Page 129 of Made for Sinners

But beneath the surface, my nerves were a live wire.

Dante’s hand stayed firm at the small of my back, a silent tether as we moved through the room. He was calm, composed, every inch the don—his suit crisp, his jaw set, his dark eyesscanning the crowd like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

And I was the bait.

Not that he’d ever say it out loud. But I knew. I could feel it in the way his body tensed when someone looked at me too long, in the way his fingers flexed against my spine when someone from my father’s side of the room drifted too close.

This wasn’t just a family dinner.

The room buzzed with artificial warmth—laughter that didn’t reach eyes, smiles sharp enough to cut glass. The table was set like a scene from a magazine: long and gleaming, candles flickering, wine already poured. But no one sat. Not yet.

Because everyone was waiting.

Waiting for the show.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Rafe said, stepping forward with a glass of wine in hand. His voice was smooth, practiced. “Before we sit, I’d like to thank our host for tonight’s gathering—Dante, for opening his home to all of us.”

A polite round of applause followed. Hollow. Obligatory.

Dante gave a nod, his hand tightening slightly on my waist. “Family is always welcome in my home,” he said, his voice calm, but laced with steel. “Even when they forget what that word means.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then a few chuckles.

But not from Rocco.

He stood near the far end of the room, a glass of red wine in one hand, his other tucked casually into the pocket of his tailored suit. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

He hadn’t looked at me yet.

And that told me everything I needed to know.

He knew.

He knew I remembered.

And he was waiting.

“Shall we sit?” Dante said, his voice light, but I felt the tension in his body. He was coiled tight beneath the surface, a storm waiting to break.

We took our seats—Dante at the head of the table, me to his right. His brothers flanked the opposite side, Luca already halfway through his wine. My brothers sat further down, their expressions wary. My mother was talking too much. My father was too quiet.

And Rocco?

Rocco sat directly across from me.

Of course he did.

I met his gaze, and for a moment, the room faded.

It was just him and me.

His smile was slow. Calculated. Like he was daring me to say something. Like he was waiting for me to flinch.

I didn’t.

I just raised my glass and took a sip.

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