Page 21 of Reaper's Desire

"I know."

"May I ask why?"

"Personal conflict." My throat feels dry. "I can't complete this one."

Another pause, shorter this time. When Maddox speaks again, there's something in his voice I don't like—something that sounds almost like pity. "Julian, do you know who brokered this contract?"

My stomach drops. "No."

"The Capetti family. New York mafia." He lets that sink in for a moment before continuing. "This isn't a standard contract. The client is someone with connections in the organization, and the target..." He trails off. "The target is apparently a loose end that needs to be tied up."

Fuck.

I've worked with the mob before, and often. Irish, Italian, Bratva, I've done it all. And I know those contracts are the ones you do not fuck up, beyond question. It's never good to make a mistake, but a mistake involving the mob means death. They don't fucking play around. And I've heard of the Capettis, even though I haven't worked with them before specifically. They're not people you say no to. They're not people you disappoint.

And I just told my broker I want to back out of their contract.

"Maddox," I say carefully, "what happens if I refuse to complete it?"

He sighs, and I can picture him on the other end of the line, rubbing his temples. "If you refuse, they'll send someone else. The target will still die—it just won't be you pulling the trigger."

I already knew that. Knew that backing out wouldn't save Isabelle, would only delay the inevitable. But hearing it confirmed makes something twist painfully in my chest. "And what happens to me?" I ask, even though I already know the answer to that too.

"You'll be marked." Maddox's voice is flat now, all pretense of sympathy gone. "The Capetti family doesn't tolerate contractors who refuse their jobs. They'll see it as disrespect, as a breach of professional conduct. You'll be blacklisted from every organization they have ties to—which is most of them—and there's a very good chance they'll put a contract out on you as well."

Of course they will. In this world, reputation is everything. And a contractor who backs out of a job, especially a job for someone as powerful as the Capetti family, is a contractor who can't be trusted. A liability. A loose end.

Just like Isabelle.

"How long do I have?" My voice sounds distant, like it's coming from someone else.

"I can give you forty-eight hours to decide. Then you need to confirm the contract so I can give you the rest of the information, and you have a week after that to complete it." Maddox pauses. "Julian, I've worked with you for a long time. You're one of the best in the business. Don't throw that away over... whatever this is."

Whatever this is.

A woman I've known for two nights. A woman whose last name I didn't even know until an hour ago. A woman who shouldmean nothing to me, who should be just another target, just another job.

But she's not.

She's Isabelle, and she looked at me like I was human, and I can't get the memory of her body trembling beneath mine out of my head. She made me come harder than I ever have in my life, and I'll spend the rest of it remembering what it felt like to be inside of her. And if I kill her, I…

I'll really be a fucking monster, then.

"I'll think about it," I tell Maddox, because I don't know what else to say.

"Forty-eight hours," he repeats. "After that, they'll assume you're refusing and act accordingly."

The call ends. I sit there on the edge of the bed, phone still in my hand, staring at nothing.

Forty-eight hours to decide whether to kill Isabelle Montague or destroy my entire life. Forty-eight hours to choose between the woman I can't stop thinking about and the reputation I've spent fifteen years building.

Forty-eight hours to figure out how the fuck I ended up in this situation in the first place.

The phone slips from my fingers, landing on the mattress beside me with a soft thud. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see stars.

This is insane. This is fucking insane.

I've killed dozens of people. Maybe more—I stopped counting years ago. Men, women, young, old, guilty, innocent. It didn't matter. They were targets, and I was paid to eliminate them, and I did it without hesitation or remorse because that's what I do. That's who I am. The Grim Reaper doesn't have a conscience. Doesn't have feelings. Doesn't lie awake at night wondering if the people he killed had families, had dreams, had reasons to live.