Page 134 of The Contract

Especially not Chio’s.

The other guy is disposable. A certified cut-and-run piece of shit with the loyalty of a flea.

“He called me,” Chio says flatly. “And I called you”—he checks his phone, holding up fingers one-by-one, counting—“fourteen times.” He pauses, voice bone-dry. “Or at least, I tried.”

“I know.” It wasn’t exactly subtle. Two of those times, Chio buzzed while Roman and I were exchanging death threats like candy hearts on Valentine’s Day.

Chio’s mouth flattens into a grim line—like he’s about to inform me a meteor smashed my car or one of my exes is claiming she’s pregnant. Again.

Which, for the record, would require immaculate fucking conception, given how long it’s been since I’ve touched any of them.

I let out a weary breath and roll my fingers impatiently, signaling him to spit it out. Honestly, at this point, what could possibly make tonight worse?

“There’s someone here,” he finally says, cautious as stepping through a minefield. “Someone you don’t want within ten miles of your club.”

Considering that could mean anyone—Trinity, my brothers, Agent Knox and his Fed entourage, or hell, even the fucking Pope—I just arch a brow. “I don’t pay you for twenty questions.”

“It’s your uncle, sir.”

Fuck.

The problem with Uncle Andre? He’s spent years cozying up inside the Keenans’ asses like their personal human bidet.

And since the Keenans currently own every molecule of air we’re breathing—at least for the next twelve miserable hours—there’s not a goddamn thing I can do to stop him from strolling right through my doors.

Except leave.

I check my watch.

Nope…not fucking time yet.

“If the Keenans approved him, it is what it fucking is,” I tell Chio, voice calm and steady on the surface, aggravated as hell beneath.

I toss back another swig of scotch, savoring the burn as it scrapes down my throat, smooth as liquid sandpaper.

Snatching a sticky note, I scrawl a simple message:

Declan Keenan drank this.

A dark, twisted smirk curls one side of my mouth as I roll it up and shove it deep into the empty bottle, leaving just enough of the tip exposed—a ticking time bomb with Enzo’s name written all fucking over it.

Patience, motherfuckers. Always a virtue.

“He didn’t come alone,” Chio adds tightly.

Pause.

“He brought a woman.”

Another pause.

“She was…”

“Armed? Sporting an Adam’s apple?”

“Young.”

I steady myself on the desk. “How young?”

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