Page 22 of Made for Saints

"What if I don’t want to keep you?" I shot back, my voice sharper than I intended, though the tremble at the edgesbetrayed me.

His smirk deepened, slow and deliberate, as his hand moved to brush a strand of hair from my face. "You’re lying."

I stiffened, glaring up at him. "You think you know everything, don’t you?"

"I know enough." His voice was calm, maddeningly confident, as his fingers lingered in my hair, twisting a strand between them. "Enough to know you don’t really want me to leave."

I forced a laugh, though it came out weaker than I’d hoped. "You’re insufferable."

"And you’re still a terrible liar," he murmured, his grip tightening just enough to tilt my head back, forcing me to meet his eyes. His gaze burned into me, dark and unreadable. "Maybe one day you’ll admit it."

"Don’t hold your breath," I said, though the words felt hollow under the weight of his stare.

Something flickered in his expression—satisfaction or amusement—before he suddenly released me and stepped back. I stumbled slightly, catching myself against the counter as he turned toward the doorway.

I waited until I heard the front door close, until the sound of his car faded into the distance, before letting out the breath I'd been holding. My reflection in the window looked flushed, lips slightly parted, eyes too bright.

The tea had gone cold again, but I drank it anyway, letting the familiar taste ground me. It was perfect, just like he'd said it would be. Somehow, that felt like another victory for him – as if he needed any more.

My phone buzzed with another text from Adrianna: Still coming?

Yes, I replied, already heading upstairs to change. Because I needed to get out of this house, away from the lingering scent of Dante's cologne and the memory of his hands in my hair.

But as I slipped into a new dress, I couldn't help wondering if any distance would be enough to escape whatever game he was playing. Or worse – if I even wanted to escape it at all.

Chapter 8

Emilia

My mother stood near the tall windows of the sitting room, bathed in the midday light that poured in through the sheer curtains. She was the very picture of poise, her hands clasped delicately in front of her as she surveyed the maid making final preparations in the adjacent dining room. Not a hair was out of place in her sleek chignon, her pearl earrings catching the light as she tilted her head ever so slightly to study the floral arrangement on the table.

“Move the hydrangeas to the center,” she instructed, her voice calm but carrying an authority that left no room for argument. The maid hurried to obey, shifting the vase just a fraction of an inch. She nodded once, satisfied, before turning her attention back to me.

Her gaze swept over me, taking in every detail of my appearance with the same critical eye she applied to everything else. “Your dress is lovely,” she said, her tone neutral, though the faintest hint of approval flickered in her expression. “But your hair could use a little more polish. You shouldn’t look rushed.”

I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, trying not to fidget. “I wasn’t rushed,” I replied lightly, though we both knew that wasn’t entirely true.

Her lips curved into a faint smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Presentation matters, Emilia. You know that.” She adjusted the cuff of her tailored jacket, her movementsprecise and deliberate. “Especially when we have guests.”

I glanced toward the dining room, where the table gleamed under the light of a crystal chandelier. The staff moved efficiently, replacing polished silverware and ensuring every glass sparkled. Everything was perfect, as it always was under her watchful eye.

“I know,” I said softly, though the words felt like they belonged to someone else.

Her perfume—a subtle blend of jasmine and bergamot—lingered in the air as she stepped closer. Bianca Ricci, the textbook definition of the perfect mafia wife. She was elegance and control personified, the kind of woman who turned heads without trying, who could silence a room with nothing more than a glance. My father’s perfect counterpart.

“Your father has worked hard to create a life of respect and power for this family,” she said, her voice low but firm. “It’s our job to support that. To ensure everything runs smoothly.”

Support. Smooth. Perfect.

That was the mafia wife’s creed, wasn’t it? To be the quiet foundation of an empire built on blood and secrets. To smile when you wanted to scream. To look flawless even when your world was falling apart.

I nodded, but my stomach twisted. For her, it was so simple—second nature. She had spent decades perfecting her role, becoming the flawless mafia wife, the perfect hostess, the unwavering matriarch. And she did it all without complaint, without hesitation. But at what cost?

The thought came unbidden, my mind drifting to the pill bottles I’d seen the nurse bring home from the pharmacy every month for as long as I could remember. My mother took them like clockwork—something for anxiety, something for sleep, something to keep her world balanced on the knife’s edge of composure. I’d never asked her about them, and she’d never explained. She didn’t have to. They were just another part of the life she lived, the life that demanded too much from her and gave little in return.

I wondered if she ever thought about the toll it took—the way her hands sometimes trembled when she thought no one was looking, or the slight strain in her voice when she gave orders. Did she ever think about who she might have been if she hadn’t married into this life? If she didn’t have to play this role every single day? Or had she buried those thoughts so deeply that even she couldn’t find them anymore?

I hesitated, my eyes lingering on her for a moment longer. “Do you ever get tired of it?” I asked quietly, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

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