Page 72 of The Contract

In three seconds flat, I’m dressed, armed, and storming out the fucking door.

My grip tightens around the phone so brutally the screen fractures.

And just when I thought I’d killed enough fuckers for one day.

CHAPTER 22

Dante

I storm into the Inferno, fury at my back like the tail end of a hurricane. Spotting Chio, my gorilla-sized security guard, I stalk straight for him.

“You wanna tell me why there was a woman in my office? With my brother?”

Chio—or Orsacchiotto—reads the murderous intent carved into every hard line of my face and doesn’t even hesitate. “Said you were expecting her.” He lifts his massive hands defensively, a pathetic, please-don’t-shoot-the-messenger shrug.

Irritation cracks like flint on steel. “And you just let her in?”

Then again, why am I surprised? This is exactly the kind of bullshit you get when your hired muscle’s full name translates to “teddy bear.”

“She even showed your card,” he rushes out.

Of fucking course she did.

“I swear,” he mutters, panic flashing raw and real behind his eyes, “I didn’t even look at her.”

“Congratulations. You get to keep your eyesight.” For now.

The slow weave of a relieved sigh leaves his lips.

I crack my knuckles slowly, methodically, letting each pop underscore the quiet threat in my next words. “Tell me you know exactly where they are.”

He jerks his chin sharply, eager to shift my rage anywhere but at him. “The stage, sir.”

Rage floods my veins, hot as lit diesel. Each step toward the stage is another bullet loaded into the chamber—a brutal promise, begging to be kept. Clear out, or brace for bloodshed.

Just before I hit the door, Dillon slides casually into the hall, shutting it behind him with infuriating ease. His arrogant smirk screams I just swallowed the fucking canary. Whole.

Huge fucking mistake.

Both fists bunch into his shirt. I slam him into the wall hard enough to crack plaster. My forearm grinds mercilessly into his throat, pinning him like a bug beneath glass.

“You seem wound tight, bro,” Dillon drawls lazily, amusement glittering his dark eyes. He’s practically begging me to snap.

Instinct overrides reason, raw fury eclipsing restraint.

My fist slams viciously into his smug face, knuckles cracking against bone. A modicum of satisfaction surges through my veins.

Except that the bastard doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he spits blood, his grin widening into feral joy. “Jealous? Don’t be. I didn’t touch her.”

Bull. Fucking. Shit.

Fury coils, snapping into another vicious swing. I punch harder, faster, but Dillon ducks effortlessly. My fist lands in his open palm. A calculated mercy considering he could’ve let every bone in my hand splinter against the wall.

I guess I should be grateful.

I’m not.

A vicious knee rockets toward his groin. A pussy move, I know. But fuck him and the shit eating grin still plastered across his face.

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