Page 102 of Made for Saints

"Don’t move," Dante said firmly, his voice low but commanding. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, dialing quickly. "Rafe," he said as soon as the call connected. "Meet me in the back hallway. Tell Luca to bring the car to the staff entrance and clear the way." His tone was clipped and efficient, leaving no room for argument. He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket, his focus returning to me immediately.

His eyes roamed over me, visibly checking for any signs of injury. "Are you hurt?" he asked again, his voice softer now but underlined with tension.

I shook my head. "No," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Dante’s jaw tightened, and I realized his hands were trembling slightly. Fury radiated from him, barely contained, though his grip on me remained steady and protective.

Moments later, Rafe arrived, his footsteps hurried and his expression dark. He took one look at us and swore in Italian. "Che cazzo è successo?" he demanded, his eyes darting between Dante and me before landing on my trembling form on the floor.

"It was Emilia," Dante said, his voice calm but edged with steel. "Not me."

"What the fuck?" Rafe’s eyes widened slightly as realization dawned.

"He...he tried to..." I stammered, my voice breaking. My chest tightened as the words caught in my throat.

"You don’t need to explain," Dante interrupted gently, his hand tightening on my arm in reassurance. His tone was steady, grounding me. He turned to Rafe, his expression hardening.

"We’ll take care of this," Rafe said immediately, his tone resolute. There was no hesitation in his voice, only grim determination.

Luca arrived next, his face a mask of barely concealed anger. He swore under his breath but said, "The car’s waiting." His tone was clipped, his focus entirely on the task at hand.

Without another word, Dante bent down and scooped me into his arms. I didn’t resist, too drained to protest. His grip was firm and unyielding, his chest solid against me as he carried me toward the waiting car.

Chapter 33

Emilia

The car ride was suffocatingly silent, the kind of silence that wasn’t just an absence of sound but a presence all its own. Dante sat beside me, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, his jaw clenched as he stared straight ahead. The tension in his posture radiated through the car, a storm contained only by the thin walls of the vehicle. I sat frozen in the passenger seat, my hands trembling in my lap, still stained with blood.

Romero’s blood.

The metallic tang of it clung to my skin, sharp and nauseating. I couldn’t look at my hands, couldn’t bring myself to face the evidence of what I’d done. My chest felt tight, my breaths shallow and uneven, as if my lungs were refusing to fully inflate.

My first kill.

The words echoed in my mind, over and over, until they became a deafening roar. I’d taken a life. Ended someone’s existence. And no matter how many times I told myself it was self-defense, that Romero had left me no choice, the weight of it pressed down on me like a vice.

Dante hadn’t said a word since we left the party. He’d carried me out the back, his arms strong and unyielding as he cradled me against his chest. I’d been too numb to protest, too dazed to care about the curious stares of the guards or the sharp glances exchanged between his brothers as they helped us into the car.

Now, as the city lights blurred past the window, I felt the full gravity of what had happened sinking in. My throat tightened, and I blinked rapidly, willing the tears to stay at bay.

“Don’t,” Dante said suddenly, his voice low and rough.

I turned to him, startled. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t cry,” he said, his gaze still fixed on the road. His knuckles were white against the steering wheel, the tension in his grip mirroring the storm brewing in his dark eyes. “Not for him. He didn’t deserve it.”

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat refusing to budge. “I wasn’t…” I trailed off, my voice cracking. “I don’t even know what I’m feeling right now.”

Dante glanced at me briefly, his expression softening just enough to reveal a flicker of something I couldn’t quite place. Sympathy? Understanding? Whatever it was, it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the impenetrable mask he always wore.

“You’re in shock,” he said simply. “It’s normal.”

Normal. There was nothing normal about this. About any of it.

The car slowed as we pulled into an underground parking garage, the heavy metal gate sliding shut behind us with a low rumble. Dante parked in a reserved spot near the elevator and killed the engine, the sudden silence almost deafening.

“Come on,” he said, stepping out of the car and rounding to my side before I could even unbuckle my seatbelt.

---