbourhood.

I am so stressed out already that the thought of curling up on this bench and going to sleep seems like a much better option. I have already lost all the excess heat from being in a steam room all morning, and I am starting to shiver as my body adjusts to being outside—which only serves to make me feel worse in general.

I pull out my phone to see if I have any internet data left, in the hopes of doing a local job search for something that might interview this afternoon and give me a closer destination to aim for. I see a text waiting instead.

It’s from Mico.

‘Just remember, the offer will still stand no matter how long you take to think about it. We are at the club for the next few days. M X’

I am guessing this was his reply to my earlier message and has been sat waiting.

I sigh as I read it, absent-mindedly chew my lip and drop my phone into my lap in complete frustration, blowing out air. My mind is in overdrive at my predicament and seeing the possibility of a solution as I start picking at my chipped nails.

The club is closer to me than home is, and maybe if I swing by and ask for Mico, he can drive me back to my apartment—one last favour before I cut ties once more and send him on his way. His text changes nothing. My mind is already made up on that front but I know what he’s like. If I go there to see him and say thanks for my apartment, he will offer to take me home without me asking. I know he will, especially if they are trying to keep me sweet and consider the offer.

I sit and hum over it for a few minutes, really torn about going there but the grey skies moving overhead and the distant rumble of thunder make up my mind for me.

I can’t sit out here in a storm. I’m already sick enough, and if I start walking, I won’t be halfway home before I get soaked through and probably pass out with the effort.

I also happen to have a major fear of lightning and the crackling sky fills me with a huge sense of foreboding. I have many memories of hiding under beds during raging thunder and lightning storms and it still makes me shake. The clapping, snapping flash of that high volt dagger like energy and being stuck in it is not my idea of a fun walk.

maybe three blocks at the most, practically on my doorstep when I worked here, and if I move my arse, I might get there before the

I mean, he is a busy guy after all. Mico is a phone call away and would easily make one

on in. I have to make three dollars stretch food wise until I can get a cash-in-hand position somewhere fast and it’s not really asking him for more help if I show up and he offers. So, it’s not like I am abusing

mile high, heart somersaulting and hammering like a war drum and motivates me to move. I get up and walk south at speed, even with a tired body and woozy head. One thing that has always made me jumpy is exposure to full-blown storms. Nothing will energise you like

heart in my mouth and my hands wringing one another nervously as I try to find the courage inside of me to walk on up. I feel like I have run a marathon, even though I

now; so much larger and more imposing. I have been trying to drum up the nerve to go to the door and press the intercom to alert someone to my presence.

looking up at the black tinted windows on the other floors and wondering if he is here. Wondering if they can see me

are heavy thick wire coils across the tops to stop people climbing over, and from here I can’t tell which cars are in

my absence. He really has upped the ante and I wonder who mans all

utter defeat, shamefaced. Fifteen minutes of staring at this building and I just cannot do it. Even if I am desperate for a

comes to him. I thought I was stronger, especially after already seeing him and head away completely downhearted. My plan in ruins and now I have to walk in the opposite direction

Stupid girl!

jumping through my chest at the unexpectedness of it and I

cameras, and now I’m standing here like a rabbit in

like he always does … far too gorgeous, groomed, laid back and smooth

ending my agony. Another reminder of why I dislike

else to say; words evading me when faced with him in the harsh light of day once more, and my stomach starts doing strange little lurches and dives. I put it down to hunger and ignore it … even

impossible to see anything inside from here and I glance from him to the open space in hesitation. I don’t actually know

pitter-patter on my head and face makes me look back to the street and then again at him—torn

barely noticeable as it blends in. He has gone for the tone-on-tone look with this and it is pretty devastating to see him in old Carrero uniform. Black is, and always will be,

little less intimidating. Tailored has always been where he is at his most formidable because he has a body that can pull off the angles and suits. It’s a great look, usual for him and looking a little too intimidating for a weekday while I am stood