Page 92 of The Contract

Her expression turns icy, jaw tightening as pride lifts her chin high. Rage sharpens every move, every breath, every step. Without another word, she yanks her coat around her, ignores the cash entirely, and leaves, slamming the door behind her.

And if I could let myself love her, truly fucking love her—right here, right now—I would.

But I can’t.

Death already RSVP’d—black tie, front row—and nothing’s stopping the main event.

The door swings halfway open again, and for half a second, I foolishly imagine Riley rushing into my arms, demanding I cut the shit and just run away with her already.

A tempting offer, mind you, but no such luck.

Instead, my little Pom hurls one final, blistering glare my way, middle finger raised high in defiance.

“Go fuck yourself, Dante D’Angelo.”

Already on it.

Undeniably, irrevocably fucked.

CHAPTER 30

Dante

Vengeance is a ruthless bitch.

Sure, I can shove her aside—days, weeks, hell, sometimes even months. But when she returns, she slips under my skin, pumping pure venom straight into my bloodstream.

She won’t leave.

Or maybe I won’t let her.

Not until she’s torn through every last part of me—mind, heart, and whatever’s left of my soul. And apparently, not until I’ve flung myself headfirst into the next chaotic fuck-fest.

It’s been days since I’ve felt even remotely human. Days since Riley’s body molded against mine. Since she warmed my bed, slipped inside my veins, and rewired my fucking brain.

Without her, reality frays along the edges. I lose sight of who the hell I am. What monster I’m supposed to be.

Lofty fantasies of a girl wearing nothing but my shirt and those goddamned bunny ears made me weak. For one reckless second, I’m almost convinced that I could be something more.

Happy.

Whole.

Hers.

But then one dumb fuck has to poke the bear, and all my senses snaps violently back into place.

Enzo might be the God of War.

But me?

I’m the God of Destruction. Baptized in violence. Death’s fucking muse.

Delivering happy endings like a fucking Amazon truck? I don’t think so.

I breeze past Chio without breaking stride. The hulking mountain of muscle rushes to catch up.

Wisely, he knows better than to handle this himself. “Sir, it’s?—”

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