Page 124 of The Contract

But when he freezes, it’s not caution in his eyes.

It’s the kind of realization that feels like stepping on a landmine.

My Glock nestles comfortably, dead-center against his chest.

“Careful, Dante,” he mutters, ice-cold bravado undermined by the nervous trickle of sweat sliding down his temple. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

I arch a brow, tension crackling between us like jumper cables hitting a wet battery. “Accusations aren’t my style. Bullets and bloodshed? Absolutely.”

Slowly, Roman sinks back down.

I redirect their attention sharply to the page.

Emilio picks it up, eyeing it skeptically. “The fuck do you expect us to do with this?”

Blankly, I stare. “I don’t know—maybe fucking look into it? Unless you’d prefer I shove it up your ass?”

Roman snaps a shot, movements measured, barely concealing his rage. “Six years is a long goddamn time to chase ghosts.”

“Would it feel long if it was your father?” Roman’s jaw tightens, grief darkening his features.

My gaze slices to Emilio, cutting deeper. “Or your brother?”

For a heartbeat, Emilio’s mask fractures, revealing the raw wound beneath—a loss he’ll never stitch closed.

Good. They fucking get it.

“It’s not information you’re after,” Emilio rasps, voice suddenly raw. “It’s revenge.”

“That too,” I say with a nod.

Roman straightens his tie, forcing composure back into place. “And if we get your answers? We handle our own.”

“No. Not this time.” My tone leaves zero room for debate. “You want D’Angelo protection and alliance? This is your price. Anyone with answers goes straight to Dillon—alive—for our personal brand of justice.”

They don’t like it.

Good.

Their factions will fucking hate it. Even better.

But right now, my give-a-shit meter is shattered beyond repair, and the last thing I need are innocent fall guys tortured to death. I’ve got enough blood on my hands as it is.

“Why not you?” Emilio asks.

Because I won’t be around.

I stand, not bothering to answer.

“I’ve credited each of you a hundred grand tonight, plus VIP access to my club for the year.” I toss the bone carelessly—just enough distraction to keep them from torching this place on their way out.

“Your club?” Roman scoffs under his breath.

“Care to repeat that louder?” I say.

His sneer twists openly now, ugly and spiteful. “Heard you handed the keys to the fucking Irish.”

My smirk grows, masking the burn beneath. “For tonight only. They needed discretion. In return, friends of the D’Angelos enjoy safe passage through Keenan territory. But if you’d prefer to roll the dice without my protection, feel free to test your fucking luck.”

---