Page 132 of Made for Sinners

Dante turned to Rocco.

“You’ve been shorting the family for years,” he said. “Skimming off the top. Laundering through Romanov’s network. And then, when you got greedy, you stole twenty million from me.”

Rocco’s smile faltered.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, too quickly.

Dante tilted his head. “You tried to frame my wife.”

All eyes turned to me.

I sat still, spine straight, hands folded in my lap. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t blink.

Rocco laughed. “This is insane. You really think I’d steal from you? From the family?”

“I don’t think,” Dante said, stepping around the table. “I know.”

He stopped behind Rocco’s chair.

“Dante,” Rocco said, his voice rising. “You’re making a mistake.”

“No,” Dante said. “You did.”

He pulled the gun from his waistband and pressed it to the back of Rocco’s head.

Gasps. Screams. Someone dropped a glass.

Rocco froze.

“Wait—” he started.

Dante pulled the trigger.

The sound was deafening.

Rocco slumped forward, face-first into his plate.

Blood splattered across the white tablecloth, staining the linen and the silverware and the untouched bread basket beside him.

No one moved.

No one spoke.

Dante set the gun down on the table, wiped his hands with a cloth napkin, and returned to his seat beside me.

He picked up his wine glass and took a slow sip.

I turned to him, my heart still pounding, my ears still ringing.

And then he picked up his fork and started eating like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t just executed his cousin in front of the entire family.

Like this was just another Sunday dinner.

And maybe, for the Contis, it was.

The silence after the shot was the kind that didn’t just settle—it sank. Into the walls. Into the bones. Into me.

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