Page 165 of The Contract

Dominic’s never exactly been a chatty Cathy, sure, but he usually throws out a rogue question or two.

That sharp brain of his always working the angles. Point A to Point B.

Or in his case, torture tool A to body part B.

Not tonight.

He’s silent.

Laser-focused.

And it’s…oddly wrong.

Come on, Dominic. Where’s the banter? The dry paranoia? The half-assed humor you usually throw around like a security blanket?

Give me a check-in. A sideways joke. Anything.

But he’s not saying a word.

And he should be.

I keep checking the time.

He keeps checking me.

We’re barely into the drive when he cuts a sharp left—tires screaming across the pavement.

The city peels away behind us in streaks of light and smoke, and everything inside me knots tighter, ready to snap.

“What are you doing?”

Silence.

“Dominic!”

His grip on the wheel doesn’t shift. “You have to trust me,” he says quietly. “I’m helping you.”

I laugh—dry, sharp, clipped.

“Helping me? Really?” I lean in, elbows on my knees—casual as a lost puzzle piece clicks effortlessly into place. “Is that because you’re working for my uncle? Or perhaps Zver?”

No answer.

Not that he needs to.

His jaw’s clenched so tight I can practically hear his molars grinding from here.

Whatever he’s holding in, it’s pressure-cooker tight.

By my estimate? He’s got less than sixty seconds before he fucking combusts.

Then, the car slows.

Gravel spits beneath the tires as we veer onto the shoulder.

No warning. No explanation.

As if on zombie autopilot, Dominic kills the engine.

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