Page 169 of The Contract

His jaw tightens. “So you’re just gonna what? Sign your own fucking death warrant?”

“My death gives Uncle Andre a win,” I say, steady. “A win that’ll make him sloppy. Just enough to crack the door on his inner circle—so we can light the fuse and blow his world to fucking dust.”

Enzo doesn’t speak.

Just stands there, letting rage fold into grief… then something else.

Understanding.

Enlightenment.

Finally—fucking finally—he gets it.

Gets me.

By this point, Enzo’s lit his own cigar, the tip glowing in judgment.

“And Trinity?”

I shrug. And shake my head.

“Maybe one day… she’ll forgive me.”

“Maybe…”

He exhales slow, the smoke curling right in my face, meant to sting.

Or maybe… to heal.

“There’s no other way?”

“No.”

Enzo reaches in and snuffs out the cigar—right on the soft leather of my car.

Nice.

“Then I guess you’d better get to it,” he says. “And I better get out of the blast radius.” A smirk pulls at his mouth. “New Aston Martin and all.”

And for one final second, he just stares.

Like he’s memorizing me. Us.

Then, without warning, his fucking iron fist slams into my arm, so hard I wince.

No long goodbye.

No speech.

Just Enzo.

“See you in hell,” he mutters.

“Not if I see you first.”

And then, he’s gone.

I turn. “How long?”

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