Page 60 of The Contract

His voice drops, dangerously close to my ear. “What the hell are you doing here, Riley?”

“Just…auditioning.”

His gaze darkens, ice battling fire. “Dressed like that?”

I gesture to the sea of barely-there two-pieces. “Compared to the women in this line, I might as well be dressed for Sunday mass. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I was about to be offered a job.”

“I don’t think so.” Dante snaps his fingers, summoning a Goliath of a man instantly to his side. For a panicked heartbeat, I wonder if he’s about to have King Kong haul me away—but instead, he just says, “Your jacket.”

“Yes, sir.” The man immediately removes his jacket, hands it over, and retreats to whatever post he materialized from.

Dante drapes the jacket around my shoulders, movements infuriatingly gentle. I glare up at him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Sending you home.”

“No, you’re not.”

He raises a hand, summoning a car and blatantly ignoring me.

I cement my feet to the pavement.

Screw that. I’m not going anywhere.

At least, not until I’ve crawled through every dark, skeleton-stuffed closet in his twisted empire and handed the feds enough rope to hang Enzo. Then Kennedy and I can finally get the hell away from them.

Permanently.

So, before he can usher me into the pristine sedan, I lift both hands in mock surrender.

“Fine. Okay. You win. I’m not auditioning for you…” I shrug casually. “I guess I’ll just dance my cares away on your pal Knox’s lap.”

“What?”

I mirror his stance, hands on hips, defiant as a raised middle finger. If Dante thinks he can cradle a ticking bomb and walk away unscathed…

Game fucking on.

CHAPTER 17

Dante

I stare down at the tiny ball of sass stuffed into a painted-on dress and a pair of shoes screaming adorable and I don’t belong here.

Which is a major goddamn problem—mostly because there’s no chance she will dance in the Inferno with men ogling her for cash.

Not now, not ever.

But there’s also zero chance I’m letting her anywhere near Knox again, so fucked if I do and fucked if I don’t.

Even worse, it means my dick is currently calling the shots.

“Fine,” I grit out, irritation thickening each word. “You want a job, Pom? You’ve got one.”

Her eyes light up with triumph before she says, “My friend too.”

Skeptical, I glance toward the clusterfuck of cleavage and high-heels. “Those are your friends?”

“Not them.” She points at the mousy girl smiling shyly. “Her.”

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