Page 30 of Made for Saints

The scent of jasmine lingered in the air, clinging to the vines that climbed the trellis surrounding us. Dante led me to a shadowy corner, where the party felt like it was a world away.

“Let me see,” he said softly, reaching for my wrist.

“It’s fine,” I replied quickly, instinctively pulling back.

But he wasn’t having it. Dante’s hand caught mine with surprising gentleness, his grip firm but not forceful as he turned my wrist toward the moonlight. The faint red marks left by Romero’s fingers stood out against my skin. His thumb brushed over them, the gesture almost tender, though his expression was anything but.

“No,” he said, his voice quiet but resolute. “It’s not fine.”

I swallowed hard but didn’t pull away. “Why does it matter to you?”

His eyes flicked to mine, sharp and unrelenting. “Why didn’t you tell me about him?”

“Tell you what?” I challenged, trying to maintain some semblance of control. “That one of my father’s associates is a creep? Welcome to my world, Dante. That’s practically a job requirement for some of them.”

His expression darkened at my words, his jaw tightening. “Has he touched you before?”

“Define touched.” My tone was flippant, but I immediately regretted it when I saw the way his eyes narrowed, the muscle in his jaw ticking.

“Emilia.” He said my name like a warning, low and dangerous, his voice sending a shiver down my spine.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” I said quickly, trying todismiss it, but the words felt hollow even to me. I tried to pull my wrist back, but his grip tightened just enough to keep me still.

“Like you handled it tonight?” His tone was sharp now, cutting through my defenses like a blade.

The criticism stung, and I ripped my hand away, glaring up at him. “I don’t need your protection, Dante.”

“No?” He stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over me as I backed up against the trellis. “Then why did your pulse jump when I showed up?”

My breath hitched, my chest tightening as his words cut deeper than I wanted to admit. I hated that he was right, hated how much he could see through me. “Maybe I was just surprised to see you at a party where no one got shot,” I shot back, my voice sharper than I felt.

His laugh startled me, low and genuine, warming the air between us. “The night’s still young, princess.”

The nickname made my jaw tighten, but before I could respond, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out something small and thin. At first, I thought it was a weapon, but then he held it up, and I realized it was a perfectly rolled joint.

“Seriously?” I asked, unable to hide the incredulity in my voice. “Dante Conti carries pre-rolled joints?”

He arched a brow, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Dante Conti,” he said, mimicking my tone, “likes to be prepared. Want to find out what else I’m hiding?”

I wanted to roll my eyes, but instead, I found myself laughing quietly—a small, disbelieving sound that I hadn’t expected. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told,” he said, lighting the joint with a gold lighter that caught the gleam of mischief in his eyes. After taking a long drag, he held it out to me like a challenge. “Well?”

I hesitated, but his gaze didn’t waver, steady and full of something I couldn’t quite name. Finally, I took it, our fingers brushing for a brief second. The contact sent a jolt of electricitythrough me, and I hated how much I liked it.

The smoke was smooth, faintly sweet, and nothing like the harsh stuff I’d tried before. I handed it back to him, trying to ignore the way his lips wrapped around the same spot mine had touched.

“Impressed?” he asked, his voice lower now, more intimate, as if the rest of the world had disappeared.

“By your ability to source good weed?” I replied, forcing a smirk. “Hardly. I’m sure you have people for that.”

“I have people for everything,” he murmured, leaning in closer, until I could feel the heat radiating from his body. “Except this.”

“This?” I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper.

Instead of answering, he took another slow drag, his gaze never leaving mine. His dark eyes glinted with something dangerous, something that made my stomach twist in a way I didn’t want to name. Then, without warning, he leaned in even closer, the scent of smoke and his expensive cologne wrapping around me like a noose. His hand slid to the back of my neck, his fingers curling just enough to make my breath hitch.

Before I could pull away—or think better of it—he exhaled the smoke directly into my mouth, the gesture deliberate and intimate in a way that made my knees feel weak. The heat of his breath mingled with mine, and for a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of us, the space between us charged with something electric.

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