Page 10 of Made for Saints

I followed, my heels clicking against the polished deck as I tried to catch up.

By the time I reached them, the argument had escalated. My father’s face was red with anger, his voice rising above the din of the party. Dante’s man—tall, broad, and visibly nervous—stood his ground, but it was clear he was out of his depth.

“What’s going on?” I asked, stepping closer, though I hesitated to fully insert myself into the situation.

My father barely spared me a glance. “Stay out of this, Emilia.”

“She’s fine,” Dante said, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. He stepped into the circle, his presence commanding instant silence.

The man—one of his associates, I realized—looked at Dante with a mixture of fear and desperation. “Boss, I didn’t—”

Dante raised a hand, silencing him. His gaze flicked to my father, then back to the man. “Walk with me,” he said, his voice low but firm.

The man hesitated, but Dante didn’t wait for a response. He turned and began walking toward a quieter corner of the deck, the man trailing behind him like a shadow.

I watched as they disappeared into the dimly lit edge of the yacht, where the noise of the party faded into the rhythmic lapping of the waves. My pulse was still racing, though I couldn’t decide if it was from the tension between my father and Dante’s man or the lingering charge of Dante’s proximity just moments ago.

My father muttered something under his breath, straightening his jacket as if the outburst hadn’t happened. He turned to me, his eyes narrowing. “I told you to stay out of it, Emilia.”

I crossed my arms. “What was that about?”

He waved a hand dismissively, but there was a tightness to his jaw that betrayed his frustration. “Business. Nothing for you to concern yourself with.”

He turned away, already moving toward another cluster ofguests, his smile suddenly back in place like a mask. I clenched my fists, watching his retreating back. It was always the same—every time I tried to pull back the curtain on what really went on in our world, I was met with walls, secrets, and lies.

I turned my attention back to Dante. He stood at the far end of the deck, his back to the sea, talking quietly to his associate. His posture was calm, controlled, but there was something about the way his shoulders were set, the slight tilt of his head, that radiated power. Whatever he was saying, the man nodded quickly, his gaze fixed to the floor like a chastened schoolboy.

I caught fragments about real estate holdings and discrepancies in the books – boring business talk that somehow carried the weight of threat in every syllable.

"The numbers don't add up," Dante was saying, his voice carrying that dangerous edge I'd come to recognize. "Someone's been creative with accounting."

The associate – Mario, I think his name was – spread his hands in a placating gesture. "Market fluctuations, nothing more. You know how volatile real estate can be."

I started to walk past their group, heading for the bar to refresh my drink. The timing couldn't have been worse. I was close enough to hear Dante’s voice, calm but cold. “You’ve disappointed me.”

The associate stammered, his words tumbling over each other in a rush. Something about money, discrepancies in the accounts, a mistake that wasn’t supposed to happen.

Dante listened in silence, his expression cold and unreadable. But as the man continued, his eyes darkened, the glint of patience slipping away.

And then, without warning, he pulled out his gun.

Before I could fully process what was happening, the sharp crack of a gunshot split the air.

The sound of the shot was deafening, cutting through the party like a thunderclap.

I didn’t even have time to scream. Warm liquid splatteredacross my face and chest, staining my white sundress crimson. Mario's body crumpled, a neat hole in his forehead leaking red onto the polished deck.

One moment, the man was standing there, pleading his case. The next, he was crumpling to the deck, blood pooling beneath him.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the edges of my vision blurring as the reality of what had just happened sank in.

Chaos erupted. Guests scattered like startled birds, shouts in English and Italian filling the air. Someone screamed – maybe me, though I couldn't be sure. My glass slipped from numb fingers, shattering on the deck.

"Merda!" My father's voice cut through the pandemonium. "Everyone calm down!"

But I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. All I could see was Mario's vacant eyes staring past me at the sunset, all I could feel was the sticky warmth of his blood cooling on my skin. The rumors about Dante's last fiancée echoed in my head – how he'd left her bleeding out without a second glance.

"Emilia." Dante's voice was surprisingly gentle as he stepped into my line of sight, blocking my view of the body. His gun had already disappeared, tucked away as if it had never existed. "Look at me."

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