Page 3 of Made for Saints

I didn't need to ask who "he" was. Dante "Diavlo" Conti had been the topic of whispered conversations all week. The latest story involved three bodies found in the harbor, each wearing concrete shoes—a signature move that had earned him his nickname. Quick, precise, deadly.

We’d orbited the same world for years, though I’d never had the pleasure of meeting "the Devil" himself. His younger brother had been a fixture at the frat parties I frequented during college—loud, arrogant, and always surrounded by a gaggle of girls who thought the Conti name was their ticket to glory. But Dante? He was a ghost back then, always spoken about but never seen, like a shadow lurking at the edges of the room.

Now, that shadow had a face.

"Did you hear about his fiancée?" Tony, my second brother, leaned in close, his voice low enough that only I could hear. Tony was the gossipmonger of the family, always ready to spill the latest dirt like a bored housewife at a salon. His smirk was equal parts smug and conspiratorial as he added, "Remember Isabella Romano? Pretty thing, totally devoted to him. During that shootout with the Calabrese family, she took a hit. Instead of helping her, Conti just kept firing. Left her there bleeding out while he finished the job."

I shot him a look, my grip tightening around the stem of my wine glass. "That's just a rumor."

Tony chuckled, leaning back in his chair with the kind of ease that only came from never having to worry about consequences. "Not according to Joey Calabrese’s cousin. Said he didn’t even flinch when they carried her body out. Cold as ice, that one."

I rolled my eyes, refusing to believe a single word Joey Calabrese had fed my brothers. Joey was an idiot—always had been. The kind of guy who couldn’t tell the difference between a business deal and a bar brawl, yet somehow still managed to worm his way into conversations he had no business being a part of. If Joey said the sky was blue, I’d double-check.

The main doors opened, and the room's energy shifted instantly. Conversations dimmed, backs straightened, and even the serving staff seemed to move more carefully. I kept my eyes fixed on my plate, but I could feel his presence like a physical weight in the air.

"Vincent." His voice carried across the room, deep and familliar. My fingers tightened around my wine glass. "Thank you for the invitation."

"Dante! Come, sit." My father's chair scraped back as he stood to greet our guest. "You remember my children?"

I forced myself to look up as Dante approached and the world tilted for a moment.

I knew that face.

The sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair curled slightly at the ends, and those eyes—piercing, calculating, and impossible to forget.

His watch sat discarded on my bedside table.

His eyes landed on me, and for a moment, I thought I saw hesitation flicker across his face—like he recognized me too. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by the kind of polite indifference that only someone who played this game well could master.

He wore an impeccable suit, expensive, a deep charcoal that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders.

"Of course," Dante said smoothly. "Marco, Antonio, Giuseppe." He nodded to each of my brothers before his gaze settled back on me. "And Emilia is it? Still practicing your magic tricks?"

The wine glass nearly slipped from my fingers. Across the table, my father's brow furrowed in confusion. "Magic tricks?"

"Just a little sleight of hand," Dante explained, his lips curving into that same dangerous almost-smile from the bar. "Your daughter is quite talented. Though sometimes her...execution could use work."

Heat crawled up my neck as I caught the subtle flex of his wrist, where an expensive watch would normally sit. The bastard was toying with me.

"I wasn't aware you two had met," my father said, his tone carrying a sharp edge that made me want to sink into my chair.

Great, I'm sure my father was questioning his daughter's virtue now.

"Briefly," I cut in before Dante could elaborate. "At a charity event, wasn't it?"

"Something like that." Dante's eyes glittered with amusement as he took the seat directly across from me. "Though the venue was considerably less...refined."

I’d been to enough Ricci family dinners to know how to play my part: smile when expected, laugh politely at the appropriate moments, and keep quiet unless spoken to. But tonight felt different, like there was a storm gathering just beneath the surface, and I was the only one who could feel it.

Dante Conti was the reason for that storm. His presence didn’t just command the room—it dominated it, pulling every conversation, glance, and stray thought into his orbit. Even when he wasn’t speaking, I could feel him, like the hum of electricity in the air before a lightning strike.

My brothers were oblivious, of course. Marco, ever the dutiful heir, was locked in a discussion with my father about territory disputes in Queens, while Tony entertained a cousin with one of his ridiculous stories about a botched heist in Atlantic City. Giuseppe, as usual, was flirting shamelessly with one of the servers, his grin wide enough to catch the light of the chandelier.

But me? I couldn’t focus on anything except the man seated directly across the table. Dante’s gaze wasn’t constant—it came in flashes, fleeting but sharp, like the strike of a blade. And when it landed on me, it felt like the entire room tilted on its axis.

I hated that he had that effect on me. Hated the way my pulse quickened every time our eyes met, or the way my thoughts kept circling back to the bar and the smirk he’d worn when I’d walked away. He was playing some kind of game, and I couldn’t figure out the rules.

The dinner proceeded almost exactly how you’d expect. Like I was balancing on razor wire. Every time I glanced up, Dante was watching me with that predatory intensity that made my skin prickle. He engaged effortlessly in conversationabout business and territory disputes, but I could feel the undercurrent of his attention like a physical touch.

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