Page 94 of The Contract

So the man with the street value of a used condom gets to live.

For now.

With a grand flourish, he swirls his glass, sending a generous splash of booze onto my desk.

I don’t react. I simply breathe through it.

“I just want to make sure there isn’t any trouble between us,” he says, his accent thicker with scotch.

I step closer, eying the mess he made. “There’s already trouble.”

Instantly, his smirk falters, and his foot drops to the floor with a dull thud. Both hands shoot up in a half-assed display of surrender. “Fine. No need to get your panties in a twist, big guy.”

Chuckling, he rises—or tries to—stumbling over his own colossal feet, catching himself just before he faceplants.

Pathetic.

I shake my head, and slide into the seat. A deliberate move, just so he remembers exactly who’s in charge.

“Your father and I have a deal,” I remind him, my voice ice-cold. “As long as the Keenans keep up their end of the bargain, I’ll keep up mine.”

He downs the last of his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like the classless prick he is. “I need a favor.”

I exhale slowly, patience thinning like a frayed live wire.

Snatching the pocket square from his suit, I calmly wipe the spilled booze off my desk. “I don’t do favors.”

“You’ll do one for me.”

I ball up the ruined handkerchief and drop it into his empty glass. “I doubt that.”

Ignoring him, and hoping he’ll finally take the fucking hint, I shift my focus to the monitors, skimming the endless flood of RSVPs choking my inbox.

Bright, beautiful elite rubbing shoulders with the most ruthless, lethal players in Chicago’s underworld.

Fuck.

Did the Keenans post this shit on TikTok?

This is the opposite of low-key. One of several conditions I had.

Then again, blood oaths aren’t exactly laden with fine print.

Declan’s creepy-ass form lingers a beat too long before slamming the empty Lalique lowball onto my desk with a deliberate thud.

“You’ll regret this, Dante.”

I don’t even pretend to listen, letting his words fade into the background static of my own thoughts.

He turns slowly, strolling toward the door as if he’s got all the time in the world.

I bet he’d hustle if a bullet kissed him in the ass.

“Fine,” he calls casually over his shoulder. “I’ll just be on me merry way…and you’ll never find out what really happened to your dear old dad.”

My eyes snap up.

Now the prick has my full attention.

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