Page 1 of Made for Saints

Chapter 1

Emilia

The first time I saw someone die, I was wearing Gucci.

That's the thing about being a mob princess—everyone thinks your life is glamorous. They picture designer clothes, luxury cars, and endless parties. What they don't see is the suffocating weight of expectations or the constant shadow of armed guards pretending to be invisible while they follow your every move.

Maybe that's why I'm always chasing the next rush, looking for those precious moments when the cage cracks open just enough for me to slip through.

Tonight, I'd managed to slip away from my watchdogs—a feat that was becoming harder with each passing month. The bar I chose was deliberately seedy, the kind of place that would give my father an aneurysm if he knew his only daughter was here. The neon signs cast a sickly glow across worn leather booths and scarred wooden tables, while cigarette smoke created a hazy film over everything.

My Louboutins clicked against the sticky floor as I made my way to the bar, ignoring the way conversations hushed at my approach. I knew what they saw – a woman clearly out of place in her Chanel dress and perfectly styled hair. That was exactly what I wanted them to see.

"Whiskey, neat," I told the bartender, sliding onto a barstool and crossing my legs. I hated the drink, but it was a part I was playing tonight. The movement drew several appreciative glances. Good. An audience always made thismore fun.

The bartender—Mike, according to his name tag— set the drink in front of me with a knowing smile. He'd seen my act before, though he never commented on it. That's why I liked this place. No questions asked, no judgment passed.

I sipped my drink slowly, scanning the room through lowered lashes. The Friday night crowd was perfect—just drunk enough to be entertaining but not so far gone that they'd be useless for my purposes. My gaze landed on a group of suits by the pool table, probably mid-level executives unwinding after a long week.

One of them took notice of me. Perfect. I was feeling bored in this shithole.

"Want to see a trick?" I asked the closest one, a bland-looking man in his thirties wearing an ill-fitting Brooks Brothers suit. His friends gathered around as he nodded eagerly, already half in love with the attention from a beautiful woman.

His face was forgettable—soft, pale, framed by a crooked tie and a bad haircut. Even his clothes looked ready to escape him. The faint sheen of sweat on his forehead glinted under the neon lights, betraying nerves he probably thought he was hiding.

Up close, I could see the faint shadow of a five o’clock scruff that didn’t quite commit to being a beard, and his watery blue eyes darted between me and his friends, searching for approval like a lost puppy. He smelled faintly of cheap cologne—something sharp and chemical, the kind that clung to your nose and refused to let go. His smile, when it came, was eager and a little too wide, the kind of smile that said he’d never been the center of attention before but was desperate to keep it now that he was.

He was perfectly ordinary. Perfectly predictable.

And exactly what I was looking for.

I pulled a deck of cards from my clutch – not the cheap plastic ones the bar provided, but a quality set that felt like silkagainst my fingers. Dior, stolen from my brother Marco's poker set. The familiar weight of them calmed my nerves, centered me in a way few things could.

"Pick a card," I said, fanning them out with practiced grace. "Any card."

It was always the same routine. They'd pick a card, try to outsmart me by memorizing it carefully, then watch in amazement as I found it through increasingly complex shuffles and flourishes. What they never noticed was how I'd brush against them during the performance, my hands moving with deliberate purpose. By the time I was done, I usually had a wallet, a watch, or both.

Idiots.

I didn't need the money – God knows the Ricci fortune could fund my great-grandchildren's lifestyles. But there was something intoxicating about the thrill, about proving I could be more than just Vincent Ricci's perfectly behaved daughter.

The Ricci name sparkled in the headlines—casinos, nightclubs, charity galas. But beneath the glamour lay a shadowy underbelly, the kind of empire where expectations weren’t just unspoken—they were carved into stone. My father wasn’t just a businessman; he was a king, ruling with luxury and vice.

If you wanted the best table at the most exclusive club in the city, you went to the Riccis. If you wanted to gamble away millions in a private room with no questions asked, we arranged it. And if you wanted something darker, something illegal, something that could ruin your life if you were caught? My father’s men always knew how to make it happen.

Drugs weren’t our business. Neither were guns. My father prided himself on keeping those things out of the Ricci name. He thought it made us "cleaner." But money laundering, blackmail, and backroom deals? Those were the lifeblood of our empire.

To the outside world, we were legitimate. Prestigious, even. The Ricci family name graced the headlines of glossymagazines and charity galas. Our casinos were landmarks, our nightclubs filled with the kind of people who had more money than sense. But the truth was much darker.

The house always wins, after all.

Three marks and forty minutes later, I had a collection of mediocre watches and mid-range wallets in my purse. I always returned them through the bartender before leaving – it wasn't about the theft, just the challenge. The rush of getting away with something I shouldn't.

That's when I saw him.

He sat alone at the far end of the bar, a glass of scotch balanced between his fingers. The perfectly tailored black suit marked him as someone who didn’t belong here, but it wasn’t just his clothes that stood out. Other patrons instinctively gave him a wide berth, as if his presence demanded space.

His face was turned slightly away, but something about him felt...off. Familiar, in a way I couldn’t place. My gaze lingered, trying to piece together why the sight of him made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. A memory tugged at the edges of my mind, just out of reach, and the feeling unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.

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