Page 2 of The Contract

In a rush of newlywed bliss, Kennedy is marrying him. No warning. No heads-up. Not one damn clue she was even in a relationship.

Seriously, until the priest said, Do you, Enzo Ares D’Angelo, take Kennedy, I didn’t even know the guy’s name.

I mean, I knew he was a D’Angelo. And the next-level wealth that clings to him like a stripper’s legs around a pole should impress me.

It doesn’t.

Not the private jets that flew in the entire guest list—including me.

Not the exclusive Catholic church that somehow was miraculously available at an hour usually reserved for Christmas Eve Mass and exorcisms.

Not the slew of brothers standing at the altar in kilts, looking like an army of demigods. Which, as eye candy goes, I appreciate as much as the next girl.

But considering they’re in kilts, and we’re in a church, I avert my eyes to avoid a first-class smiting.

And don’t even get me started on the full-scale bagpipe brigade that I overheard was flown in last minute.

From Edinburgh.

None of it impresses me. Because I don’t care how much money he has.

I care about how Dark Daddy Warbucks treats my sister.

And…ugh, the sexual tension is too thick to see through.

Is that Fuck you, I hate you? Or Fuck me like you hate me?

Considering Kennedy has no qualms about lying straight to my face if she thinks she’s protecting me, and has never so much as gone on a date without checking with me first, I have no freaking clue.

And now she’s letting a stranger slip a ring on her finger.

All while I’m still processing it. Cheerily, of course. And before the priest so much as thinks of allowing anyone to object, her whirlwind romance whisks her away through the church doors, swallowed into the night.

Followed by a horde of Scottish bagpipers.

Two children Kennedy is now insta-mom to.

A nanny.

Truffles the dog.

And a stampede of hot Italian stallion brothers…

And suddenly, it’s just me.

Well, me and the priest.

With that level of hotness and build like a D’Angelo, I’m starting to wonder if he’s related. Or maybe, that’s just me, seeing D’Angelo’s where none exist.

Clearly, I have a type.

“Everything alright, my child?” he asks because I’m just standing there. Still reeling from being visually assaulted by an army of men in kilts.

Or at least, him.

The smoldering one.

The one with eyes like a brewing storm, a jaw carved by the gods, and enough raw dominance to bend the universe to his will.

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