Page 130 of Made for Sinners

He mirrored the motion.

Dinner was a blur of courses and conversation. I barely tasted the food. My appetite had vanished somewhere between the soup and the second glass of wine. Dante spoke little, but his presence was a constant force beside me—his hand resting on my thigh beneath the table, his thumb tracing slow, grounding circles against my skin.

It helped.

But not enough.

Because every time Rocco laughed, I wanted to scream.

Every time he offered a toast, I wanted to throw my glass.

And every time he looked at me, I wanted to reach across the table and claw the truth out of him.

But I didn’t.

Because this wasn’t my war.

Not yet.

“Dessert?” a server asked, leaning in with a tray of delicate pastries.

“No,” Dante said, his voice sharp. “But I think it’s time for something sweet.”

I looked at him.

“You’re safe.”

Dante’s voice was low, steady—so calm it made my skin crawl.

Because safety, in the Conti world, was never a promise. It was a performance. A loaded word dressed in silk and blood, whispered behind closed doors while the knives were being sharpened just out of sight.

We were sitting at the long mahogany dining table, surrounded by crystal chandeliers, polished silverware, and the kind of tension that made the air feel thick enough to choke on.

Dante’s hand rested lightly on my thigh beneath the table, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles against the silk of my dress. His other hand cradled a glass of Barolo, untouched.

I stared at the wine in my own glass, watching the crimson swirl like blood.

“You’re safe,” he said again, softer this time, and I turned to look at him.

His expression was unreadable. Calm. Cold. Beautiful in the way a blade was beautiful—sharp, gleaming, and meant to cut.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

Because I knew what was coming.

He’d told me earlier that day, in the quiet of our kitchen, his voice low and even as he buttered toast like he wasn’t planning a public execution.

“Tonight,” he’d said. “It ends tonight.”

And now, here we were.

The dining room was loud with conversation, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. Rafe sat at the head of the table, his expression as unreadable as ever. Luca was already on his second glass of wine, cracking jokes with Matteo, who didn’t smile, but didn’t stop him either. The rest of the family filled the seats—Contis by blood, marriage, or fear.

And then there was Rocco.

Across from me. Smiling. Laughing. Wearing a navy suit and a gold tie like he hadn’t stolen twenty million dollars and tried to pin it on me.

Like he wasn’t about to die.

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