Page 32 of Made for Saints

The dress she wore hugged her figure in all the right ways, the deep red fabric clinging to her curves like it was made for her. Her hair was swept back, revealing the elegant line of her neck, the kind of detail that made my fingers itch to run along her skin. Every movement she made, every shift of her body, was hypnotic. She didn’t even know the power she had, and that was the most dangerous part.

I hated it. Hated her for looking like that, hated myself for wanting her the way I did. I was supposed to be better than this—sharper, more controlled. But when it came to her, I felt like a man on the edge of losing everything.

She wasn’t mine. She couldn’t be. And yet, the thought of anyone else touching her, seeing her the way I did, made something dark and possessive coil in my chest.

I tore my gaze away, forcing myself to focus on anything else, anyone else. But it was useless. She was burned into me now, a permanent mark I’d never be able to erase.

Trouble. That’s what she was. Trouble wrapped in beauty, laughter, and temptation. And I was already in too deep.

The Riccis and the Contis rarely mingled outside of business, but tonight was an exception. My brothers had insisted on hosting a dinner, a show of unity between the families that was as much for appearances as it was for strategy. The room was filled with the usual suspects—my brothers, my cousins, Vincent Ricci, his wife and his sons. And then there was her.

Emilia.

She was seated at the far end of the table, her posture straight, her expression carefully neutral as she listened to one of her brothers recount some story about a botched shipment. Her hair was pulled back tonight, exposing the delicate curve of her neck, and the soft amber light of the chandelier cast a golden glow on her skin. She could have been wearing a burlap sack, and I still wouldn’t have been able to keep my eyes off her.

That was the problem.

I forced my gaze away, focusing instead on the glass ofwhiskey in front of me. The conversation around the table was a dull hum, the kind of meaningless chatter that filled the spaces between more serious discussions. My brothers were laughing at something my cousin Rocco had said, their voices loud and boisterous, but I couldn’t bring myself to join in. My thoughts were elsewhere—on her.

She was a distraction I couldn’t afford, and yet, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to get her out of my head. It wasn’t just her looks, though God knew she was beautiful. It was the way she carried herself, the quiet strength that radiated from her even when she was surrounded by men who thought themselves her betters. It was the way she challenged me, the way she looked at me like she wasn’t afraid of what she saw, even though she should have been.

It was infuriating.

“Dante.” My brother’s voice cut through my thoughts, sharp and commanding. He was seated to my left, his expression as unreadable as ever. “Have you spoken to Vincent about the discrepancies?”

I nodded, setting my glass down. “I’ve provided him with all the necessary documentation. My forensic accountant will begin the investigation tomorrow.”

Vincent, seated across from me, inclined his head slightly, his expression carefully neutral. “I appreciate your thoroughness, Dante. Rest assured, my team is already looking into the matter.”

“Good,” I said, my tone clipped. “Because the numbers don’t lie, Vincent. Someone’s been skimming, and it’s only a matter of time before we find out who.”

The tension in the room thickened, the air practically crackling with unspoken accusations. Vincent’s sons shifted uncomfortably in their seats, their gazes darting between their father and me. Emilia, however, didn’t move. Her expression remained calm, her gaze steady as she sipped her wine.

I hated how much I admired her composure.

Vincent's expression remained carefully blank. "My peopleare looking into it."

"Are they?" I set my glass down with deliberate precision. "Because my forensic accountant is ready to start tomorrow. Unless you'd prefer to handle it internally?"

The threat in my words was clear. Vincent might be a don in his own right, but we both knew who held the real power here.

"That won't be necessary." He spread his hands in a placating gesture. "We appreciate your...thoroughness in this matter."

My laugh held no humor. "Appreciate it enough to stop the bleeding, or should I expect more creative accounting?"

"Perhaps we should discuss this in private," Vincent suggested, following my gaze to his daughter.

"Perhaps you should get your house in order." I picked up my whiskey again, dismissing him. "Before someone else does it for you."

He retreated with as much dignity as he could muster, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

The conversation shifted after that, moving on to safer topics—real estate ventures, supply chain logistics, the usual business talk that dominated these gatherings. I tried to focus, tried to push thoughts of her out of my mind, but it was no use. Every time she moved, every time she laughed softly at something one of her brothers said, my attention snapped back to her like a moth to a flame.

It wasn’t just desire, though that was certainly part of it. It was something deeper, something I couldn’t quite put into words. She unsettled me in a way no one else ever had, and I hated it. Hated the way she made me feel...unbalanced.

Possessive.

Jealous.

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