Page 133 of The Contract

Piece by bloody fucking piece.

CHAPTER 45

Dante

I let the scotch torch a hole straight through my fucking soul. Half a bottle in, and my conscience finally demands its pound of flesh.

I crossed the line.

I handed over the black necklace.

The same necklace that stole a week of Trinity’s life and replaced it with a never-ending nightmare.

That ripped away her memories.

Shredded her fucking sanity.

Broke. Her.

And I threw it away like it meant nothing.

To Declan fucking Keenan, of all people.

I might as well have handed razor blades to a psychopath with a note reading, Enjoy.

And for what?

My blurry vision tries—and fails—to focus as a knock pounds the door.

I ignore it. Busy drowning in scotch, here.

Two more knocks—louder, angrier this time. Because apparently, artwork is overrated and cracked plaster is the new décor.

Before I can bark at them to fuck off, the door swings wide open, permission be damned.

I lift my gaze from the scotch, which is almost gone, and land on Chio.

He fills the doorway like a human roadblock, a massive slab of muscle and barely leashed menace, though his normal zero fucks given persona is suddenly softer now.

His gaze veers from the nearly empty bottle to me, concern etched deep across his freakishly large brow.

I know exactly what he’s thinking.

One: I don’t drink unless it’s a special occasion. Control issues and all.

Two: He recognizes the bottle.

Yes, it’s Enzo’s.

And yes, Declan will be taking the blame for its tragic demise.

Chio clears his throat, cautiously. “A word, sir?” he asks, each syllable precise—like one wrong move could set off the ticking bomb staring him down.

“You.” I sway slightly, stabbing a finger toward him. “Aren’t supposed to be here. The other bouncer’s on.”

Because tonight promises to be the dumpster fire to end all dumpster fires, and the big dumb lug will inevitably die shielding me with his oversized, human-climbing-wall body.

And I don’t need another fucking ghost haunting my conscience.

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