Page 55 of The Contract

I toss back the last of my spiked lemonade, eager to get the hell out of here before the persistent bulge in my pants draws unwanted attention.

Enzo corners me the second my brothers scatter like roaches under a sunlamp. His gaze drills into me, sharp enough to flay skin. “You’re handling it?”

My hand twitches at my side, knuckles craving the feel of his throat.

It.

Like she doesn’t have a name.

Riley.

Her name is Riley.

Is that so goddamn hard to remember?

Then again, this is Enzo, and we’re talking about two whole syllables here, so maybe it is.

I loosen my tie with deliberate nonchalance, shoving back my rage with practiced restraint, and nod. “It’s handled.”

He grips my shoulder, fingers tightening just a beat too long. I can’t tell if he’s genuinely worried or just fucking with my head. “Good. Your assurance is all I need. I trust you implicitly.”

I nearly choke on the urge to laugh.

Exactly three people have any business trusting me:

First, any man strapped to a chair, fingernails peeled like fruit skins, can trust I’ll grant him the mercy of death. But only after he’s spilled every secret I demand.

Second, anyone reckless enough to betray me. They can trust I’ll burn their entire fucking world to ashes.

And then, there’s Riley. Sweet, innocent Pom can trust I’ll fulfill every twisted, filthy promise of punishment I’ve ever whispered against her skin.

But Enzo?

Trust me?

I just shake my head.

Worst idea ever.

Enzo nods slowly, understanding glinting in his gaze as he finally lets the topic drop. He tips back a swig straight from the flask he’s never without.

Not even at a baby shower.

For a dog.

Then he shifts gears, straight onto a road I’d rather torch than travel.

“I hear Zver’s making waves.”

I toss him a sidelong glance, my irritation tightly leashed. “It’s what he does.”

He exhales a slow, meditative breath—probably some yoga shit Kennedy taught him. “Two of my warehouses,” he stews quietly. “Ten million dollars worth of inventory, up in a ball of fucking smoke.”

“Those were Uncle Andre’s warehouses,” I seethe back. “You only just took possession.”

“Which is why my give-a-fuck factor is slightly above subzero.” He pockets his flask, eyes sharpening. “You should think this through. Recklessness isn’t a virtue.”

“Is this the part where I do as you say, not as you do?”

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