Page 56 of The Contract

He screams and falls back. I got him in the hip. I fire again and get him in the chest. He’s still not dead, and I’m out of bullets. He fights when I start strangling him, but I squeeze harder and harder. He convulses, twitches, and finally goes still.

I fall back on my ass and survey the scene, but everyone present is dead. I won’t bother cleaning this up. Capelli will do it to keep it quiet.

Pain starts to throb in my abdomen, and I realize I got cut worse than I thought in my initial fight. It’s fine, but I need to patch it. When I try to get up, however, I fall. I almost throw up, but I breathe until the nausea subsides.

Shit. I’m not going to be able to drive, and I have to get out of here. I briefly consider calling Kenzie, but I can’t involve her in this shit. She’s somewhat aware of my activities and looks away, but it’s easier to look away from blood than from bodies.

I’m not about to call Noah, and Tristan is obviously out of the question. There’s really only one person I can call at a time like this.

The phone rings several times before Rafael answers. “How bad?”

He’s out of breath, and I can hear whoever he’s fucking moaning in the background.

“I can’t drive. I need out of here.”

“Send me your location.”

NINETEEN

Tristan

The second I walk into the penthouse I know something’s wrong. There’s a bloody handprint on the entryway’s black and white tiled floor. What the fuck?

Scalp prickling, I move cautiously into the kitchen. There’s another bloody smear on the edge of the counter. Oh my god.

There are no signs of a struggle, no overturned furniture, nothing broken. And that handprint on the entryway floor. It was like someone—Dante, surely—fell coming in and caught himself on a bloody hand.

“Dante!” I race through the penthouse, flying up the steps to the bedroom. I slam to a stop when I hear two male voices coming from the bathroom. The lights are low, but the door is open, so I inch forward.

Rafael peers out.

I recoil. What the hell?

He’s wearing the same leather pants and snug dress shirt I saw him in earlier tonight, though the corset vest is gone, and he looks disheveled, like he threw everything on. His wavy hair looks messier than usual. There’s blood on his shirt.

His playboy lips quirk. “Don’t freak out.”

“What the—is Dante okay?”

Rafael’s way-too-handsome face angles back into the bathroom. “Your boyfriend wants to know if you’re okay.”

My heart skitters at the word boyfriend, but Dante grumbles from inside the bathroom, “Fuck off, Rafael. Tristan, come here. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Rafael tells him. “You should see the doc.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“No, but you’d tell me to.”

“And you’d ignore me like I’m ignoring you. It’s just a concussion.”

“Oh my god,” I mutter and walk into the bathroom. Rafael draws back, standing by the shower.

Dante’s sitting on the closed toilet. He’s wearing black cargo pants and no shirt. There’s a bandage on his stomach and the beginnings of a bad bruise. His face is bruised too, and he squints at me, even though only the low accent lights are on.

“I’m fine,” he says.

“What happened?”

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