Page 131 of Made for Sinners

I couldn’t look at him for too long. Every time I did, I felt my pulse spike, my stomach twist. Because I knew what he’d done. Because I remembered his face in my father’s office. Because I remembered the way he’d looked at me at the gala, like he was still in control.

But he wasn’t.

Not anymore.

Dante raised his glass.

The room quieted instantly, like a switch had been flipped. All eyes turned to him.

He stood slowly, his chair scraping back against the polished floor, the sound sharp and final.

“I’d like to make a toast,” he said, his voice smooth, almost lazy.

Everyone lifted their glasses.

“To family,” he began. “To loyalty. To blood.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room.

“And,” he added, his smile razor-sharp, “to executions.”

Laughter.

Actual laughter.

Like it was a joke.

Like he wasn’t dead serious.

I didn’t laugh.

I couldn’t.

Because I saw the way his eyes flicked to Rocco. Saw the way his fingers tightened around the stem of his glass. Saw the way the room shifted—just slightly—as the weight of his words settled in.

Rocco chuckled, shaking his head. “You always did have a dark sense of humor, Dante.”

Dante didn’t smile.

He set his glass down with a quiet clink and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.

My breath caught.

He pulled out a folder.

Not a gun.

Not yet.

He opened it slowly, deliberately, and began to pass it down the table.

“Inside, you’ll find a detailed paper trail,” he said, his voice still calm. “Wire transfers. Shell companies. Off-shore accounts. All leading back to one man.”

The room was silent now.

Dead silent.

I watched as the folder made its way down the table, hands flipping through the pages, brows furrowing, expressions shifting from confusion to disbelief to fury.

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