Page 124 of Made for Saints

I needed a plan. I needed to fix this. But every time I tried to think, my mind drifted back to her. To the way she’d looked at me tonight, her eyes filled with anger and hurt. To the way her lips had trembled as she’d spoken, as if she was holding back tears. To the way she’d walked away, her back straight, her head held high, even as I’d torn her apart with my words.

You’re mine, Emilia.The thought came unbidden, a dark, possessive whisper in the back of my mind. She didn’t know it yet—hell, maybe I didn’t either—but it was the truth. She was mine in a way no one else ever had been, and the thought of losing her, of pushing her so far away that she never came back, made my chest tighten with something dangerously close to fear.

I forced myself to focus, checking my watch noticing I had just enough time to sober up enough and get to the chapel for the festivities.

If I was the devil, then she was my damnation.

Chapter 40

Emilia

The sun dipped low, a molten gold spilling across the sprawling gardens of the Moretti estate. Shadows stretched long against the manicured hedges, and the amber light caught on the delicate crystal glasses perched on tables draped in ivory linen. The scent of roses and lavender hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint, briny tang of the sea breeze drifting up from the cliffs. Guests moved like elegant silhouettes, their laughter and murmured conversations weaving into the soft strains of a string quartet that played somewhere near the fountain.

I adjusted the hem of my dress, fingers brushing against the silky fabric as I stepped onto the stone path leading toward the reception. My heels clicked softly against the stones, barely audible over the music and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. I’d been running all day, a blur of quick movements and whispered reassurances, from the moment Adrianna’s makeup artist arrived at dawn to the last, frantic tug of her lace veil just before the ceremony. My muscles ached, but there wasn’t time to think about that now.

Adrianna’s wedding was perfection itself, every detail impossibly precise. Flower petals lined the aisle in an unbroken path of white and blush pink, so perfect it almost felt sacrilegious to step on them. The ceremony had unfolded seamlessly, the vows spoken with a solemnity that even the most skeptical guest couldn’t ignore. Adrianna had stood beneath the arch of roses, her gaze steady, her smile softbut real. Michael had taken her hand, his touch careful, his words measured. Despite everything—the arrangement, the expectations—there had been something in the way he looked at her, something unspoken but steady, as though he were promising, without words, to keep her safe.

Watching them, I’d felt the tension in my chest loosen, just a little. She would be okay. Protected. That was what mattered.

Now, as the golden light gave way to the first hints of twilight, I finally let myself breathe. The faint hum of the day’s chaos still lingered in my mind, but it was distant now. Adrianna had everything she deserved—everything she had been waiting for.

Now, as the reception was in full swing, I found myself nursing a glass of champagne, my feet aching from hours in heels. The dance floor was alive with movement, a blur of swirling gowns and sharp suits, laughter and clinking glasses filling the air. Adrianna and Michael were at the center of it all, their hands intertwined as they swayed to the music, their smiles soft and unguarded.

“You look lost in thought,” came a voice from behind me.

I turned to find one of Michael’s cousins—Enzo, if I remembered correctly—standing there, a charming smile on his face. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair slicked back in a way that made him look like he’d stepped out of a cologne ad. Not bad-looking, but not my type. Still, his easy demeanor was a welcome distraction from the knot of nerves that had been twisting in my stomach all evening.

“Just taking it all in,” I said, returning his smile as I lifted my glass. “It’s a beautiful wedding.”

“It is,” he agreed, his gaze flicking to the dance floor. “But I think the maid of honor deserves a dance. What do you say?”

I hesitated, my eyes darting to the crowd. Dante was nowhere in sight—he hadn’t been all evening, as far as I could tell. And maybe that was for the best. The last thing I needed was another confrontation, another reminder of the tension simmering between us. Besides, Enzo seemed harmlessenough. A dance wouldn’t hurt.

“Why not?” I said, setting my glass down on a nearby table.

Enzo’s smile widened as he offered me his hand, leading me onto the dance floor. The music shifted to something slower, the kind of melody that encouraged close proximity and whispered conversations. He was a decent dancer, his movements smooth and confident as he guided me across the floor. We made small talk—something about his work, his travels—but my mind was elsewhere, my thoughts drifting to a certain dark-haired, brooding man who had an uncanny ability to consume my every waking moment.

“Are you always this distracted?” Enzo teased, his tone light as he spun me gently.

“Sorry,” I said, forcing a smile. “It’s been a long day.”

“Understandable,” he said, his grip on my waist firm but respectful. “But you should try to relax. Enjoy yourself.”

I was about to respond when I felt it—a shift in the air, a prickle at the back of my neck that sent a shiver down my spine. Before I could turn, a familiar voice cut through the music, low and laced with barely contained irritation.

“Mind if I cut in?”

Enzo froze, his eyes widening slightly as he glanced over my shoulder. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Dante’s presence was unmistakable, a magnetic pull that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

"Yes." I said attempting to pull towards the opposite direction at the same time Enzo answered.

“Of course,” Enzo said quickly, stepping back with a polite nod. “The floor is yours.”

I barely had time to process the exchange before Dante’s hand was on my waist, his other hand capturing mine as he pulled me into a dance. His grip was firm, his movements commanding as he guided me across the floor with an ease that left no room for argument.

“What are you doing?” I hissed, my voice low enough that only he could hear.

“Dancing,” he said simply, his dark eyes locked onto mine. “You looked like you needed rescuing.”

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