Page 13 of Made for Saints

I shot him a warning look, but he only smirked, unbothered. Of all my brothers, Rafe was the one who pushed my buttons the most. He thrived on chaos, on poking the bear just to see how far he could push before it snapped. Normally, I didn’t rise to the bait. Tonight, though, my patience was wearing thin.

“He was skimming off the books,” I said, my tone clipped. “What would you have done?”

Rafe shrugged, swirling his drink lazily, the amber liquid catching the light. “Oh, I would’ve killed him too. Just maybe not on a yacht full of witnesses. You’re losing your touch, brother.”

My jaw tightened, but I forced myself to stay calm. Rafe liked to provoke me, but he wasn’t wrong. The timing had been sloppy, the execution too public. I should’ve waited, handled it quietly, away from prying eyes. But the moment I’d seen that coward standing there, lying through his teeth, the rage had overtaken me. And now, here we were.

Rafe, of course, wouldn’t let it go.

He leaned back against the bar, the picture of relaxation, but I knew better. Rafe was never truly at ease—not in the way most people were. He was the family’s enforcer, the one who stepped in when things got messy, when the rules of the game were broken, and someone needed to be made an example of.

He cleaned up the blood, both figuratively and literally, and he did it with a smile that could make your stomach turn. The docks were his domain, our family’s pipeline for goods—both legal and illegal. If something came through the ports, Rafe knew about it. If someone tried to cheat the Ricci family, Rafe made sure they regretted it.

He didn’t just enforce the rules—he was the rules.

And yet, for all his ruthlessness, he had a way of making it look almost effortless. Like now, with that cocky grin and the way he swirled his drink, you’d think he didn’t have a care in the world. But I knew better. Behind the lazy smirk and the sharp designer suit was a man who could snap a neck without breaking a sweat.

“It’s handled,” I said, my voice hard. “That’s all that matters.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t press further. He knew better than to push me too far.

The room fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by the faint clatter of dishes being cleared away. My other brother sat at the far end of the table, deep in conversation with a friend of his, their voices too low to make out. Some of my cousins lingered near the bar, their laughter forced and brittle. Everyone was walking on eggshells, waiting for the storm to pass.

I rolled my eyes and clenched my jaw. Fucking cowards.

As if that was the first execution at a Conti event?

I drained the rest of my whiskey in one swallow, the glass hitting the table with a dull thud. The burn of it did little to soothe the ache in my chest, the gnawing sense of dissatisfaction that had been growing for weeks. Months, even.

My gaze drifted to the far end of the room, where Emilia had been sitting earlier. She was gone now, no doubt retreating to some quiet corner of the yacht to lick her wounds. I hadn’t seen her since the incident, and hadn't had the chance to speak to her. Not that I would’ve known what to say.

I almost shook my head to rattle my brain because why the fuck was I acting like a schoolboy with a crush? Since when did I let anyone take up this much space in my head?

“Thinking about her, huh?” Rafe’s voice broke through my thoughts, his tone laced with amusement.

I didn’t respond, but he leaned casually against the edge of the table, watching me like I was some kind of puzzle he was determined to solve.

“You’ve got it bad, brother,” he added, a smirk tugging at his lips.

I shot him a sharp look. “Don’t start.”

“Who, me?” he asked, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “I’m just saying, it’s written all over your face. You’ve got that look—like you’re two seconds away from writing her name in a notebook with hearts around it.”

“Rafe,” I warned, my voice low and clipped.

He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. “Relax, Dante. I’m not judging. Hell, if she’s the one who finally gets you to loosen up, we should be thanking her. It’s not like you’re easy to deal with.”

Before I could respond, Luca and Logan walked up, their voices rising as they bickered about something absurd.

“I’m telling you, it’s a completely valid strategy!” Logan argued, gesturing wildly with his drink in hand.

“It’s cheating,” Luca replied flatly, his expression unamused.

“It’s not cheating—it’s creative,” Logan shot back, his grin wide. “You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first.”

Rafe snorted, clearly entertained. “What now?”

“Logan thinks counting cards isn’t cheating,” Luca said, his tone dry, though there was a flicker of annoyance in his eyes.

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