Page 68 of The Contract

I flick on the cattle prod, the electric hum buzzing loud in the concrete space. One vicious kiss against his mangled cheek does the trick.

He jolts awake, a ragged scream tearing out of him, raw enough to wake the dead. “Fuck!”

“It was a bold move,” I murmur darkly, pressing the prod tighter to his ear, savoring his tortured cries like music. “Coming for us on my brother’s wedding day. So, now that I have your attention, who ordered Riley’s attack?”

The fucker spits blood, choking out a broken laugh that rattles wetly in his throat. “Who?”

With a snarl, I shove the cattle prod straight into his thigh. He convulses, a brutal, animalistic howl ripping through his throat as his body thrashes violently against the restraints.

“You. Know. Who,” he rasps, agony ripping each word apart.

“If I knew who,” I growl softly, dialing the prod higher, “I wouldn’t need this.”

I wave the buzzing prod in front of his face, unsure if he can even see through the pulped, swollen wreckage of his eyes. “Spell it the fuck out.”

“D’Angelo,” he spits through shattered teeth.

Not good enough. Not even close.

We’ve been played before—fed lies by desperate assholes looking to pit brother against brother. If he drops one of my brothers’ names now, I’ll know he’s full of shit.

And then I’ll get really fucking pissed.

“Which one?” I demand, igniting the prod again, savoring the way his ruined body jerks violently at the menacing sparks.

When silence meets my question, I slam the prod straight into his balls.

“Andretti!” he howls, finally breaking, pain shredding his voice. “Your uncle!”

Uncle Andre.

Just the confirmation I needed. He’s broken enough to finally start telling the truth.

And Uncle Andre wants a war? Fine. He can have one. But he came for Riley, and now the gloves are off.

“He’s not done with her yet,” whatever his name is wheezes.

My pulse kicks violently, molten rage searing through every vein. It takes everything in me not to shove the prod straight up this fucker’s ass. “What do you mean?”

“Means you need me,” he rasps, agony shredding the words apart. “I know who you are. Haven’t breathed a fucking word—not even to your uncle. You can trust me.” He drags out the word like it’s coated in glue, consciousness slipping away with each syllable.

“Tell me exactly what he wants with her.”

He shakes his head weakly, blood bubbling from cracked lips. “He knows if I give her to him, he’d have you by the fucking throat.”

I tilt my head slowly, deliberately—the threat unspoken, but unmistakable. This bastard masterminded Riley’s attack.

And here I was, thinking I’d just dragged in another disposable lackey.

Wrong again.

I need to remember this bastard holds information—something vital, something worth more than the pound of flesh I’m determined to take from him.

I stare at my hands, slick with blood?—

Not his blood.

His blood is dark, disgusting. Whatever this fucker eats, drinks, or smokes is beyond me, but it leaves behind the kind of thick, viscous stain you’d expect oozing from a corpse.

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