Page 122 of Made for Saints

His jaw tightened, the muscle there ticking as if he were physically restraining himself from saying something he couldn’t take back. For a moment, I thought he might let me go, might finally give me the distance I so desperately needed to breathe. But instead, he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper.

“Do you really think I don’t care about you?” he asked, his tone razor-sharp, each word slicing through the fragile barrier I’d tried to build between us. “Do you think I go out of my way to—”

“That you don’t just finger fuck anyone?” I shot back, my voice laced with venom and hurt. I was mad. No, I was furious. The kind of fury that had been simmering for too long, finally boiling over and spilling out, careless of the damage it might cause.

His eyes darkened immediately, flicking to the crowd around us. Conversations faltered, heads turning slightly, their interest piqued by the scene we were causing. His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking as he registered the attention we were drawing.

“Lower your voice,” he said through gritted teeth, his hand brushing against my arm—not as a gesture of comfort, but as if he was trying to steady me. Or maybe to silence me.

“Why?” I hissed, stepping closer, my chest heaving with the force of my anger. “Are you embarrassed?” My voice was quieter now, but no less sharp, the words slicing through the tension between us. “Afraid someone might see the great Dante Conti losing control?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, his posture stiffening. He didn’t answer, but the way his hand lingered on my arm betrayed his internal struggle. It wasn’t just anger—it wassomething deeper, something raw and unguarded that I wasn’t sure even he understood.

“Go home, Emilia,” he said, his voice flat, emotionless. “This was a mistake.”

His words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. A mistake. That’s what he thought this was. What he thought I was. My chest tightened, a sharp ache blooming in the center of it that I couldn’t quite name. Anger? Hurt? Betrayal? Maybe all three. The room around us seemed to blur, the glittering chandeliers and swirling gowns fading into the background as my world narrowed to just him—the man standing before me, looking at me like I was nothing.

I pulled my arm free from his grasp, the motion sharp and deliberate, and took a step back. “That’s it, then?” I asked, my voice trembling with a mix of fury and disbelief. “You’re just going to push me away and pretend none of this ever happened?”

Dante’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes flickering. He didn’t answer right away, and the silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating.

“Go home, Emilia,” he said again, his tone clipped and devoid of the warmth I had once thought only I could coax out of him. “This isn’t the place for this conversation.”

“Then when?” I shot back, my voice rising despite myself. “When is the right time, Dante? Because it feels like every time I try to get close to you, you pull away. Every time I think I understand you, you shut me out. So tell me—when do I get to know the truth? When do I get to know you?”

His eyes darkened, his expression tightening into something unreadable. For a moment, I thought he might actually answer, might finally let me in. But then he shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“You don’t,” he said, his voice low and final. “You don’t get to know me, Emilia. You don’t get to see what’s in my head, what’s in my world. You don’t want that. Trust me.”

“Don’t tell me what I want,” I snapped, my hands curlinginto fists at my sides. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

His lips twitched into something that might have been a smirk if it weren’t so bitter. “You think you want this?” he asked, his voice laced with disbelief. “You think you can handle what comes with being part of my world? You have no idea what you’re asking for, princess.”

“Stop calling me that!” I hissed, the nickname cutting through me like a blade. It felt mocking now, a reminder of how little he thought of me. “You don’t get to stand there and belittle me while pretending you’re doing it for my own good. If you don’t want me, fine. But don’t you dare act like you’re protecting me when all you’re doing is protecting yourself.”

His eyes flashed, a flicker of something dangerous sparking behind them. “You think this is about me?” he growled, stepping closer.

"I know why people call you the devil now," I shot out, my voice sharp and cutting through the murmurs of the gathered crowd. My words hung in the air like a blade suspended mid-strike, the weight of them causing a few heads to turn in curiosity, though no one dared to intervene. The faint clinking of glasses and the hum of polite conversation seemed to falter for a moment, as if the room itself held its breath.

I didn’t wait for a response. I didn’t need one. Without sparing another glance, I turned on my heel, the echo of my footsteps deliberate and measured against the polished marble floor. My hand reached out instinctively as I passed a waiter, fingers curling around the neck of a champagne bottle with a confidence that brooked no argument. The waiter froze, his startled protest dying on his lips as I moved past him without breaking stride, the bottle now firmly in my grasp.

The cool glass felt reassuring in my hand as I pushed through the heavy double doors, the muffled sounds of the party fading behind me. The crisp night air hit me like a slap, sharp and invigorating, carrying with it the faint scent of rain and distant city lights. I didn’t look back. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Instead, I disappeared into the shadows, thechampagne bottle swinging at my side like a trophy, a silent declaration that I was done playing their games.

Chapter 39

Dante

The anger was still there, simmering beneath my skin like a low-grade fever that refused to break. It clung to me, thick and suffocating, a constant reminder of how close I’d come to losing control. I could still hear her voice, sharp and defiant, cutting through the ballroom like the crack of a whip.I know why people call you the devil now.

The words had struck something deep, something raw, and I hated her for it. Hated the way she could strip me bare with just a few syllables, leaving me exposed and vulnerable in a way I hadn’t been since I was a boy. Hated the way she made me feel things I had no business feeling—things I couldn’t afford to feel.

I should’ve thrown her over my shoulder right then and there. Dragged her into one of the empty rooms off the ballroom and fucked the defiance out of her. I should’ve made her scream my name until the only thing left in her veins was me.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I let her walk away, champagne bottle in hand, her heels clicking against the marble like a goddamn victory march. And now, hours later, I was left with nothing but the echoes of our argument and the bitter taste of regret.

I slammed my fist against the desk, the impact reverberating through the room. Papers scattered, a glass tumbler toppled over, and the amber liquid inside spilledacross the polished wood, pooling around the edges of the forensic accountant’s report. The name on the paper mocked me, a silent accusation that I’d been too blind, too distracted, to see the betrayal unfolding right under my nose.

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