Page 5 of Made for Saints

Tonight the kitchen was a sanctuary of controlled chaos. Staff moved like clockwork, their whispers in Italian blending with the clatter of silverware and the hiss of steaming espresso machines. I leaned against the marble counter, the cool surface grounding me as I tried to catch my breath. My pulse was still racing, Dante’s voice echoing in my head like a dark melody I couldn’t shake.

Princess.

The way he said it—mocking, knowing, and yet laced with something that felt like a dare—made my skin crawl and heat all at once. It wasn’t the first time a man had tried to unnerve me, but Dante wasn’t just any man. He was a predator wearing a suit, and I was the prey who’d foolishly wandered too close.

But now, another fear wormed its way into my chest, he knew where I was last night. I foolishly thought I had gotten away with it.

But I hadn’t.

Taking the watch had been stupid, I knew that. But it wasn’t about the watch itself—it was about proving to myself that I could. That I wasn’t just Vincent Ricci’s daughter, bound by rules and expectations.

He hadn’t said anything yet, but it was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? Men like Dante didn’t keep secrets for free. Would he go straight to my father? Would he tell him I’d been out past midnight, drinking in the kind of places that would make him furious if he found out?

My stomach churned at the thought of my father’s reaction. Vincent Ricci wasn’t a man who took disobedience lightly, not from his associates, not from his sons, and especially not from his daughter.

My father would ask where I’d gone, who I’d been with, and why I hadn’t thought to take one of his men with me. He’d remind me that I wasn’t just anyone—I was a Ricci. A name that carried weight, a name that came with expectations. Expectations I’d ignored the moment I slipped out the back gate.

And Dante—God, Diavlo—he wouldn’t hesitate to use it against me. Men like him never did. He’d sit there, calm and composed, telling my father everything with that smooth, detached voice of his. Not because he cared, but because he could. Because it would amuse him to see me squirm under my father’s wrath.

The thought made my skin prickle with heat and cold all at once.

“Signorina Emilia, are you all right?” Maria, the head chef, paused mid-stir, her kind eyes narrowing in concern.

“I’m fine,” I lied, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Just needed a moment.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded and returned to her work, muttering something about the tiramisu needing more mascarpone.

I envied her focus, her ability to lose herself in something as simple as dessert. My own thoughts were a tangled mess.

Why had Dante come tonight? And why had his attention landed on me, of all people? I wasn’t even seated with the others—my father, my brothers, and the dozen associates who would have killed for a moment of his time. But his gaze still found me, sharp and unrelenting, as if the rest of the room didn’t exist.

My fingers tightened against the edge of the counter as the memory of his eyes burned into me. Had he come to toy with me? To remind me that he’d seen me, that he knew?

Or worse...was he waiting for the right moment to tell my father?

I could already picture it: Dante leaning back in his chair, calm and composed, his voice smooth as silk.“Did you know your daughter was out last night, Vincent? Alone. No guards, no protection. Imagine what could have happened.”

I swallowed hard, forcing the image from my mind, but the knot in my chest refused to loosen. I hated the way he made me feel—like a child caught in the act, waiting for their punishment. Like I was powerless, dangling on a string he could cut at any moment.

And yet, beneath the frustration and fear, there was something else. Something I didn’t want to name.

“More wine?” Maria asked, holding up a fresh bottle and already reaching for my glass.

“Yes,” I said quickly, shoving the thoughts away. “Please.”

As she poured, I tried to focus on the hum of the kitchen, the familiar rhythm of the staff moving around me. But Dante’s voice lingered, low and mocking, in the back of my mind.

Princess.

I hated him for saying it, hated how it made my skin burn and my chest tighten. But mostly, I hated that he had the power to unravel me with a single word.

And if he told my father what he knew?

I was in trouble.

I reached for the wine glass, my hands trembling slightly as I took a sip. The cool liquid did little to calm the fire still simmering beneath my skin.

Footsteps in the hallway made me freeze. The steady, measured pace was too deliberate to be one of the staff.

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