Page 67 of The Contract

Right now, I don’t care. I just need them to get the fuck out so I have space to breathe. Space to think.

Space to…work.

Without another word, they file obediently out. The massive door seals shut behind them with a heavy, final thud.

Finally alone, I set the cattle prod aside and pull out a lighter, glancing down at the scrap of paper Dominic discovered.

“Zapretnaya,” I murmur, tasting the Russian word on my tongue.

Forbidden.

The perfect word to warn others away.

To warn me away.

I flick the lighter, torching one corner, then drop the flaming scrap to the floor, watching as the word shrivels into ash.

A heavy weight sinks deep in my chest.

Beneath months of ruthless ambition, cold calculation, and unrestrained brutality, a single vulnerability gnaws viciously at the edges of everything I’ve built.

One threat.

That’s all it would take to shred my carefully constructed defenses like an industrial chainsaw through a redwood.

My one unforgivable, undeniable weakness.

Pom.

CHAPTER 20

Dante

After an hour working the bastard, the stench of blood and piss is thick enough to choke on. Almost enough to make me quit.

Almost.

His body swings lifelessly from chains, wrists shredded raw, yet somehow the asshole still has way too much fucking fight left in him.

He hasn’t given me everything. And I need it all—names, places, details. Every single thread connecting to the attacks on our family. Which now includes Pom.

I roll my shoulders, forcing out a jagged breath. Despite the soft lies fed by binge-worthy TV, torture isn’t quick. It’s filthy. Brutal. A fucking marathon, not some candy-ass sprint.

But a restless dread gnaws deep in my gut. The ugly truth that this bastard might hold out for days.

Days I don’t have.

My fist slams hard into his gut. Knuckles crack bone against his ruined cheek.

Hmm. Not even a twitch.

Stepping closer, I inspect my handiwork, boots carefully skirting the murky puddles of blood, piss, and snot congealing on the concrete floor.

Slack. Dangling like meat from a slaughterhouse hook.

I can’t tell if he’s out cold, playing dead, or just fucking with me.

Fine. Time to crank up the heat.

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