Page 149 of The Contract

And if I’m hoping he’ll help, I’m dead fucking wrong.

Dante’s merciless grip holds me perfectly still, humiliation blistering every inch of exposed skin.

But the brick-wall bouncer doesn’t even glance my way. Not even once.

In the fucked-up, glass-half-full realm of catastrophes, thank God for one small mercy.

His eyes stay locked on the floor, spine stiff, posture rigid—the stance of a man who’s seen one too many bodies carted out for forgetting that what happens in Dante’s office stays in Dante’s office.

“Sir, it’s time.”

“Time,” Dante repeats quietly, voice dangerously numb.

The bouncer turns to leave, but Dante’s voice lashes out like a whip. “Stop.”

The man freezes instantly. Doesn’t face us. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t dare move.

Whatever flicker of heat lingered in Dante’s eyes burns away like fog under a mid-day sun.

He wedges the knife higher, pressing cold steel viciously between the necklace and my skin. His fingers clamp brutally tighter, squeezing—squeezing—until even my whimpers choke to silence.

Then, suddenly, it’s over.

A whisper of steel.

A sharp, decisive snap.

The blade slices cleanly through the chain.

Dante’s hand miraculously releases.

He steps right over me without even a glance. Then, casually, coldly, he tucks the necklace into a drawer.

The fucking necklace.

“That’s what you wanted?” I sputter bitterly, words strangled. “The necklace?”

I’m still writhing, gasping, clawing desperately for each raw, painful breath.

And he’s a total cock. “Yes.” His voice is ice. “Give her your jacket. Take her home.”

Without a word, the bouncer shrugs it off, draping it gently over my bare shoulders like I’m some wounded bird, too broken to fly away.

The jacket’s oversized enough I could easily curl up in it and fucking die in it right now.

Gasping, shaking, I force myself to stand, adrenaline slamming through me like a freight train.

With all the grace of a newborn fawn on ice, I plant my feet, choking down coughs as Dante’s narrowed eyes scrape over me—slow, ruthless, assessing.

Whatever he’s thinking, it sure as hell isn’t arousal.

No. It feels a whole lot more like disgust.

I yank the jacket tighter, lifting my chin in defiance. “If all you wanted was a five-hundred-thousand-dollar necklace, you could’ve left my dress intact.”

He steps closer, crowding my space until I have to physically fight the primal urge to flinch—or bolt.

“Five hundred and eighty-nine thousand, Pom,” he corrects coldly. “And if all you wanted were answers, you shouldn’t have brought a knife. Try a gun next time. Put us both out of our misery that much faster.”

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