Page 93 of The Contract

“I know,” I growl.

My phone buzzed minutes ago, alerting me that some asshole made himself nice and cozy in my office.

So yeah, my mood’s hovering somewhere between murderous and nuclear.

One step through the door, and the stench hits me head-on. Pure arrogance with smoky undertones of Macallan 50.

With anyone else, I’d have already taken an ear. Clean shot, zero hesitation—like target practice at a Mr. Potato Head shooting range.

But he’s a Keenan.

And whether I like it or not, his father and I shook hands. Signed the final contract yesterday. So despite my trigger finger itching like a junkie with a half-cooked spoon, I will not be the one to fuck this up.

Declan looks up at me, all slithering angles and mafia arrogance. Hollow-eyed and wiry, he borders on gaunt. It’s obvious his new diet excludes carbs, but not coke.

He’s also low on brains, high on unchecked rage, and the only reason he’s still breathing is because, for now, he’s useful.

He smirks around a sip from the two-hundred-thousand-dollar bottle, lounging in my chair, one mud-caked shoe desecrating my desk.

Oddly enough, my spirits lift.

The fact he’s drinking my brother’s prized scotch? Fucking priceless.

It moves him right out of the my problem category and dumps him squarely into Enzo’s.

And if there’s one thing my bloodthirsty brother excels at, it’s reminding arrogant pissants that having skin is a privilege, not a right.

Another sip, and he greets me with a lazy grin. “Ah, Dante. Nice of you to join me. Drink?”

I wave him off. “I’m good.”

I’m not stupid—or suicidal—enough to touch Enzo’s scotch. When my brother inevitably loses his shit over its disappearance, I’ll at least be able to swear, with a straight face, that it wasn’t me.

Not that I’m afraid of Enzo—or any of my brothers. It’s their petty-ass revenge I hate.

Muriatic acid on my fine Italian shoes.

Horse piss in my cars—plural.

And the grand finale? A pint of glitter in my underwear drawer.

Fucking glitter. The STD of craft supplies. No matter how many washes, it never goes away.

Yeah. Lesson learned.

Declan drains the glass, exhaling a satisfied sigh. “Figured since we’re practically family now, you wouldn’t mind if I dropped by to chat, bráthair.”

Brother? I don’t think so.

He helps himself to another pour, and I stare, mystified. That the Keenan’s haven’t offed him themselves is beyond me.

Posing as a twenty-something frat boy to stalk fresh prey at colleges makes him a neon-flashing liability, practically begging for attention from the cops.

A walking liability—a dumpster fire on autoplay. And untouchable.

He carries the Keenan name. The money. The loyalty. And, the protection.

My protection, thanks to our cozy little family arrangement.

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