Page 155 of The Contract

“Fucking the Feds now? That’s low—even for you. But I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Two more agents bleed from the darkness, guns leveled at my head. Knox takes a careful step back, weapon steady, arrogance thickening his voice.

“We have a few questions for you, Mr. D’Angelo.”

“Call my lawyer,” I say, enjoying a long drag of my cigar.

Knox pauses, then aims his words carefully, precise as a bullet. “Mr. Andre D’Angelo.”

Uncle Andre doesn’t even blink. He straightens his tie, unbothered, ice fucking cold. “Call my lawyer.”

“We did. He’s already in custody.” Knox pulls out his cuffs, a wolfish gleam in his eyes. “You’re up.”

The agents drag him away, but not before Uncle Andre lands one final, parting shot. “Tick fucking tock, son.”

The moment his car disappears, Knox holsters his gun, shifting his stance like he’s bracing for impact.

“I won’t be able to keep him long. We need to act fast.”

I stare at him as if he just offered to suck my dick.

“We?”

Knox doesn’t waver, matching my stare. “That’s how this works, Dante. I scratch your back, you scratch mine. Andre’s out of your hair. Now tell me what the fuck’s going down.”

I fold my arms, leaning back just enough for Dante’s Inferno’s neon-red glow to bathe me in blood—purely to fuck with him. “And what makes you think I know shit about this club?”

He deadpans. “I’m going in.”

“Not without a warrant.”

A pause. Let it linger. Then my mouth twitches into a cold smirk. “What’s wrong, Knox? No judge in the city willing to sign off?”

We both know the answer.

Because three of the highest-ranking judges in Chicago are currently balls-deep in lap dances behind this very door.

Knox’s jaw clenches, frustration twitching under his skin. “I can help you,” he grits.

“More like you can help yourself.”

“I can protect you. Your family. Trinity?—”

“Is that what you told my father the week before he disappeared?”

Knox exhales slowly, nostrils flaring—controlled on the surface, but his fingers twitch restlessly at his side, itching to reach for a cigarette he’s desperately pretending not to crave.

Or his gun.

I hold his stare, unblinking.

When he finally speaks, his voice shifts into that bullshit, silk-smooth good-cop tone meant to soothe—to fucking disarm.

“If you want your uncle taken down, we need to work together.”

I shove off the wall, yank open the door, and return to my den.

“I work alone.”

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