Page 9 of Made for Saints

Luca’s lips quirked into a faint, knowing smirk. I gave him a small nod in acknowledgment, a flicker of familiarity passing between us. We’d gone to St. Gabriel University together, though our interactions had been few and far between—aside from that one night during our freshman year.

A party hosted by the sons of a powerful cartel family, the air thick with smoke and adrenaline. I’d thought I was clever, confident enough to sit down at a poker table with Luca and a few others. I hadn’t expected him to clean me out in less than an hour, his sharp gaze and cold calculation making it impossible to bluff him.

I’d lost a month of my allowance that night, walking away with a bruised ego and a grudging respect for how effortlessly he’d played me. Luca, on the other hand, had barely reacted—just a quiet smirk as he gathered his winnings.

I straightened my posture and gave him the same polite nod I’d offered back then, refusing to let him see any hint of irritation. Luca had always been one of the more calculating ones at St. Gabriel, less interested in petty rivalries and more focused on the bigger picture. He’d spent most of his time observing, staying one step ahead of everyone else. And yet, he’d always had this quiet charisma that made people underestimate him, even when they shouldn’t.

Now, years later, he looked just as composed, just as dangerous. But there was something in his nod—a flicker of amusement, maybe even respect—that made me relax slightly. At least Luca was a familiar face in a room full of predators.

I sipped my drink, the condensation from the glass chilling my fingers. A part of me wanted to disappear into the crowd, to lose myself in the noise. But I couldn’t. Not with him here.

I didn’t have to look to know where Dante was. His presence was a gravitational pull, a weight I couldn’t ignore even if I tried. He was at the bar, flanked by a cluster of his men and my father’s associates. Their low voices carried on the breeze, too far away to catch the words but close enough to feel the tension.

I glanced over my shoulder, my gaze finding him almost instinctively. He was leaning against the bar, a glass of something dark in his hand, his posture deceptively relaxed. But his eyes—those dark, piercing eyes—were anything but. They tracked the room with the precision of a sniper, missing nothing.

And then, as if he could sense my gaze, his head turned.

Our eyes met, and the breath caught in my throat.

Dante didn’t smile. He didn’t nod or acknowledge me in any way. But the weight of his stare was enough to send a shiver down my spine.

I turned back to the water, gripping the railing so tightly my knuckles ached. The metal was cool beneath my palms, grounding me in a way I desperately needed. My breath came short and shallow, my chest tight with the weight of his stare.

Why did he always have to look at me like that? Like he was peeling me apart piece by piece, dissecting every thought, every emotion, until there was nothing left to hide. It wasn’t just unnerving—it was infuriating.

I tried to focus on the horizon, on the way the sun dipped lower and bled its colors into the waves. But I could still feel him watching me, even after I’d turned away. And the worst part? It wasn’t just anger that made my pulse race.

The thought made me grip the railing harder, as if I could crush the feeling out of existence.

“Careful,” came a voice from behind me, low and mocking. “You might fall in.”

I didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

“Wouldn’t that be convenient for you?” I shot back, keeping my gaze fixed on the horizon. “One less Ricci to worryabout.”

Dante laughed. “If I wanted you gone, Emilia, you wouldn’t be standing here.”

The casual way he said it, as if it were a simple fact and not a threat, made my stomach twist.

“What do you want, Dante?” I asked, finally turning to face him.

He was closer than I expected, his broad frame blocking out the light from the setting sun. Up close, he was even more imposing, the sharp lines of his jaw and the cold intensity in his eyes making my pulse quicken.

“Just checking on you, enjoying the view,” he said, his tone deceptively mild. His eyes slid over me, lingering just long enough to send a shiver down my spine. “That dress—white, bold, and...hopeful,” he murmured, his lips curving upwards. “Not quite what I’d expect.”

I raised a brow, refusing to take the bait. “And what would you expect?”

His smirk deepened, his gaze darkening as it swept over me again. “Something with a little more...edge.” His voice dipped, smooth as velvet. “Red, maybe.”

The word hung between us, heavy with unspoken meaning.

“Why red?” I asked, my voice sharp, though I hated how the question betrayed my curiosity.

He tilted his head, the smirk softening into something almost contemplative. “Because it suits you.”

Before I could respond, the sound of raised voices broke through the hum of the party. I turned toward the commotion, my heart sinking as I saw my father and one of Dante’s men locked in a heated argument near the bar.

Dante’s expression darkened instantly, the easy charm vanishing like a switch had been flipped. He glanced at me briefly, his jaw tightening. “Excuse me,” he murmured, his tone clipped, before stepping past me, his long strides eating up the distance between him and the bar.

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