Page 110 of The Contract

Knox

Vincent Shaw is losing patience.

Tell me you’ve got something.

I bite my lip, fingers tapping out a reply.

Me

I will tonight. Heading into the Inferno now.

His response is immediate—and irritating.

Knox

Tonight?

Absolutely fucking not.

Something’s brewing at the Inferno.

Stay clear!

I frown. Something besides an army of trust-fund douchebags cosplaying Thor on a bender?

Before I can reply, he fires off another text.

Knox

Call me. Now.

I hesitate, thumbs hovering over the screen. Another text vibrates through.

Knox

Riley, CALL ME.

Then another. And another. Six more rapid-fire demands later, I swipe on Do Not Disturb.

Screw his paranoia. I’ve got this.

To kill time—and spite Knox—I do exactly what any self-respecting psycho would: plunge face-first into my phone, straight into the devil’s carefully curated hellscape.

AKA Dante’s social media.

I Insta-stalk his account like it’s the Rosetta Stone while the line half-inches forward. But it’s nothing I haven’t seen.

Just another rich prick with just-fucked hair, a jaw carved by gods, scruff meticulously designed to fuel forbidden fantasies, and a smile wicked enough to flay hearts wide open.

But it’s always his eyes…

Steel blue. Cold. Calculated. Shifting from glacial ice to storm-tossed seas. Each gaze becomes an artist’s landscape to absorb—rich with ruin, edged in redemption.

I flip to the next shot.

In this one, he’s effortless arrogance—shirt unbuttoned, whiskey glass tilted, smirking like the world’s his personal playground.

Which, unfortunately, it is.

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