Page 53 of The Contract

CHAPTER 15

Dante

I shove my hands deep into my pockets, standing near the edge of the room. Enzo’s place is all family. Along with little girl squeals and puppy dog tails.

Christ.

A puppy baby shower.

Who the hell has my brother become?

My jaw locks tight, teeth grinding until bone meets bone as my gaze slices through a sea of pastel balloons and sugar-coated giggles.

Once, maybe, this glitter-sprinkled, Hallmark-card bullshit could’ve belonged to me.

Before Dad vanished into nothing but smoke and unanswered questions.

Before Trinity’s blood stains soaked through every corner of my fucked-up mind.

Now?

Now, I only come alive when I’m tearing the truth out of my adversaries, one blood-curdling scream at a time.

“Drink, Zio Dante?”

Two months ago, I was just another bloodthirsty mob boss. Now I’m Uncle Dante.

Because Enzo, the dark prince of Chicago’s underworld, stumbled headfirst into domestic bliss. Kids. Dogs. Wife.

Which means Riley, her only sister, will soon be an aunt. The ache of her absence burrows in my chest.

Why Riley’s avoiding Kennedy like the plague is beyond me. But if Mullvain women are like D’Angelo men, avoidance is a signature love language.

And this, too, shall pass.

I accept the lemonade, flashing a tight smile at the adorable niece I barely know, and wait until she flounces off before discreetly unscrewing my flask and emptying half into the sickly sweet drink.

It’s not that I don’t want to know her. I can’t afford for her to know me. My life is one big ticking time bomb, and I can’t afford another innocent caught in the blast.

“Sharing is caring,” Dillon drawls, snatching the flask and generously topping off his own lemonade. His eyes glint with the kind of dark amusement that typically leaves bodies scattered behind him. “Does Enzo know?”

“Know what?”

His mouth curls into an infuriating grin. “That his wife’s baby sister is about to become hired help at your den of debauchery?”

I swirl the spiked lemonade, eyes fixed straight ahead. Dillon’s intel isn’t some mythical twin juju. More like my dickhead brother’s spy network has crept through every dark corner of my existence.

Especially up my ass.

“Not yet,” is all I offer.

“So your balls aren’t on death row yet. Good to know.”

Mateo slides between us, draping an arm over each of our shoulders. “I ordered the tiniest headstone known to man. Just in case. ‘Here lie Dante’s balls—gone, and barely remembered.’”

Dillon snorts into his cup. “They died as they lived—tragically unused.”

Mateo grins wickedly. “The man hasn’t been with a woman in, what, a year? It feels less like mourning and more like a mercy killing.”

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