Page 85 of Made for Saints

“Ryan,” Dante spat, his lip curling in disdain. “His real name is Romanov. And he’s not ‘just some guy.’ He’s a soldier for the Bratva.”

The name hit me like a slap. Romanov. The weight of it settled in my chest, cold and suffocating. My pulse quickened as the realization sank in. I’d heard that name before—whispers at the edge of conversations I wasn’t supposed to hear. Romanov wasn’t just a name. It was a warning.

“The Romanovs,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, the familiar dread creeping into my veins.

“Yes,” Dante said, his tone clipped. “And if he realized who you were, he wouldn’t have been flirting with you. He would’ve been planning how to use you against your family. Against me.”

I could feel the anger radiating off his body in searing hot waves, his words sinking in like stones. My chest tightened, a mix of fear and shame twisting in my stomach. I’d been sostupid, so reckless. And now, Dante was looking at me like I was a problem he had to solve, a mess he had to clean up.

“I didn’t know,” I said quietly, my voice trembling. “I didn’t—”

“Exactly,” he snapped, cutting me off. “You didn’t know. Because you don’t think. You just act. And one day, Emilia, that’s going to get you killed.”

The harshness in his tone stung, but I couldn’t argue. He was right. I’d walked into that bar without a second thought, completely unaware of the danger lurking beneath the surface. And if Dante hadn’t shown up…

I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself. “Why do you even care?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. His jaw tightened, his gaze flicking away as if he was searching for the right words. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, more measured. “Because I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you.”

Chapter 29

Emilia

The admission hung heavy in the air between us, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. His words were raw, unpolished, and they hit me harder than I wanted to admit. I searched his face for any sign of mockery, any hint that he was playing some kind of game, but all I saw was frustration and something else—something deeper.

Before I could respond, Dante straightened, his expression hardening as he glanced toward the alley’s entrance. “Come on,” he said, his tone brisk. “I’ve got business to handle, and you’re coming with me.”

I frowned, my confusion cutting through the haze of emotions swirling in my chest. “What? No. Just take me home.”

“Not yet,” he said, already pulling his phone from his pocket. “Not until I’ve dealt with this.”

“Dealt with what?” I demanded, but he didn’t answer. He was already dialing, his voice low and sharp as he barked orders into the phone. I caught snippets of the conversation—something about a location, a meeting—but it only left me more confused.

When he hung up, he turned to me, his expression unreadable. “Get in the car.”

I hesitated, my instincts screaming at me to argue, to push back. But the look in his eyes—the cold, unyielding determination—left no room for debate. With a huff, I followed him to the sleek black car parked at the curb, slidinginto the passenger seat as he started the engine.

The drive was tense and silent, the hum of the engine the only sound as the city blurred past the windows. I stole glances at Dante out of the corner of my eye, his jaw tight, his hands gripping the wheel with a white-knuckled intensity. Whatever he was planning, it wasn’t good.

"Where are we going?" I finally asked, my voice tentative, breaking the suffocating silence in the car.

Dante didn’t look at me, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. His jaw was set, the muscle there twitching with barely restrained anger. For a moment, I thought he might ignore me entirely, but then he exhaled sharply, his grip on the steering wheel tightening.

"To send a message," he said flatly.

The words sent a chill down my spine. "A message to who?"

He didn’t answer right away, his silence more telling than any explanation could have been. My stomach twisted as I pieced it together. The Bratva. Ryan—or Romanov, as Dante had called him. This wasn’t just about me sneaking out or being reckless. This was about territory, power, and the invisible lines I’d crossed without even realizing it.

"Dante," I said, my voice firmer now. "What are you going to do?"

He glanced at me then, just for a second, but it was enough to make my breath catch. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but there was something simmering beneath the surface—something dangerous and unrelenting. "What I have to."

I opened my mouth to argue, to demand more answers, but the words died on my tongue as the car slowed to a stop. We were in a part of the city I didn’t recognize, the streets narrower, the buildings older and more run-down. The kind of place where people didn’t ask questions and kept their curtains drawn tight.

Dante killed the engine and turned to me, his expression hard. "Stay in the car."

"What? No!" I said, unbuckling my seatbelt. "You can’t just—"

---