Page 46 of The Contract

The man draws closer. His lanky appearance is a stark contrast to the razor-sharp intensity of his eyes—cataloging every detail, analyzing every potential threat.

Recognition slams into me, full force.

Caleb Knox.

Or rather, Special Agent Knox.

The same Special Agent who’s the cousin to my first college roommate. At least until I was handed that “remarkable opportunity” to study abroad, as Caleb had smugly phrased it.

Which still pisses me off. The dismissive way he said it. The air quotes he added for effect. Like my internship was some shiny consolation prize I hadn’t actually earned.

I mean, sure, I’m a solid B+ student with a weakness for one tequila too many, but still.

Something cold and ugly twists in my gut.

What if Caleb was right?

What if a certain FBI agent had enough intel to know the D’Angelos had their hooks in me from day one, pulling every goddamn string like a puppet master, and dancing me right out of Kennedy’s life?

What if he knew all that and stayed fucking silent?

What kind of douchebag with a badge does that?

Oh, right. The zero-give-a-fucks kind.

Which begs two questions: what else does he know and why the hell is he here?

I’m about to ask exactly that when Dante leans close, his scruff grazing my cheek, his gravelly voice a sinister caress against my ear. “If you even breathe wrong around this man, Riley, I will punish you.”

Punish me? My pulse skitters, trapped somewhere between pissed off and turned on. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

“No, Pom.” His voice is pure, unadulterated sin. “It’s a promise. One I’ll take great pleasure in delivering.”

The instant his gaze locks on mine, darkness incinerates every trace of deep blue in his eyes.

He’s dead serious.

He’s also scorching my lady parts into oblivion—something I fully intend to shut down. Immediately.

But before the icy fuck you in my glare even lands, Dante’s hand snakes around my waist, dragging me flush against his chest.

I’m locked in place as he blatantly eye-fucks me, daring me to resist.

“Causing trouble, Mr. D’Angelo?”

Mr. D’Angelo?

I glance between them, suspicion sharpening. “You two know each other?”

Dante’s voice is pure acid. “The same way senators know syphilis. Comes with the territory—though we’ve never been formally introduced.”

Caleb’s smirk stays pinned on Dante but his question slides toward me. “Everything alright, Riley?”

No. Everything is not fucking alright.

My sister married Beelzebub, two thugs attacked me and wound up brutally murdered, and now my idiotic body insists on playing dirty little pickleball, bounced from a psycho Russian to a moody mob boss.

In case it isn’t painfully obvious, I have issues.

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