Page 186 of The Contract

I take a slow sip. Cold. Measured.

“You almost had me fooled, Roman,” I say, voice low. “I actually thought I could trust you.”

Something feral claws from his throat. A noise. A protest. It sounds vaguely like you can trust me.

I attach a small lead to one of the screws, tightening it with care.

“Trust you to fuck me over, you mean?”

I twist on another lead.

This one? To the screw in his dick.

“Yup. Got the message. Loud and clear.”

My leather-gloved hand grabs his face, fingers digging into the screw embedded in his cheek.

He flinches hard—blood seeping, breath stuttering.

“I’m only going to ask you once, Roman.”

I quiet my voice to a deadly calm.

“Is that everything you know?”

His eyes flutter, convulsing into desperate nods.

“Y-yes!” he screams. Or something close enough.

“Good.”

I take another sip, slow and deliberate. Then, I remove my mask and pour the rest of the water over Roman’s head, ensuring mine is the last face he sees.

He gasps like it’s baptism. It’s not.

And because I’m a magnanimous son of a bitch, I gesture toward Dominic.

“Care to do the honors?”

Considering Roman threatened everyone in his bloodline—including his sweet little babushka—I throw the bastard a bone.

With a satisfied smirk, he flips the switch, and Roman lights up like a human fucking candle. Because if you think revenge is best served cold, try irony.

It’s not the charred skin. Not the fire shooting out of his fucking chest.

It’s the smell that gets you.

After a minute, it settles in. Thick. Acidic. A full-blown literal barbecue of burnt betrayal.

I flip on the exhaust and shake my head.

Hours of blood-soaked cleanup, and no Mateo to sweep in behind me.

Or Dillon.

Or Smoke.

And Enzo? His hand-dirtying ends at torture.

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