Page 25 of Made for Saints

I blinked, unsure how to respond to him. I wasn’t sure if he was being serious or just messing with me again, but either way, it left me off-balance.

Before I could say anything, he stood, straightening his jacket with that effortless confidence that made it seem like he owned the entire room. “I have business with your father” he said casually, clearing his throat as if the entire conversation hadn’t happened. Then he paused, looking down at me with that familiar glint in his eye, the one that made my chest tighten even though I hated that it did.

“And Emilia?”

“What now?” I asked, exasperated, though my voice came out weaker than I intended.

“Don’t miss me too much,” he said, his voice low and teasing, punctuated by a wink that sent an unwelcome heat rushing to my cheeks. Then, without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away, his strides confident, as if he’d already won whatever game we were playing.

I sat there, staring at the empty chair across from me, my heart racing for reasons I didn’t want to think about. The space he left behind felt charged, like the echo of his presence was still lingering in the air.

What the hell was his problem? And why, even after hewas gone, did I feel like he’d taken the oxygen in the room with him?

My eyes reluctantly followed him as he disappeared through the doorway, the broad lines of his shoulders and the ease of his stride only making it worse. He was maddeningly attractive—too sharp, too put-together, too aware of the effect he had on people. On me.

I hated the way my body reacted to him, the way my pulse quickened and my skin heated like it was responding to a challenge I never agreed to take on. He was dangerous, and not just because of who he was. He was dangerous because, even now, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way his smirk made my stomach flutter.

What was wrong with me? And why, despite every reason I had to despise him, did part of me wonder when I’d see him again?

I hated him.

I hated that I didn’t hate him enough.

Chapter 9

Emilia

The next day, the dining room buzzed with voices and the clinking of silverware against porcelain plates. Family meals were a Ricci tradition, one of the only things my father demanded we always do together. . No exceptions. It was supposed to be about unity, about showing strength as a family. But to me, it often felt like a battleground, a place where alliances were tested and grievances aired under the guise of civility.

I sat near the far end of the long mahogany table, picking at my salad while my brothers argued over the best way to handle a situation I hadn’t been fully briefed on. My father sat at the head, as he always did, a silent force of authority. His mere presence kept the chaos of my brothers from spiraling too far.

“So,” Tony said, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the chatter. “Are we going to talk about why Dante was here yesterday?”

The room quieted slightly, tension rippling through the air like a warning bell.

“Because,” Tony continued, his dark brows furrowing as he leaned back in his chair, “I’m guessing it wasn’t for a friendly chat.”

My father set down his fork with deliberate calm, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. “It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with,” he said, his tone measured, but firm enough to signal the conversation was over.

“Nothing?” Tony pressed, his dark brows furrowing. “If it’s nothing, then why involve Dante at all?”

Our father’s sharp gaze landed on Tony, silencing him before he could push further. “I said it’s under control.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the table. “Focus on what I’ve asked you to do, Tony.”

That should have been the end of it, but Marco, always the hothead, couldn’t leave it alone. “If it’s under control, then why does it feel like everyone’s walking on eggshells? What’s going on, Father? Does this have something to do with—”

“Marco,” our father interrupted, his voice low but edged with warning. “Enough.”

Marco’s mouth snapped shut, and the table fell into a heavy silence. I glanced between them, my curiosity burning, even as I felt the weight of their unspoken rule pressing down on me:This isn’t for you, Emilia.

Our father wasn’t shutting my brother’s out - he was shutting me out until he could speak with them in private.

“Is this about the business?” I asked carefully, breaking the silence. I kept my tone neutral, non-confrontational, but all eyes turned to me anyway.

“Why do you ask?” Tony said, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Worried about something, sorella?”

“No,” I said, forcing my voice to stay even. “But if there’s a problem, I’d like to know. I work in the business too, you know.”

“You work in part of it,” Marco said, his tone dismissive. “The clean part. This isn’t something you need to worry about.”

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