Page 41 of The Contract

I try not to notice the way his jaw flexes with every bite.

I can pretend all I want that fries aren’t my kryptonite and that I’m not famished enough to do very wrong things for food. But they’re right in front of me—hot, golden, perfectly salted. And letting hot fries go has to be a cardinal sin, right?

Dante just watches, smirking behind another bite. I should be telling him off. But if he’s half as dangerous as his brother, that would be a mistake.

Plus, because I’m clinically insane, I don’t want him to go. Not yet.

There’s something about him I can’t put my finger on. Like he knows he gets under my skin. Just like he knows I’m lying about being a vegetarian as he takes another teasing bite.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him.

“I wanted to see Enzo’s progress on his gift to Kennedy.”

“He gifted her the dance studio?” I blink. “Why? Guilty conscience?”

Dante holds the coke to his lips. “If there’s one thing D’Angelo men don’t have, it’s a conscience.” He sips. There’s something about the way he says it, like a confession.

Then, he holds the straw to my lips, expecting me to sip as well. Why I do, I don’t know.

He leans in. “Heroes disappoint. Beasts and monsters deliver exactly what they promise.”

“According to the newspapers, the D’Angelo’s aren’t exactly known for promising the moon.” My tone is harsher. Harsher than I mean it to be.

His eyes lock onto mine, dark and unflinching. “Look at me, Riley.”

I do.

“If you see anything but a beast, that’s on you.”

And just like that, whatever tether I feel for him slices away. I hear the warning in his voice, loud and clear.

His brother killed our father. He’s no different.

The D’Angelos are nothing. He is nothing.

Not to me.

Or at least, that’s what I repeat in my head until the words finally sink into my stubborn skull. Until the wrecking ball of rage and tears I’ve been choking back blur. Until I feel…

Nothing.

My patience evaporates, and I’m done waiting.

I glance quickly at the studio again. The suits are distracted now, grouped loosely as though it’s break time.

“Thanks for the reminder,” I say crisply, leaving the asshole implied as I shove back from the table.

I storm past the wall of suits outside the studio, who remarkably don’t stop me. If anything, they step aside.

The second I see Kennedy, tears sting the backs of my eyes. Because, really—what do I say now that I’m here?

Except, “I need to talk to you.”

Kennedy rushes to my side immediately, murmuring gentle reassurances to the dozen adorable ballerinas gathered around her. She taps play on a Taylor Swift song, unleashing an echo of delighted squeals as tiny dancers leap to the beat.

Swiftly, she guides me into the hallway, away from curious eyes and bouncing tutus.

Her brows pinch together, confusion clear as day. Probably because I’m supposed to be in Italy right now, sipping cappuccinos and living my idyllic little exchange-student life. A fantasy provided by her husband, no doubt, to keep me conveniently out of his way.

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