Page 123 of The Contract

Her scarlet lips curl in lazy amusement, like a bored queen watching her cat toy with yet another helpless mouse.

We close the distance.

“Color?” she asks.

“Color?” I echo, my mind snagging on the word like a broken fingernail on expensive lace.

Is this some twisted code? A secret password to an underground fuck-knows-what? Or is she genuinely fascinated by my hot takes on the Crayola spectrum?

Once, Mila asked me what color I’d choose to wear forever if some psycho held a gun to my head. For the record, my commitment issues extend even to shades—I’m eternally torn between blue-green and green-blue.

And yes, they’re fucking different.

I swing my focus back to her loaded question.

I need context. Details. Something—anything—to claw my way out of this quicksand I’ve willingly stepped into.

She taps her necklace, jeweled in every shade of sin the rainbow offers—sparkling in the candlelight.

But before I can drag the question past my lips, my asshole escort’s voice slices through.

“She’ll take black.”

CHAPTER 42

Dante

Fuck, is this meeting ever going to end?

My bouncer pings my cell again—for the hundredth goddamn time. Clearly, “Do Not Disturb” translates to “Blow Up My Phone Until I Kill You.”

Roman’s voice slices through my irritation, sharp enough to peel skin. “We had nothing to do with your father’s disappearance.”

His tone might sound calm, but the threat beneath is unmistakable—Don’t fuck with us.

Across the table, Emilio smirks, leaning back lazily. “Neither did we.”

My voice stays cool, deceptively calm—each word sharpened to draw blood.

“Yes, my father’s disappearance ranks right up there with Hoffa and Amelia fucking Earhart. But here’s how this goes: You both want D’Angelo protection—especially now that we’re in bed with the Irish. Fine. Then I want what’s mine. My father’s location.”

Roman’s calculating stare turns lethal, eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. Emilio’s cocky smirk slips, his carefully built mask fracturing to reveal the irritation simmering beneath.

“We don’t have it,” Emilio snaps coldly. “And that sure as fuck wasn’t our arrangement with Enzo.”

“Enzo’s not here.” I say, deceptively calm. “I am. So either we all walk away breathing, or nobody fucking does.”

Roman’s sneer darkens. “So the rumors are true—you’ve finally fucking cracked. Look at you. Even more unhinged than Enzo, and twice as reckless.”

I lean forward, eyes locked onto him, calm as a loaded gun. “Keep talking, Roman, and I’ll sever every port you have until your pipeline bleeds dry. Then you’ll learn exactly how fucking unhinged I can be.”

He laughs, the sound sharp and hollow. “Antonio vanished nearly six years ago without a fucking trace. If you’re banking on divine intervention, better find yourself a priest—or dig a deeper grave.”

“Your men were there.”

Roman erupts from his seat, fist slamming the table so hard the room jolts silent. “Careful,” he growls, menace carving every word. “Accuse me again, and you’d better be ready to bleed.”

His switchblade snaps open, serrated edge gleaming inches from my throat.

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