Page 8 of Made for Saints

“You should be more careful about the questions you ask, Emilia,” he murmured, his tone dropping into something darker. “Especially regarding things you know nothing about."

I swallowed hard, my defiance faltering for just a second. The weight of his words pressed against me, heavy and suffocating, but I refused to let him see the fear creeping into my chest.

"Then explain it to me." The words came out as a challenge rather than the plea they should have been. "Why does everyone say you left her to die?"

His eyes swept over my face, and for the first time, I thought I saw something flicker there—something I couldn’t place. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the same cold, unrelenting mask he always wore.

"Believe what you like," he said finally, releasing my chin with a deliberate slowness that made me shiver. "It won’t change the truth."

The absence of his touch was almost worse than the weight of it, leaving me standing there, trying to remember how to breathe.

"You should get back to the party," he said, his tone neutral again. "Before they come looking for you." He released my arm, but ran his eyes up and down my body as if inspecting me for marks. Evidence of our encounter.

When I brushed past him toward the door, his fingersbrushed my wrist—a touch so brief it shouldn’t have made my breath hitch, but it did. I didn’t look back, even as his voice followed me, low and amused.

"Emilia."

I froze, halfway down the hallway but didn't turn around. "What?"

"I think you're forgetting something."

My heart skipped a beat. "What?"

"My watch."

"You know," I said, keeping my tone deliberately light as I turned around, "for someone of your...status, I expected something more impressive." The lie rolled easily off my tongue – the Patek Philippe was worth more than most people's annual salary.

Dante's eyes shined dangerously as he studied me, stepping forward, and invading my space again. "Is that so?"

"Mm-hmm." I forced myself to hold his gaze, the proximity of him had his fingers brushing mine...deliberately? "Rather pedestrian, really. Almost not worth the effort."

His laugh was low and dark, sending shivers down my spine. "I told you once, you’re a terrible liar."

I shrugged, feigning indifference, though I could feel the weight of his gaze pressing against my skin. Turning on my heel, I muttered my final words as I walked away.

"And you’re an asshole."

I didn’t look back, but I could hear him chuckling softly, feel his eyes on me like a brand, until I rounded the corner. My heart pounded a rhythm that felt dangerously like excitement rather than fear.

Later that evening, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, his words echoed in my mind, intertwining with the memory of his touch and the dark promise in his eyes.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to win—or lose.

Chapter 3

Emilia

The yacht gleamed in the fading sunlight, its sleek lines slicing through the waves. The air carried salt and a faint trace of cigar smoke, mingling with the sharp laughter and clinking glasses from the deck. It should have felt like a dream—luxurious, carefree, untouchable. But it didn’t.

But as I stood at the edge of the deck sipping my Aperol Spritz, the wind teasing strands of my hair loose from their pins, I couldn’t shake the tension coiling in my chest. The water stretched endlessly before me, the horizon painted in shades of orange and gold. I let the bitter-sweet taste of the drink ground me, as I watched Dante through lowered lashes.

We hadn’t spoken all day, yet his presence was impossible to ignore—and that infuriated me. Even lounging at the bar, he commanded attention, his dark suit a sharp contrast to the breezy resort wear of the other guests. Even my father had traded his usual Italian tailoring for J. Crew khakis.

Behind me, the party raged on. My family and Dante’s family mingled like predators circling the same kill, their smiles sharp and their laughter edged with something darker. Deals were being made tonight, though no one would say it outright. The kind of deals that made blood spill and fortunes grow.

I wasn’t naive—I knew this was how our world worked. But knowing it and being caught in the middle of it were two very different things.

As I scanned the crowd, my gaze landed on Luca Conti, Dante’s younger brother. He stood near the bar, a glass of whiskey dangling lazily in his hand, his sharp features softened by the dimming light. He caught my eye, and for a moment, the tension in the air seemed to pause.

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