Page 5 of The Contract

Then the last light inside flickers out.

Shit.

I step to the side, trying to push past the guy.

His step is quicker, cutting me off with a low, guttural snort—a sound that slithers under my skin.

“You’re not going anywhere, Riley.”

My pulse jackknifes. I stumble back before my brain catches up.

“H-how do you know my name?”

His mouth curls with a slow, deliberate smirk.

“I know all kinds of things about you, Riley. I know you’re alone.” Step. “And that your whore sister married Enzo D’Angelo.” Another step. “The man who gave me this.”

I’m forced back as he shifts, angling his head just enough for the light to catch it.

The scar is deep and brutal. Jagged as it carves a path from his ear, down his cheek, and across his neck.

If he’d held still a second longer, Enzo would’ve carved him into a fucking jack-o’-lantern.

“Funny,” he muses, as if savoring every second of how the fear tightens around my throat. “You’d think your sister would be more pissed. Hate the man who killed your father.”

The world tilts.

What?

Enzo killed Da?

Sharp, reckless words rip out before I can stop them. Because, as usual, my damned suicidal mouth never knows when to shut up.

“You’re lying.”

His lips peel back, a wide, feral flash of rotting teeth.

Then he’s on me. One predatory step is all it takes. My spine slams against the car, the cold metal biting hard. He cages me, chest to chest, pressing closer until every disgusting inch pins me in place.

Fuck. I can’t breathe.

“I’m many things, little girl. A liar isn’t one of them.”

His breath—this thick, rancid, saturated decay of food and stale liquor—rolls hot across my cheek, slithering down my throat like poison.

I choke on it, gasping for air.

His voice drops to gravel, rough and crawling, a slow rot settling into my bones. “And maybe I can’t get my revenge on Enzo or your sister. But, there’s you.”

His hand clamps down on my breast so hard I scream in pain.

“Come on, Riley. Let’s have some fun.”

My body reacts before my brain catches up. I kick. I thrash. Fingernails drag against the skin of his face.

A choked snarl rips from his throat. His grip slackens, just enough.

I pivot hard.

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